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Domestic Manners of the Americans

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Title: Domestic Manners of the Americans

Author: Frances Milton Trollope


        
Release date: November 1, 2003 [eBook #10345]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10345

Credits: David G Johnson


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOMESTIC MANNERS OF THE AMERICANS ***

Domestic Manners of the Americans

by Fanny Trollope

First published in 1832


Contents

 CHAPTER I. 
 CHAPTER II. 
 CHAPTER III. 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 CHAPTER V. 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 CHAPTER X. 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 




CHAPTER I


Entrance of the Mississippi—Balize


On the 4th of November, 1827, I sailed from London, accompanied by my
son and two daughters; and after a favourable, though somewhat tedious
voyage, arrived on Christmas-day at the mouth of the Mississippi.

The first indication of our approach to land was the appearance of this
mighty river pouring forth its muddy mass of waters, and mingling with
the deep blue of the Mexican Gulf. The shores of this river are so
utterly flat, that no object upon them is perceptible at sea, and we
gazed with pleasure on the muddy ocean that met us, for it told us we
were arrived, and seven weeks of sailing had wearied us; yet it was not
without a feeling like regret that we passed from the bright blue
waves, whose varying aspect had so long furnished our chief amusement,
into the murky stream which now received us.

Large flights of pelicans were seen standing upon the long masses of
mud which rose above the surface of the waters, and a pilot came to
guide us over the bar, long before any other indication of land was
visible.

I never beheld a scene so utterly desolate as this entrance of the
Mississippi. Had Dante seen it, he might have drawn images of another
Bolgia from its horrors. One only object rears itself above the eddying
waters; this is the mast of a vessel long since wrecked in attempting
to cross the bar, and it still stands, a dismal witness of the
destruction that has been, and a boding prophet of that which is to
come.

By degrees bulrushes of enormous growth become visible, and a few more
miles of mud brought us within sight of a cluster of huts called the
Balize, by far the most miserable station that I ever saw made the
dwelling of man, but I was told that many families of pilots and
fishermen lived there.

For several miles above its mouth, the Mississippi presents no objects
more interesting than mud banks, monstrous bulrushes, and now and then
a huge crocodile luxuriating in the slime. Another circumstance that
gives to this dreary scene an aspect of desolation, is the incessant
appearance of vast quantities of drift wood, which is ever finding its
way to the different mouths of the Mississippi. Trees of enormous
length, sometimes still bearing their branches, and still oftener their
uptorn roots entire, the victims of the frequent hurricane, come
floating down the stream. Sometimes several of these, entangled
together, collect among their boughs a quantity of floating rubbish,
that gives the mass the appearance of a moving island, bearing a
forest, with its roots mocking the heavens; while the dishonoured
branches lash the tide in idle vengeance: this, as it approaches the
vessel, and glides swiftly past, looks like the fragment of a world in
ruins.

As we advanced, however, we were cheered, notwithstanding the season,
by the bright tints of southern vegetation. The banks continue
invariably flat, but a succession of planless villas, sometimes merely
a residence, and sometimes surrounded by their sugar grounds and negro
huts, varied the scene. At no one point was there an inch of what
painters call a second distance; and for the length of one hundred and
twenty miles, from the Balize to New Orleans, and one hundred miles
above the town, the land is defended from the encroachments of the
river by a high embankment which is called the Levee; without which the
dwellings would speedily disappear, as the river is evidently higher
than the banks would be without it. When we arrived, there had been
constant rains, and of long continuance, and this appearance was,
therefore, unusually striking, giving to “this great natural feature”
the most unnatural appearance imaginable; and making evident, not only
that man had been busy there, but that even the mightiest works of
nature might be made to bear his impress; it recalled, literally,
Swift’s mock heroic,

“Nature must give way to art;”


yet, she was looking so mighty, and so unsubdued all the time, that I
could not help fancying she would some day take the matter into her own
hands again, and if so, farewell to New Orleans.

It is easy to imagine the total want of beauty in such a landscape; but
yet the form and hue of the trees and plants, so new to us, added to
the long privation we had endured of all sights and sounds of land,
made even these swampy shores seem beautiful. We were, however,
impatient to touch as well as see the land; but the navigation from the
Balize to New Orleans is difficult and tedious, and the two days that
it occupied appeared longer than any we had passed on board.

In truth, to those who have pleasure in contemplating the phenomena of
nature, a sea voyage may endure many weeks without wearying. Perhaps
some may think that the first glance of ocean and of sky shew all they
have to offer; nay, even that that first glance may suggest more of
dreariness than sublimity; but to me, their variety appeared endless,
and their beauty unfailing. The attempt to describe scenery, even where
the objects are prominent and tangible, is very rarely successful; but
where the effect is so subtile and so varying, it must be vain. The
impression, nevertheless, is perhaps deeper than any other; I think it
possible I may forget the sensations with which I watched the long
course of the gigantic Mississippi; the Ohio and the Potomac may mingle
and be confounded with other streams in my memory, I may even recall
with difficulty the blue outline of the Alleghany mountains, but never,
while I remember any thing, can I forget the first and last hour of
light on the Atlantic.

The ocean, however, and all its indescribable charm, no longer
surrounded us; we began to feel that our walk on the quarter-deck was
very like the exercise of an ass in a mill; that our books had lost
half their pages, and that the other half were known by rote; that our
beef was very salt, and our biscuits very hard; in short, that having
studied the good ship, Edward, from stem to stern till we knew the name
of every sail, and the use of every pulley, we had had enough of her,
and as we laid down, head to head, in our tiny beds for the last time,
I exclaimed with no small pleasure,

“Tomorrow to fresh fields and pastures new.”




CHAPTER II


New Orleans—Society—Creoles and Quadroons Voyage up the Mississippi


On first touching the soil of a new land, of a new continent, of a new
world, it is impossible not to feel considerable excitement and deep
interest in almost every object that meets us. New Orleans presents
very little that can gratify the eye of taste, but nevertheless there
is much of novelty and interest for a newly arrived European. The large
proportion of blacks seen in the streets, all labour being performed by
them; the grace and beauty of the elegant Quadroons, the occasional
groups of wild and savage looking Indians, the unwonted aspect of the
vegetation, the huge and turbid river, with its low and slimy shore,
all help to afford that species of amusement which proceeds from
looking at what we never saw before.

The town has much the appearance of a French Ville de Province, and is,
in fact, an old French colony taken from Spain by France. The names of
the streets are French, and the language about equally French and
English. The market is handsome and well supplied, all produce being
conveyed by the river. We were much pleased by the chant with which the
Negro boatmen regulate and beguile their labour on the river; it
consists but of very few notes, but they are sweetly harmonious, and
the Negro voice is almost always rich and powerful.

By far the most agreeable hours I passed at New Orleans were those in
which I explored with my children the forest near the town. It was our
first walk in “the eternal forests of the western world,” and we felt
rather sublime and poetical. The trees, generally speaking, are much
too close to be either large or well grown; and, moreover, their growth
is often stunted by a parasitical plant, for which I could learn no
other name than “Spanish moss;” it hangs gracefully from the boughs,
converting the outline of all the trees it hangs upon into that of
weeping willows. The chief beauty of the forest in this region is from
the luxuriant undergrowth of palmetos, which is decidedly the loveliest
coloured and most graceful plant I know. The pawpaw, too, is a splendid
shrub, and in great abundance. We here, for the first time, saw the
wild vine, which we afterwards found growing so profusely in every part
of America, as naturally to suggest the idea that the natives ought to
add wine to the numerous production of their plenty-teeming soil. The
strong pendant festoons made safe and commodious swings, which some of
our party enjoyed, despite the sublime temperament above-mentioned.

Notwithstanding it was mid-winter when we were at New Orleans, the heat
was much more than agreeable, and the attacks of the mosquitos
incessant, and most tormenting; yet I suspect that, for a short time,
we would rather have endured it, than not have seen oranges, green
peas, and red pepper, growing in the open air at Christmas. In one of
our rambles we ventured to enter a garden, whose bright orange hedge
attracted our attention; here we saw green peas fit for the table, and
a fine crop of red pepper ripening in the sun. A young Negress was
employed on the steps of the house; that she was a slave made her an
object of interest to us. She was the first slave we had ever spoken
to, and I believe we all felt that we could hardly address her with
sufficient gentleness. She little dreamed, poor girl, what deep
sympathy she excited; she answered us civilly and gaily, and seemed
amused at our fancying there was something unusual in red pepper pods;
she gave us several of them, and I felt fearful lest a hard mistress
might blame her for it. How very childish does ignorance make us! and
how very ignorant we are upon almost every subject, where hearsay
evidence is all we can get!

I left England with feelings so strongly opposed to slavery, that it
was not without pain I witnessed its effects around me. At the sight of
every Negro man, woman, and child that passed, my fancy wove some
little romance of misery, as belonging to each of them; since I have
known more on the subject, and become better acquainted with their real
situation in America, I have often smiled at recalling what I then
felt.

The first symptom of American equality that I perceived, was my being
introduced in form to a milliner; it was not at a boarding-house, under
the indistinct outline of “Miss C—,” nor in the street through the veil
of a fashionable toilette, but in the very penetralia of her temple,
standing behind her counter, giving laws to ribbon and to wire, and
ushering caps and bonnets into existence. She was an English woman, and
I was told that she possessed great intellectual endowments, and much
information; I really believe this was true. Her manner was easy and
graceful, with a good deal of French tournure; and the gentleness with
which her fine eyes and sweet voice directed the movements of a young
female slave, was really touching: the way, too, in which she blended
her French talk of modes with her customers, and her English talk of
metaphysics with her friends, had a pretty air of indifference in it,
that gave her a superiority with both.

I found with her the daughter of a judge, eminent, it was said, both
for legal and literary ability, and I heard from many quarters, after I
had left New Orleans, that the society of this lady was highly valued
by all persons of talent. Yet were I, traveller-like, to stop here, and
set it down as a national peculiarity, or republican custom, that
milliners took the lead in the best society, I should greatly falsify
facts. I do not remember the same thing happening to me again, and this
is one instance among a thousand, of the impression every circumstance
makes on entering a new country, and of the propensity, so
irresistible, to class all things, however accidental, as national and
peculiar. On the other hand, however, it is certain that if similar
anomalies are unfrequent in America, they are nearly impossible
elsewhere.

In the shop of Miss C— I was introduced to Mr. M’Clure, a venerable
personage, of gentlemanlike appearance, who in the course of five
minutes propounded as many axioms, as “Ignorance is the only devil;”
“Man makes his own existence;” and the like. He was of the New Harmony
school, or rather the New Harmony school was of him. He was a man of
good fortune, (a Scotchman, I believe), who after living a tolerably
gay life, had “conceived high thoughts, such as Lycurgus loved, who
bade flog the little Spartans,” and determined to benefit the species,
and immortalize himself, by founding a philosophical school at New
Harmony. There was something in the hollow square legislations of Mr.
Owen, that struck him as admirable, and he seems, as far as I can
understand, to have intended aiding his views, by a sort of incipient
hollow square drilling; teaching the young ideas of all he could catch,
to shoot into parallelogramic form and order. This venerable
philosopher, like all of his school that I ever heard of, loved better
to originate lofty imaginings of faultless systems, than to watch their
application to practice. With much liberality he purchased and conveyed
to the wilderness a very noble collection of books and scientific
instruments; but not finding among men one whose views were liberal and
enlarged as his own, he selected a woman to put into action the machine
he had organized. As his acquaintance with this lady had been of long
standing, and, as it was said, very intimate, he felt sure that no
violation of his rules would have place under her sway; they would act
together as one being: he was to perform the functions of the soul, and
will everything; she, those of the body, and perform everything.

The principal feature of the scheme was, that (the first liberal outfit
of the institution having been furnished by Mr. M’Clure,) the expense
of keeping it up should be defrayed by the profits arising from the
labours of the pupils, male and female, which was to be performed at
stated intervals of each day, in regular rotation with learned study
and scientific research. But unfortunately the soul of the system found
the climate of Indiana uncongenial to its peculiar formation, and,
therefore, took its flight to Mexico, leaving the body to perform the
operations of both, in whatever manner it liked best; and the body,
being a French body, found no difficulty in setting actively to work
without troubling the soul about it; and soon becoming conscious that
the more simple was a machine, the more perfect were its operations,
she threw out all that related to the intellectual part of the
business, (which to do poor soul justice, it had laid great stress
upon), and stirred herself as effectually as ever body did, to draw
wealth from the thews and sinews of the youths they had collected. When
last I heard of this philosophical establishment, she, and a nephew-son
were said to be reaping a golden harvest, as many of the lads had been
sent from a distance by indigent parents, for gratuitous education, and
possessed no means of leaving it.

Our stay in New Orleans was not long enough to permit our entering into
society, but I was told that it contained two distinct sets of people,
both celebrated, in their way, for their social meetings and elegant
entertainments. The first of these is composed of Creole families, who
are chiefly planters and merchants, with their wives and daughters;
these meet together, eat together, and are very grand and aristocratic;
each of their balls is a little Almack’s, and every portly dame of the
set is as exclusive in her principles as the excluded but amiable
Quandroons, and such of the gentlemen of the former class as can by any
means escape from the high places, where pure Creole blood swells the
veins at the bare mention of any being tainted in the remotest degree
with the Negro stain.

Of all the prejudices I have ever witnessed, this appears to me the
most violent, and the most inveterate. Quadroon girls, the acknowledged
daughters of wealthy American or Creole fathers, educated with all of
style and accomplishments which money can procure at New Orleans, and
with all the decorum that care and affection can give; exquisitely
beautiful, graceful, gentle, and amiable, these are not admitted, nay,
are not on any terms admissable, into the society of the Creole
families of Louisiana. They cannot marry; that is to say, no ceremony
can render an union with them legal or binding; yet such is the
powerful effect of their very peculiar grace, beauty, and sweetness of
manner, that unfortunately they perpetually become the objects of
choice and affection. If the Creole ladies have privilege to exercise
the awful power of repulsion, the gentle Quadroon has the sweet but
dangerous vengeance of possessing that of attraction. The unions formed
with this unfortunate race are said to be often lasting and happy, as
far as any unions can be so, to which a certain degree of disgrace is
attached.

There is a French and an English theatre in the town; but we were too
fresh from Europe to care much for either; or, indeed, for any other of
the town delights of this city, and we soon became eager to commence
our voyage up the Mississippi.

Miss Wright, then less known (though the author of more than one clever
volume) than she has since become, was the companion of our voyage from
Europe; and it was my purpose to have passed some months with her and
her sister at the estate she had purchased in Tennessee. This lady,
since become so celebrated as the advocate of opinions that make
millions shudder, and some half-score admire, was, at the time of my
leaving England with her, dedicated to a pursuit widely different from
her subsequent occupations. Instead of becoming a public orator in
every town throughout America, she was about, as she said, to seclude
herself for life in the deepest forests of the western world, that her
fortune, her time, and her talents might be exclusively devoted to aid
the cause of the suffering Africans. Her first object was to shew that
nature had made no difference between blacks and whites, excepting in
complexion; and this she expected to prove by giving an education
perfectly equal to a class of black and white children. Could this fact
be once fully established, she conceived that the Negro cause would
stand on firmer ground than it had yet done, and the degraded rank
which they have ever held amongst civilized nations would be proved to
be a gross injustice.

This question of the mental equality, or inequality between us, and the
Negro race, is one of great interest, and has certainly never yet been
fairly tried; and I expected for my children and myself both pleasure
and information from visiting her establishment, and watching the
success of her experiment.

The innumerable steam boats, which are the stage coaches and fly
waggons of this land of lakes and rivers, are totally unlike any I had
seen in Europe, and greatly superior to them. The fabrics which I think
they most resemble in appearance, are the floating baths (les bains
Vigier) at Paris. The annexed drawing will give a correct idea of their
form. The room to which the double line of windows belongs, is a very
handsome apartment; before each window a neat little cot is arranged in
such a manner as to give its drapery the air of a window curtain. This
room is called the gentlemen’s cabin, and their exclusive right to it
is somewhat uncourteously insisted upon. The breakfast, dinner, and
supper are laid in this apartment, and the lady passengers are
permitted to take their meals there.

On the first of January, 1828, we embarked on board the Belvidere, a
large and handsome boat; though not the largest or handsomest of the
many which displayed themselves along the wharfs; but she was going to
stop at Memphis, the point of the river nearest to Miss Wright’s
residence, and she was the first that departed after we had got through
the customhouse, and finished our sight-seeing. We found the room
destined for the use of the ladies dismal enough, as its only windows
were below the stem gallery; but both this and the gentlemen’s cabin
were handsomely fitted up, and the former well carpeted; but oh! that
carpet! I will not, I may not describe its condition; indeed it
requires the pen of a Swift to do it justice. Let no one who wishes to
receive agreeable impressions of American manners, commence their
travels in a Mississippi steam boat; for myself, it is with all
sincerity I declare, that I would infinitely prefer sharing the
apartment of a party of well conditioned pigs to the being confined to
its cabin.

I hardly know any annoyance so deeply repugnant to English feelings, as
the incessant, remorseless spitting of Americans. I feel that I owe my
readers an apology for the repeated use of this, and several other
odious words; but I cannot avoid them, without suffering the fidelity
of description to escape me. It is possible that in this phrase,
“Americans,” I may be too general. The United States form a continent
of almost distinct nations, and I must now, and always, be understood
to speak only of that portion of them which I have seen. In conversing
with Americans I have constantly found that if I alluded to anything
which they thought I considered as uncouth, they would assure me it was
local, and not national; the accidental peculiarity of a very small
part, and by no means a specimen of the whole. “That is because you
know so little of America,” is a phrase I have listened to a thousand
times, and in nearly as many different places. _It may be so_—and
having made this concession, I protest against the charge of injustice
in relating what I have seen.




CHAPTER III


Company on board the Steam Boat—Scenery of the
Mississippi—Crocodiles—Arrival at Memphis—Nashoba


The weather was warm and bright, and we found the guard of the boat, as
they call the gallery that runs round the cabins, a very agreeable
station; here we all sat as long as light lasted, and sometimes wrapped
in our shawls, we enjoyed the clear bright beauty of American moonlight
long after every passenger but ourselves had retired. We had a full
complement of passengers on board. The deck, as is usual, was occupied
by the Kentucky flat-boat men, returning from New Orleans, after having
disposed of the boat and cargo which they had conveyed thither, with no
other labour than that of steering her, the current bringing her down
at the rate of four miles an hour. We had about two hundred of these
men on board, but the part of the vessel occupied by them is so
distinct from the cabins, that we never saw them, except when we
stopped to take in wood; and then they ran, or rather sprung and
vaulted over each other’s heads to the shore, whence they all assisted
in carrying wood to supply the steam engine; the performance of this
duty being a stipulated part of the payment of their passage.

From the account given by a man servant we had on board, who shared
their quarters, they are a most disorderly set of persons, constantly
gambling and wrangling, very seldom sober, and never suffering a night
to pass without giving practical proof of the respect in which they
hold the doctrines of equality, and community of property. The clerk of
the vessel was kind enough to take our man under his protection, and
assigned him a berth in his own little nook; but as this was not
inaccessible, he told him by no means to detach his watch or money from
his person during the night. Whatever their moral characteristics may
be, these Kentuckians are a very noble-looking race of men; their
average height considerably exceeds that of Europeans, and their
countenances, excepting when disfigured by red hair, which is not
unfrequent, extremely handsome.

The gentlemen in the cabin (we had no ladies) would certainly neither,
from their language, manners, nor appearance, have received that
designation in Europe; but we soon found their claim to it rested on
more substantial ground, for we heard them nearly all addressed by the
titles of general, colonel, and major. On mentioning these military
dignities to an English friend some time afterwards, he told me that he
too had made the voyage with the same description of company, but
remarking that there was not a single captain among them; he made the
observation to a fellow-passenger, and asked how he accounted for it.
“Oh, sir, the captains are all on deck,” was the reply.

Our honours, however, were not all military, for we had a judge among
us. I know it is equally easy and invidious to ridicule the
peculiarities of appearance and manner in people of a different nation
from ourselves; we may, too, at the same moment, be undergoing the same
ordeal in their estimation; and, moreover, I am by no means disposed to
consider whatever is new to me as therefore objectionable; but,
nevertheless, it was impossible not to feel repugnance to many of the
novelties that now surrounded me.

The total want of all the usual courtesies of the table, the voracious
rapidity with which the viands were seized and devoured, the strange
uncouth phrases and pronunciation; the loathsome spitting, from the
contamination of which it was absolutely impossible to protect our
dresses; the frightful manner of feeding with their knives, till the
whole blade seemed to enter into the mouth; and the still more
frightful manner of cleaning the teeth afterwards with a pocket knife,
soon forced us to feel that we were not surrounded by the generals,
colonels, and majors of the old world; and that the dinner hour was to
be any thing rather than an hour of enjoyment.

The little conversation that went forward while we remained in the
room, was entirely political, and the respective claims of Adams and
Jackson to the presidency were argued with more oaths and more
vehemence than it had ever been my lot to hear. Once a colonel appeared
on the verge of assaulting a major, when a huge seven-foot Kentuckian
gentleman horse-dealer, asked of the heavens to confound them both, and
bade them sit still and be d—d. We too thought we should share this
sentence; at least sitting still in the cabin seemed very nearly to
include the rest of it, and we never tarried there a moment longer than
was absolutely necessary to eat.

The unbroken flatness of the banks of the Mississippi continued
unvaried for many miles above New Orleans; but the graceful and
luxuriant palmetto, the dark and noble ilex, and the bright orange,
were every where to be seen, and it was many days before we were weary
of looking at them. We occasionally used the opportunity of the boat’s
stopping to take in wood for a ten minutes’ visit to the shore; we in
this manner explored a field of sugar canes, and loaded ourselves with
as much of the sweet spoil as we could carry. Many of the passengers
seemed fond of the luscious juice that is easily expressed from the
canes, but it was too sweet for my palate. We also visited, in the same
rapid manner, a cotton plantation. A handsome spacious building was
pointed out to us as a convent, where a considerable number of young
ladies were educated by the nuns.

At one or two points the wearisome level line of forest is relieved by
_bluffs_, as they call the short intervals of high ground. The town of
Natches is beautifully situated on one of these high spots; the climate
here, in the warm season, is as fatal as that of New Orleans; were it
not for this, Natches would have great attractions to new settlers. The
beautiful contrast that its bright green hill forms with the dismal
line of black forest that stretches on every side, the abundant growth
of pawpaw, palmetto and orange, the copious variety of sweet-scented
flowers that flourish there, all make it appear like an oasis in the
desert. Natches is the furthest point to the north at which oranges
ripen in the open air, or endure the winter without shelter. With the
exception of this sweet spot, I thought all the little towns and
villages we passed, wretched looking, in the extreme. As the distance
from New Orleans increased, the air of wealth and comfort exhibited in
its immediate neighbourhood disappeared, and but for one or two
clusters of wooden houses, calling themselves towns, and borrowing some
pompous name, generally from Greece or Rome, we might have thought
ourselves the first of the human race who had ever penetrated into this
territory of bears and alligators. But still from time to time appeared
the hut of the wood-cutter, who supplies the steam-boats with fuel, at
the risk, or rather with the assurance of early death, in exchange for
dollars and whiskey. These sad dwellings are nearly all of them
inundated during the winter, and the best of them are constructed on
piles, which permit the water to reach its highest level without
drowning the wretched inhabitants. These unhappy beings are invariably
the victims of ague, which they meet recklessly, sustained by the
incessant use of ardent spirits. The squalid look of the miserable
wives and children of these men was dreadful, and often as the
spectacle was renewed I could never look at it with indifference. Their
complexion is of a blueish white, that suggests the idea of dropsy;
this is invariable, and the poor little ones wear exactly the same
ghastly hue. A miserable cow and a few pigs standing knee-deep in
water, distinguish the more prosperous of these dwellings, and on the
whole I should say that I never witnessed human nature reduced so low,
as it appeared in the wood-cutters’ huts on the unwholesome banks of
the Mississippi.

It is said that at some points of this dismal river, crocodiles are so
abundant as to add the terror of their attacks to the other sufferings
of a dwelling there. We were told a story of a squatter, who having
“located” himself close to the river’s edge, proceeded to build his
cabin. This operation is soon performed, for social feeling and the
love of whiskey bring all the scanty neighbourhood round a new corner,
to aid him in cutting down trees, and in rolling up the logs, till the
mansion is complete. This was done; the wife and five young children
were put in possession of their new home, and slept soundly after a
long march. Towards daybreak the husband and father was awakened by a
faint cry, and looking up, beheld relics of three of his children
scattered over the floor, and an enormous crocodile, with several young
ones around her, occupied in devouring the remnants of their horrid
meal. He looked round for a weapon, but finding none, and aware that
unarmed he could do nothing, he raised himself gently on his bed, and
contrived to crawl from thence through a window, hoping that his wife,
whom he left sleeping, might with the remaining children rest
undiscovered till his return. He flew to his nearest neighbour and
besought his aid; in less than half an hour two men returned with him,
all three well armed; but alas! they were too late! the wife and her
two babes lay mangled on their bloody bed. The gorged reptiles fell an
easy prey to their assailants, who, upon examining the place, found the
hut had been constructed close to the mouth of a large hole, almost a
cavern, where the monster had hatched her hateful brood.

Among other sights of desolation which mark this region, condemned of
nature, the lurid glare of a burning forest was almost constantly
visible after sunset, and when the wind so willed, the smoke arising
from it floated in heavy vapour over our heads. Not all the novelty of
the scene, not all its vastness, could prevent its heavy horror
wearying the spirits. Perhaps the dinners and suppers I have described
may help to account for this; but certain it is, that when we had
wondered for a week at the ceaseless continuity of forest; had first
admired, and then wearied of the festooned drapery of Spanish moss;
when we had learned to distinguish the different masses of timber that
passed us, or that we passed, as a “snag,” a “log” or a “sawyer;” when
we had finally made up our minds that the gentlemen of the Kentucky and
Ohio military establishments, were not of the same genus as those of
the Tuilleries and St. James’s, we began to wish that we could sleep
more hours away. As we advanced to the northward we were no longer
cheered by the beautiful border of palmettos; and even the amusement of
occasionally spying out a sleeping crocodile was over.

Just in this state, when we would have fain believed that every mile we
went, carried us two towards Memphis, a sudden and violent shock
startled us frightfully.

“It is a sawyer!” said one.

“It is a snag!” cried another.

“We are aground!” exclaimed the captain.

“Aground? Good heavens! and how long shall we stay here?”

“The Lord in his providence can only tell, but long enough to tire my
patience, I expect.”

And the poor English ladies, how fared they the while?

Two breakfasts, two dinners, and a supper did they eat, with the Ohio
and Kentucky gentlemen, before they moved an inch. Several steam-boats
passed while we were thus enthralled; but some were not strong enough
to attempt drawing us off, and some attempted it, but were not strong
enough to succeed; at length a vast and mighty “thing of life”
approached, threw out grappling irons; and in three minutes the
business was done; again we saw the trees and mud slide swiftly past
us; and a hearty shout from every passenger on deck declared their joy.

At length we had the pleasure of being told that we had arrived at
Memphis; but this pleasure was considerably abated by the hour of our
arrival, which was midnight, and by the rain, which was falling in
torrents.

Memphis stands on a high bluff, and at the time of our arrival was
nearly inaccessible. The heavy rain which had been falling for many
hours would have made any steep ascent difficult, but unfortunately a
new road had been recently marked out, which beguiled us into its
almost bottomless mud, from the firmer footing of the unbroken cliff.
Shoes and gloves were lost in the mire, for we were glad to avail
ourselves of all our limbs, and we reached the grand hotel in a most
deplorable state.

Miss Wright was well known there, and as soon as her arrival was
announced, every one seemed on the alert to receive her, and we soon
found ourselves in possession of the best rooms in the hotel. The house
was new, and in what appeared to me a very comfortless condition, but I
was then new to Western America, and unaccustomed to their mode of
“getting along,” as they term it. This phrase is eternally in use among
them, and seems to mean existing with as few of the comforts of life as
possible.

We slept soundly however, and rose in the hope of soon changing our
mortar-smelling-quarters for Miss Wright’s Nashoba.

But we presently found that the rain which had fallen during the night
would make it hazardous to venture through the forests of Tennessee in
any sort of carriage; we therefore had to pass the day at our queer
comfortless hotel. The steam-boat had wearied me of social meals, and I
should have been thankful to have eaten our dinner of hard venison and
peach-sauce in a private room; but this, Miss Wright said was
impossible; the lady of the house would consider the proposal as a
personal affront, and, moreover, it would be assuredly refused. This
latter argument carried weight with it, and when the great bell was
sounded from an upper window of the house, we proceeded to the
dining-room. The table was laid for fifty persons, and was already
nearly full. Our party had the honour of sitting near “the lady,” but
to check the proud feelings to which such distinction might give birth,
my servant, William, sat very nearly opposite to me. The company
consisted of all the shop-keepers (store-keepers as they are called
throughout the United States) of the little town. The mayor also, who
was a friend of Miss Wright’s, was of the party; he is a pleasing
gentlemanlike man, and seems strangely misplaced in a little town on
the Mississippi. We were told that since the erection of this hotel, it
has been the custom for all the male inhabitants of the town to dine
and breakfast there. They ate in perfect silence, and with such
astonishing rapidity that their dinner was over literally before our’s
was began; the instant they ceased to eat, they darted from the table
in the same moody silence which they had preserved since they entered
the room, and a second set took their places, who performed their
silent parts in the same manner. The only sounds heard were those
produced by the knives and forks, with the unceasing chorus of
coughing, &c. No women were present except ourselves and the hostess;
the good women of Memphis being well content to let their lords partake
of Mrs. Anderson’s turkeys and venison, (without their having the
trouble of cooking for them), whilst they regale themselves on mash and
milk at home.

The remainder of the day passed pleasantly enough in rambling round the
little town, which is situated at the most beautiful point of the
Mississippi; the river is here so wide as to give it the appearance of
a noble lake; an island, covered with lofty forest trees divides it,
and relieves by its broad mass of shadow the uniformity of its waters.
The town stretches in a rambling irregular manner along the cliff, from
the Wolf River, one of the innumerable tributaries to the Mississippi,
to about a mile below it. Half a mile more of the cliff beyond the town
is cleared of trees, and produces good pasture for horses, cows, and
pigs; sheep they had none. At either end of this space the forest again
rears its dark wall, and seems to say to man, “so far shalt thou come,
and no farther!” Courage and industry, however, have braved the
warning. Behind this long street the town straggles back into the
forest, and the rude path that leads to the more distant log dwellings
becomes wilder at every step. The ground is broken by frequent
water-courses, and the bridges that lead across them are formed by
trunks of trees thrown over the stream, which support others of smaller
growth, that are laid across them. These bridges are not very pleasant
to pass, for they totter under the tread of a man, and tremble most
frightfully beneath a horse or a waggon; they are, however, very
picturesque. The great height of the trees, the quantity of pendant
vine branches that hang amongst them; and the variety of gay plumaged
birds, particularly the small green parrot, made us feel we were in a
new world; and a repetition of our walk the next morning would have
pleased us well, but Miss Wright was anxious to get home, and we were
scarcely less so to see her Nashoba. A clumsy sort of caravan drawn by
two horses was prepared for us; and we set off in high spirits for an
expedition of fifteen miles through the forest. To avoid passing one of
the bridges above described, which was thought insecure, our negro
driver took us through a piece of water, which he assured us was not
deep “to matter” however we soon lost sight of our pole, and as we were
evidently descending, we gently remonstrated with him on the danger of
proceeding, but he only grinned, and flogged in reply; we soon saw the
front wheels disappear, and horses began to plunge and kick most
alarmingly, but still without his looking at all disturbed. At length
the splinter-bar gave way, upon which the black philosopher said very
composedly, “I expect you’ll best be riding out upon the horses, as
we’ve got into an unhandsome fix here.” Miss Wright, who sat composedly
smiling at the scene, said, “Yes, Jacob, that is what we must do;” and
with some difficulty we, in this manner, reached the shore, and soon
found ourselves again assembled round Mrs. Anderson’s fire.

It was soon settled that we must delay our departure till the waters
had subsided, but Miss Wright was too anxious to reach home to endure
this delay and she set off again on horseback, accompanied by our man
servant, who told me afterwards that they rode through places that
might have daunted the boldest hunter, but that “Miss Wright took it
quite easy.”

The next day we started again, and the clear air, the bright sun, the
novel wildness of the dark forest, and our keenly awakened curiosity,
made the excursion delightful, and enabled us to bear without shrinking
the bumps and bruises we encountered. We soon lost all trace of a road,
at least so it appeared to us, for the stumps of the trees, which had
been cut away to open a passage, were left standing three feet high.
Over these, the high-hung Deerborn, as our carriage was called, passed
safely; but it required some miles of experience to convince us that
every stump would not be our last; it was amusing to watch the cool and
easy skill with which the driver wound his horses and wheels among
these stumps. I thought he might have been imported to Bond street with
great advantage. The forest became thicker and more dreary-looking
every mile we advanced, but our ever-grinning negro declared it was a
right good road, and that we should be sure to get to Nashoba.

And so we did….and one glance sufficed to convince me that every idea I
had formed of the place was as far as possible from the truth.
Desolation was the only feeling—the only word that presented itself;
but it was not spoken. I think, however, that Miss Wright was aware of
the painful impression the sight of her forest home produced on me, and
I doubt not that the conviction reached us both at the same moment,
that we had erred in thinking that a few months passed together at this
spot could be productive of pleasure to either. But to do her justice,
I believe her mind was so exclusively occupied by the object she had
then in view, that all things else were worthless, or indifferent to
her. I never heard or read of any enthusiasm approaching her’s, except
in some few instances, in ages past, of religious fanaticism.

It must have been some feeling equally powerful which enabled Miss
Wright, accustomed to all the comfort and refinement of Europe, to
imagine not only that she herself could exist in this wilderness, but
that her European friends could enter there, and not feel dismayed at
the savage aspect of the scene. The annexed plate gives a faithful view
of the cleared space and buildings which form the settlement. Each
building consisted of two large rooms furnished in the most simple
manner; nor had they as yet collected round them any of those minor
comforts which ordinary minds class among the necessaries of life. But
in this our philosophical friend seemed to see no evil; nor was there
any mixture of affectation in this indifference; it was a circumstance
really and truly beneath her notice. Her whole heart and soul were
occupied by the hope of raising the African to the level of European
intellect; and even now, that I have seen this favourite fabric of her
imagination fall to pieces beneath her feet, I cannot recall the
self-devotion with which she gave herself to it, without admiration.

The only white persons we found at Nashoba were my amiable friend, Mrs.
W—, the sister of Miss Wright, and her husband. I think they had
between thirty and forty slaves, including children, but when I was
there no school had been established. Books and other materials for the
great experiment had been collected, and one or two professors engaged,
but nothing was yet organized. I found my friend Mrs. W— in very bad
health, which she confessed she attributed to the climate. This
naturally so much alarmed me for my children, that I decided upon
leaving the place with as little delay as possible, and did so at the
end of ten days.

I do not exactly know what was the immediate cause which induced Miss
Wright to abandon a scheme which had taken such possession of her
imagination, and on which she had expended so much money; but many
months had not elapsed before I learnt, with much pleasure, that she
and her sister had also left it. I think it probable that she became
aware upon returning to Nashoba, that the climate was too hostile to
their health. All I know farther of Nashoba is, that Miss Wright having
found (from some cause or other) that it was impossible to pursue her
object, herself accompanied her slaves to Hayti, and left them there,
free, and under the protection of the President.

I found no beauty in the scenery round Nashoba, nor can I conceive that
it would possess any even in summer. The trees were so close to each
other as not to permit the growth of underwood, the great ornament of
the forest at New Orleans, and still less of our seeing any openings,
where the varying effects of light and shade might atone for the
absence of other objects. The clearing round the settlement appeared to
me inconsiderable and imperfect; but I was told that they had grown
good crops of cotton and Indian corn. The weather was dry and
agreeable, and the aspects of the heavens by night surprisingly
beautiful. I never saw moonlight so clear, so pure, so powerful.

We returned to Memphis on the 26th January, 1828, and found ourselves
obliged to pass five days there, awaiting a steam-boat for Cincinnati,
to which metropolis of the west, I was now determined to proceed with
my family to await the arrival of Mr. Trollope. We were told by
everyone we spoke to at Memphis, that it was in all respects the finest
situation west of the Alleghanies. We found many lovely walks among the
broken forest glades around Memphis, which, together with a morning and
evening enjoyment of the effects of a glowing horizon on the river,
enabled us to wait patiently for the boat that was to bear us away.




CHAPTER IV


Departure from Memphis—Ohio River Louisville—Cincinnati


On the 1st of February, 1828, we embarked on board the Criterion, and
once more began to float on the “father of waters,” as the poor
banished Indians were wont to call the Mississippi. The company on
board was wonderfully like what we had met in coming from New Orleans;
I think they must have all been first cousins; and what was singular,
they too had all arrived at high rank in the army. For many a wearisome
mile above the Wolf River the only scenery was still
forest—forest—forest; the only variety was produced by the receding of
the river at some points, and its encroaching on the opposite shore.
These changes are continually going on, but from what cause none could
satisfactorily explain to me. Where the river is encroaching, the trees
are seen growing in the water many feet deep; after some time, the
water undermines their roots, and they become the easy victims of the
first hurricane that blows. This is one source of the immense
quantities of drift wood that float into the gulf of Mexico. Where the
river has receded, a young growth of cane-brake is soon seen starting
up with the rapid vegetation of the climate; these two circumstances in
some degree relieve the sameness of the thousand miles of vegetable
wall. But we were now approaching the river which is emphatically
called “the beautiful,” La Belle Riveriere of the New Orleans French;
and a few days took us, I trust for ever, out of that murky stream
which is as emphatically called “the deadly;” and well does it seem to
merit the title; the air of its shores is mephitic, and it is said that
nothing that ever sunk beneath its muddy surface was known to rise
again. As truly does “La Belle Rivière” deserve its name; the Ohio is
bright and clear; its banks are continually varied, as it flows through
what is called a rolling country, which seems to mean a district that
cannot .shew a dozen paces of level ground at a time. The primaeval
forest still occupies a considerable portion of the ground, and hangs
in solemn grandeur from the cliffs; but it is broken by frequent
settlements, where we were cheered by the sight of herds and flocks. I
imagine that this river presents almost every variety of river scenery;
sometimes its clear wave waters a meadow of level turf; sometimes it is
bounded by perpendicular rocks; pretty dwellings, with their gay
porticos are seen, alternately with wild intervals of forest, where the
tangled bear-brake plainly enough indicates what inhabitants are native
there. Often a mountain torrent comes pouring its silver tribute to the
stream, and were there occasionally a ruined abbey, or feudal castle,
to mix the romance of real life with that of nature, the Ohio would be
perfect.

So powerful was the effect of this sweet scenery, that we ceased to
grumble at our dinners and suppers; nay, we almost learnt to rival our
neighbours at table in their voracious rapidity of swallowing, so eager
were we to place ourselves again on the guard, lest we might lose sight
of the beauty that was passing away from us.

Yet these fair shores are still unhealthy. More than once we landed,
and conversed with the families of the wood-cutters, and scarcely was
there one in which we did not hear of some member who had “lately died
of the fever.”—They are all subject to ague, and though their dwellings
are infinitely better than those on the Mississippi, the inhabitants
still look like a race that are selling their lives for gold.

Louisville is a considerable town, prettily situated on the Kentucky,
or south side of the Ohio; we spent some hours in seeing all it had to
shew; and had I not been told that a bad fever often rages there during
the warm season, I should have liked to pass some months there for the
purpose of exploring the beautiful country in its vicinity. Frankfort
and Lexington are both towns worth visiting, though from their being
out of the way places, I never got to either. The first is the seat of
the state government of Kentucky, and the last is, I was told, the
residence of several independent families, who, with more leisure than
is usually enjoyed in America, have its natural accompaniment, more
refinement.

The falls of the Ohio are about a mile below Louisville, and produce a
rapid, too sudden for the boats to pass, except in the rainy season.
The passengers are obliged to get out below them, and travel by land to
Louisville, where they find other vessels ready to receive them for the
remainder of the voyage. We were spared this inconvenience by the water
being too high for the rapid to be much felt, and it will soon be
altogether removed by the Louisville canal coming into operation, which
will permit the steam-boats to continue their progress from below the
falls to the town.

The scenery on the Kentucky side is much finer than on that of Indiana,
or Ohio. The State of Kentucky was the darling spot of many tribes of
Indians, and was reserved among them as a common hunting ground; it is
said that they cannot yet name it without emotion, and that they have a
sad and wild lament that they still chaunt to its memory. But their
exclusion thence is of no recent date; Kentucky has been longer settled
than the Illinois, Indiana, or Ohio, and it appears not only more
highly cultivated, but more fertile and more picturesque than either. I
have rarely seen richer pastures than those of Kentucky. The forest
trees, where not too crowded, are of magnificent growth, and the crops
are gloriously abundant where the thriftless husbandry has not worn out
the soil by an unvarying succession of exhausting crops. We were shewn
ground which had borne abundant crops of wheat for twenty successive
years; but a much shorter period suffices to exhaust the ground, if it
were made to produce tobacco without the intermission of some other
crop.

We reached Cincinnati on the 10th of February. It is finely situated on
the south side of a hill that rises gently from the water’s edge; yet
it is by no means a city of striking appearance; it wants domes,
towers, and steeples; but its landing-place is noble, extending for
more than a quarter of a mile; it is well paved, and surrounded by
neat, though not handsome buildings. I have seen fifteen steam-boats
lying there at once, and still half the wharf was unoccupied.

On arriving we repaired to the Washington Hotel, and thought ourselves
fortunate when we were told that we were just in time for dinner at the
table d’hôte; but when the dining-room door was opened, we retreated
with a feeling of dismay at seeing between sixty and seventy men
already at table. We took our dinner with the females of the family,
and then went forth to seek a house for our permanent accommodation.

We went to the office of an advertising agent, who professed to keep a
register of all such information, and described the dwelling we wanted.
He made no difficulty, but told us his boy should be our guide through
the city, and shew us what we sought; we accordingly set out with him,
and he led us up one street, and down another, but evidently without
any determinate object; I therefore stopped, and asked him whereabout
the houses were which we were going to see. “I am looking for bills,”
was his reply.

I thought we could have looked for bills as well without him, and I
told him so; upon which he assumed an air of great activity, and began
knocking regularly at every door we passed, enquiring if the house was
to be let. It was impossible to endure this long, and our guide was
dismissed, though I was afterwards obliged to pay him a dollar for his
services.

We had the good fortune, however, to find a dwelling before long, and
we returned to our hotel, having determined upon taking possession of
it as soon at it could be got ready. Not wishing to take our evening
meal either with the three score and ten gentlemen of the dining-room,
nor yet with the half dozen ladies of the bar-room, I ordered tea in my
own chamber. A good-humoured Irish woman came forward with a sort of
patronising manner, took my hand, and said, “Och, my honey, ye’ll be
from the old country. I’ll see you will have your tay all to
yourselves, honey.” With this assurance we retired to my room, which
was a handsome one as to its size and bed furniture, but it had no
carpet, and was darkened by blinds of paper, such as rooms are hung
with, which required to be rolled up, and then fastened with strings
very awkwardly attached to the window-frames, whenever light or air
were wished for. I afterwards met with these same uncomfortable blinds
in every part of America.

Our Irish friend soon reappeared, and brought us tea, together with the
never failing accompaniments of American tea drinking, hung beef,
“chipped up” raw, and sundry sweetmeats of brown sugar hue and flavour.
We took our tea, and were enjoying our family talk, relative to our
future arrangements, when a loud sharp knocking was heard at our door.
My “come in,” was answered by the appearance of a portly personage, who
proclaimed himself our landlord.

“Are any of you ill?” he began.

“No thank you, sir; we are all quite well,” was my reply.

“Then, madam, I must tell you, that I cannot accommodate you on these
terms; we have no family tea-drinkings here, and you must live either
with me or my wife, or not at all in my house.”

This was said with an air of authority that almost precluded reply, but
I ventured a sort of apologistic hint, that we were strangers and
unaccustomed to the manners of the country.

“Our manners are very good manners, and we don’t wish any changes from
England.”

I thought of mine host of the Washington afterwards, when reading
Scott’s “Anne of Geierstein;” he, in truth, strongly resembled the inn
keeper therein immortalized, who made his guests eat, drink, and sleep,
just where, when, and how he pleased. I made no farther remonstrance,
but determined to hasten my removal. This we achieved the next day to
our great satisfaction.

We were soon settled in our new dwelling, which looked neat and
comfortable enough, but we speedily found that it was devoid of nearly
all the accommodation that Europeans conceive necessary to decency and
comfort. No pump, no cistern, no drain of any kind, no dustman’s cart,
or any other visible means of getting rid of the rubbish, which
vanishes with such celerity in London, that one has no time to think of
its existence; but which accumulated so rapidly at Cincinnati, that I
sent for my landlord to know in what manner refuse of all kinds was to
be disposed of.

“Your Help will just have to fix them all into the middle of the
street, but you must mind, old woman, that it is the middle. I expect
you don’t know as we have got a law what forbids throwing such things
at the sides of the streets; they must just all be cast right into the
middle, and the pigs soon takes them off.”

In truth the pigs are constantly seen doing Herculean service in this
way through every quarter of the city; and though it is not very
agreeable to live surrounded by herds of these unsavoury animals, it is
well they are so numerous, and so active in their capacity of
scavengers, for without them the streets would soon be choked up with
all sorts of substances in every stage of decomposition.

We had heard so much of Cincinnati, its beauty, wealth, and unequalled
prosperity, that when we left Memphis to go thither, we almost felt the
delight of Rousseau’s novice, “un voyage à faire, et Paris au bout!”
—As soon, therefore, as our little domestic arrangements were
completed, we set forth to view this “wonder of the west” this
“prophet’s gourd of magic growth,”—this “infant Hercules;” and surely
no travellers ever paraded a city under circumstances more favourable
to their finding it fair to the sight. Three dreary months had elapsed
since we had left the glories of London behind us; for nearly the whole
of that time we beheld no other architecture than what our ship and
steam-boats had furnished, and excepting at New Orleans, had seen
hardly a trace of human habitations. The sight of bricks and mortar was
really refreshing, and a house of three stories looked splendid. Of
this splendour we saw repeated specimens, and moreover a brick church,
which, from its two little peaked spires, is called the two-horned
church. But, alas! the flatness of reality after the imagination has
been busy! I hardly know what I expected to find in this city, fresh
risen from the bosom of the wilderness, but certainly it was not a
little town, about the size of Salisbury, without even an attempt at
beauty in any of its edifices, and with only just enough of the air of
a city to make it noisy and bustling. The population is greater than
the appearance of the town would lead one to expect. This is partly
owing to the number of free Negroes who herd together in an obscure
part of the city, called little Africa; and partly to the density of
the population round the paper-mills and other manufactories. I believe
the number of inhabitants exceeds twenty thousand.

We arrived in Cincinnati in February, 1828, and I speak of the town as
it was then; several small churches have been built since, whose towers
agreeably relieve its uninteresting mass of buildings. At that time I
think Main street, which is the principal avenue, (and runs through the
whole town, answering to the High street of our old cities), was the
only one entirely paved. The _troittoir_ is of brick, tolerably well
laid, but it is inundated by every shower, as Cincinnati has no drains
whatever. What makes this omission the more remarkable is, that the
situation of the place is calculated both to facilitate their
construction and render them necessary. Cincinnati is built on the side
of a hill that begins to rise at the river’s edge, and were it
furnished with drains of the simplest arrangement, the heavy showers of
the climate would keep them constantly clean; as it is, these showers
wash the higher streets, only to deposit their filth in the first level
spot; and this happens to be in the street second in importance to Main
street, running at right angles to it, and containing most of the large
warehouses of the town. This deposit is a dreadful nuisance, and must
be productive of miasma during the hot weather.

The town is built, as I believe most American towns are, in squares, as
they call them; but these squares are the reverse of our’s, being solid
instead of hollow. Each consists, or is intended to consist, when the
plan of the city is completed, of a block of buildings fronting north,
east, west, and south; each house communicating with an alley,
furnishing a back entrance. This plan would not be a bad one were the
town properly drained, but as it is, these alleys are horrible
abominations, and must, I conceive, become worse with every passing
year.

To the north, Cincinnati is bounded by a range of forest-covered hills,
sufficiently steep and rugged to prevent their being built upon, or
easily cultivated, but not sufficiently high to command from their
summits a view of any considerable extent. Deep and narrow
water-courses, dry in summer, but bringing down heavy streams in
winter, divide these hills into many separate heights, and this
furnishes the only variety the landscape offers for many miles round
the town. The lovely Ohio is a beautiful feature wherever it is
visible, but the only part of the city that has the advantage of its
beauty is the street nearest to its bank. The hills of Kentucky, which
rise at about the same distance from the river, on the opposite side,
form the southern boundary to the basin in which Cincinnati is built.

On first arriving, I thought the many tree covered hills around, very
beautiful, but long before my departure, I felt so weary of the
confined view, that Salisbury Plain would have been an agreeable
variety. I doubt if any inhabitant of Cincinnati ever mounted these
hills so often as myself and my children; but it was rather for the
enjoyment of a freer air than for any beauty of prospect, that we took
our daily climb. These hills afford neither shrubs nor flowers, but
furnish the finest specimens of millepore in the world; and the water
courses are full of fossil productions.

The forest trees are neither large nor well grown, and so close as to
be nearly knotted together at top; even the wild vine here loses its
beauty, for its graceful festoons bear leaves only when they reach the
higher branches of the tree that supports them, both air and light
being too scantily found below to admit of their doing more than
climbing with a bare stem till they reach a better atmosphere. The herb
we call pennyroyal was the only one I found in abundance, and that only
on the brows, where the ground had been partially cleared; vegetation
is impossible elsewhere, and it is this circumstance which makes the
“eternal forests” of America so detestable. Near New Orleans the
undergrowth of Palmetto and pawpaw is highly beautiful, but in
Tennessee, Indiana, and Ohio, I never found the slightest beauty in the
forest scenery. Fallen trees in every possible stage of decay, and
congeries of leaves that have been rotting since the flood, cover the
ground and infect the air. The beautiful variety of foliage afforded by
evergreens never occurs, and in Tennessee, and that part of Ohio that
surrounds Cincinnati, even the sterile beauty of rocks is wanting. On
crossing the water to Kentucky the scene is greatly improved; beech and
chestnut, of magnificent growth, border the beautiful river; the ground
has been well cleared, and the herbage is excellent; the pawpaw grows
abundantly, and is a splendid shrub, though it bears neither fruit nor
flowers so far north. The noble tulip tree flourishes here, and blooms
profusely.

The river Licking flows into the Ohio nearly opposite Cincinnati; it is
a pretty winding stream, and two or three miles from its mouth has a
brisk rapid, dancing among white stones, which, in the absence of
better rocks, we found very picturesque.




CHAPTER V


Cincinnati—Forest Farm—Mr. Bullock


Though I do not quite sympathise with those who consider Cincinnati as
one of the wonders of the earth, I certainly think it a city of
extraordinary size and importance, when it is remembered that thirty
years ago the aboriginal forest occupied the ground where it stands;
and every month appears to extend its limits and its wealth.

Some of the native political economists assert that this rapid
conversion of a bear-brake into a prosperous city, is the result of
free political institutions; not being very deep in such matters, a
more obvious cause suggested itself to me, in the unceasing goad which
necessity applies to industry in this country, and in the absence of
all resource for the idle. During nearly two years that I resided in
Cincinnati, or its neighbourhood, I neither saw a beggar, nor a man of
sufficient fortune to permit his ceasing his efforts to increase it;
thus every bee in the hive is actively employed in search of that honey
of Hybla, vulgarly called money; neither art, science, learning, nor
pleasure can seduce them from its pursuit. This unity of purpose,
backed by the spirit of enterprise, and joined with an acuteness and
total absence of probity, where interest is concerned, which might set
canny Yorkshire at defiance, may well go far towards obtaining its
purpose.

The low rate of taxation, too, unquestionably permits a more rapid
accumulation of individual wealth than with us; but till I had
travelled through America, I had no idea how much of the money
collected in taxes returns among the people, not only in the purchase
of what their industry furnishes, but in the actual enjoyment of what
is furnished. Were I an English legislator, instead of sending sedition
to the Tower, I would send her to make a tour of the United States. I
had a little leaning towards sedition myself when I set out, but before
I had half completed my tour I was quite cured.

I have read much of the “few and simple wants of rational man,” and I
used to give a sort of dreamy acquiescence to the reasoning that went
to prove each added want an added woe. Those who reason in a
comfortable London drawing-room know little about the matter. Were the
aliments which sustain life all that we wanted, the faculties of the
hog might suffice us; but if we analyze an hour of enjoyment, we shall
find that it is made up of agreeable sensations occasioned by a
thousand delicate impressions on almost as many nerves; where these
nerves are sluggish from never having been awakened, external objects
are less important, for they are less perceived; but where the whole
machine of the human frame is in full activity, where every sense
brings home to consciousness its touch of pleasure or of pain, then
every object that meets the senses is important as a vehicle of
happiness or misery. But let no frames so tempered visit the United
States, or if they do, let it be with no longer pausing than will store
the memory with images, which, by the force of contrast, shall sweeten
the future.

“Guarda e passa (e poi) ragioniam di lor.”


The “simple” manner of living in Western America was more distasteful
to me from its levelling effects on the manners of the people, than
from the personal privations that it rendered necessary; and yet, till
I was without them, I was in no degree aware of the many pleasurable
sensations derived from the little elegancies and refinements enjoyed
by the middle classes in Europe. There were many circumstances, too
trifling even for my gossiping pages, which pressed themselves daily
and hourly upon us, and which forced us to remember painfully that we
were not at home. It requires an abler pen than mine to trace the
connection which I am persuaded exists between these deficiencies and
the minds and manners of the people. All animal wants are supplied
profusely at Cincinnati, and at a very easy rate; but, alas! these go
but a little way in the history of a day’s enjoyment. The total and
universal want of manners, both in males and females, is so remarkable,
that I was constantly endeavouring to account for it. It certainly does
not proceed from want of intellect. I have listened to much dull and
heavy conversation in America, but rarely to any that I could strictly
call silly, (if I except the every where privileged class of very young
ladies). They appear to me to have clear heads and active intellects;
are more ignorant on subjects that are only of conventional value, than
on such as are of intrinsic importance; but there is no charm, no grace
in their conversation. I very seldom during my whole stay in the
country heard a sentence elegantly turned, and correctly pronounced
from the lips of an American. There is always something either in the
expression or the accent that jars the feelings and shocks the taste.

I will not pretend to decide whether man is better or worse off for
requiring refinement in the manners and customs of the society that
surrounds him, and for being incapable of enjoyment without them; but
in America that polish which removes the coarser and rougher parts of
our nature is unknown and undreamed of. There is much substantial
comfort, and some display in the larger cities; in many of the more
obvious features they are as Paris or as London, being all large
assemblies of active and intelligent human beings—but yet they are
wonderfully unlike in nearly all their moral features. Now God forbid
that any reasonable American, (of whom there are so many millions),
should ever come to ask me what I mean; I should find it very
difficult, nay, perhaps, utterly impossible, to explain myself; but, on
the other hand, no European who has visited the Union, will find the
least difficulty in understanding me. I am in no way competent to judge
of the political institutions of America; and if I should occasionally
make an observation on their effects, as they meet my superficial
glance, they will be made in the spirit, and with the feeling of a
woman, who is apt to tell what her first impressions may be, but unapt
to reason back from effects to their causes. Such observations, if they
be unworthy of much attention, are also obnoxious to little reproof:
but there are points of national peculiarity of which women may judge
as ably as men,—all that constitutes the external of society may be
fairly trusted to us.

Captain Hall, when asked what appeared to him to constitute the
greatest difference between England and America, replied, like a
gallant sailor, “the want of loyalty.” Were the same question put to
me, I should answer, “the want of refinement.”

Were Americans, indeed, disposed to assume the plain unpretending
deportment of the Switzer in the days of his picturesque simplicity,
(when, however, he never chewed tobacco), it would be in bad taste to
censure him; but this is not the case. Jonathan will be a fine
gentleman, but it must be in his own way. Is he not a free-born
American? Jonathan, however, must remember, that if he will challenge
competition with the old world, the old world will now and then look
out to see how he supports his pretensions.

With their hours of business, whether judicial or mercantile, civil or
military, I have nothing to do; I doubt not they are all spent wisely
and profitably; but what are their hours of recreation? Those hours
that with us are passed in the enjoyment of all that art can win from
nature; when, if the elaborate repast be more deeply relished than
sages might approve, it is redeemed from sensuality by the presence of
elegance and beauty. What is the American pendant to this? I will not
draw any comparisons between a good dinner party in the two countries;
I have heard American gentlemen say, that they could perceive no
difference between them; but in speaking of general manners, I may
observe, that it is rarely they dine in society, except in taverns and
boarding houses. Then they eat with the greatest possible rapidity, and
in total silence; I have heard it said by American ladies, that the
hours of greatest enjoyment to the gentlemen were those in which a
glass of gin cocktail, or egging, receives its highest relish from the
absence of all restraint whatever; and when there were no ladies to
trouble them.

Notwithstanding all this, the country is a very fine country, well
worth visiting for a thousand reasons; nine hundred and ninety-nine of
these are reasons founded on admiration and respect; the thousandth is,
that we shall feel the more contented with our own. The more unlike a
country through which we travel is to all we have left, the more we are
likely to be amused; every thing in Cincinnati had this newness, and I
should have thought it a place delightful to visit, but to tarry there
was not to feel at home.

My home, however, for a time it was to be. We heard on every side, that
of all the known places on “the globe called earth,” Cincinnati was the
most favourable for a young man to settle in; and I only awaited the
arrival of Mr. T. to fix our son there, intending to continue with him
till he should feel himself sufficiently established. We accordingly
determined upon making ourselves as comfortable as possible. I took a
larger house, which, however, I did not obtain without considerable
difficulty, as, notwithstanding fourteen hundred new dwellings had been
erected the preceding year, the demand for houses greatly exceeded the
supply. We became acquainted with several amiable people, and we
beguiled the anxious interval that preceded Mr. T.’s joining us by
frequent excursions in the neighbourhood, which not only afforded us
amusement, but gave us an opportunity of observing the mode of life of
the country people.

We visited one farm, which interested us particularly from its wild and
lonely situation, and from the entire dependence of the inhabitants
upon their own resources. It was a partial clearing in the very heart
of the forest. The house was built on the side of a hill, so steep that
a high ladder was necessary to enter the front door, while the back one
opened against the hill side; at the foot of this sudden eminence ran a
clear stream, whose bed had been deepened into a little reservoir, just
opposite the house. A noble field of Indian-corn stretched away into
the forest on one side, and a few half-cleared acres, with a shed or
two upon them, occupied the other, giving accommodation to cows,
horses, pigs, and chickens innumerable. Immediately before the house
was a small potatoe garden, with a few peach and apple trees. The house
was built of logs, and consisted of two rooms, besides a little shanty
or lean-to, that was used as a kitchen. Both rooms were comfortably
furnished with good beds, drawers, &c. The farmer’s wife, and a young
woman who looked like her sister, were spinning, and three little
children were playing about. The woman told me that they spun and wove
all the cotton and woolen garments of the family, and knit all the
stockings; her husband, though not a shoe-maker by trade, made all the
shoes. She manufactured all the soap and candles they used, and
prepared her sugar from the sugar-trees on their farm. All she wanted
with money, she said, was to buy coffee, tea, and whiskey, and she
could “get enough any day by sending a batch of butter and chicken to
market.” They used no wheat, nor sold any of their corn, which, though
it appeared a very large quantity, was not more than they required to
make their bread and cakes of various kinds, and to feed all their live
stock during the winter. She did not look in health, and said they had
all had ague in “the fall;” but she seemed contented, and proud of her
independence; though it was in somewhat a mournful accent that she
said, “Tis strange to us to see company: I expect the sun may rise and
set a hundred times before I shall see another _human_ that does not
belong to the family.”

I have been minute in the description of this forest farm, as I think
it the best specimen I saw of the back-wood’s independence, of which so
much is said in America. These people were indeed independent, Robinson
Crusoe was hardly more so, and they eat and drink abundantly; but yet
it seemed to me that there was something awful and almost unnatural in
their loneliness. No village bell ever summoned them to prayer, where
they might meet the friendly greeting of their fellow-men. When they
die, no spot sacred by ancient reverence will receive their
bones—Religion will not breathe her sweet and solemn farewell upon
their grave; the husband or the father will dig the pit that is to hold
them, beneath the nearest tree; he will himself deposit them within it,
and the wind that whispers through the boughs will be their only
requiem. But then they pay neither taxes nor tythes, are never expected
to pull off a hat or to make a curtsy, and will live and die without
hearing or uttering the dreadful words, “God save the king.”

About two miles below Cincinnati, on the Kentucky side of the river,
Mr. Bullock, the well known proprietor of the Egyptian Hall, has bought
a large estate, with a noble house upon it. He and his amiable wife
were devoting themselves to the embellishment of the house and grounds;
and certainly there is more taste and art lavished on one of their
beautiful saloons, than all Western America can show elsewhere. It is
impossible to help feeling that Mr. Bullock is rather out of his
element in this remote spot, and the gems of art he has brought with
him, shew as strangely there, as would a bower of roses in Siberia, or
a Cincinnati fashionable at Almack’s. The exquisite beauty of the spot,
commanding one of the finest reaches of the Ohio, the extensive
gardens, and the large and handsome mansion, have tempted Mr. Bullock
to spend a large sum in the purchase of this place, and if any one who
has passed his life in London could endure such a change, the active
mind and sanguine spirit of Mr. Bullock might enable him to do it; but
his frank, and truly English hospitality, and his enlightened and
enquiring mind, seemed sadly wasted there. I have since heard with
pleasure that Mr. Bullock has parted with this beautiful, but secluded
mansion.




CHAPTER VI


Servants—Society—Evening Parties


The greatest difficulty in organising a family establishment in Ohio,
is getting servants, or, as it is there called, “getting help,” for it
is more than petty treason to the Republic, to call a free citizen a
_servant_. The whole class of young women, whose bread depends upon
their labour, are taught to believe that the most abject poverty is
preferable to domestic service. Hundreds of half-naked girls work in
the paper-mills, or in any other manufactory, for less than half the
wages they would receive in service; but they think their equality is
compromised by the latter, and nothing but the wish to obtain some
particular article of finery will ever induce them to submit to it. A
kind friend, however, exerted herself so effectually for me, that a
tall stately lass soon presented herself, saying, “I be come to help
you.” The intelligence was very agreeable, and I welcomed her in the
most gracious manner possible, and asked what I should give her by the
year.

“Oh Gimini!” exclaimed the damsel, with a loud laugh, “you be a
downright Englisher, sure enough. I should like to see a young lady
engage by the year in America! I hope I shall get a husband before many
months, or I expect I shall be an outright old maid, for I be most
seventeen already; besides, mayhap I may want to go to school. You must
just give me a dollar and half a week, and mother’s slave, Phillis,
must come over once a week, I expect, from t’other side the water, to
help me clean.” I agreed to the bargain, of course, with all dutiful
submission; and seeing she was preparing to set to work in a yellow
dress parseme with red roses, I gently hinted, that I thought it was a
pity to spoil so fine a gown, and that she had better change it.

“’Tis just my best and my worst,” she answered, “for I’ve got no
other.”

And in truth I found that this young lady had left the paternal mansion
with no more clothes of any kind than what she had on. I immediately
gave her money to purchase what was necessary for cleanliness and
decency, and set to work with my daughters to make her a gown. She
grinned applause when our labour was completed, but never uttered the
slightest expression of gratitude for that, or for any thing else we
could do for her. She was constantly asking us to lend her different
articles of dress, and when we declined it, she said, “Well, I never
seed such grumpy folks as you be; there is several young ladies of my
acquaintance what goes to live out now and then with the old women
about the town, and they and their gurls always lends them what they
asks for; I guess you Inglish thinks we should poison your things, just
as bad as if we was Negurs.” And here I beg to assure the reader, that
whenever I give conversations they were not made À LOISIR, but were
written down immediately after they occurred, with all the verbal
fidelity my memory permitted.

This young lady left me at the end of two months, because I refused to
lend her money enough to buy a silk dress to go to a ball, saying,
“Then ’tis not worth my while to stay any longer.”

I cannot imagine it possible that such a state of things can be
desirable, or beneficial to any of the parties concerned. I might
occupy a hundred pages on the subject, and yet fail to give an adequate
idea of the sore, angry, ever wakeful pride that seemed to torment
these poor wretches. In many of them it was so excessive, that all
feeling of displeasure, or even of ridicule, was lost in pity. One of
these was a pretty girl, whose natural disposition must have been
gentle and kind; but her good feelings were soured, and her gentleness
turned to morbid sensitiveness, by having heard a thousand and a
thousand times that she was as good as any other lady, that all men
were equal, and women too, and that it was a sin and a shame for a
free-born American to be treated like a servant.

When she found she was to dine in the kitchen, she turned up her pretty
lip, and said, “I guess that’s ’cause you don’t think I’m good enough
to eat with you. You’ll find that won’t do here.” I found afterwards
that she rarely ate any dinner at all, and generally passed the time in
tears. I did every thing in my power to conciliate and make her happy,
but I am sure she hated me. I gave her very high wages, and she staid
till she had obtained several expensive articles of dress, and then, UN
BEAU MATIN, she came to me full dressed, and said, “I must go.” “When
shall you return, Charlotte?” “I expect you’ll see no more of me.” And
so we parted. Her sister was also living with me, but her wardrobe was
not yet completed, and she remained some weeks longer, till it was.

I fear it may be called bad taste to say so much concerning my
domestics, but, nevertheless, the circumstances are so characteristic
of America that I must recount another history relating to them. A few
days after the departure of my ambitious belle, my cries for “Help” had
been so effectual that another young lady presented herself, with the
usual preface “I’m come to help you.” I had been cautioned never to ask
for a reference for character, as it would not only rob me of that
help, but entirely prevent my ever getting another; so, five minutes
after she entered she was installed, bundle and all, as a member of the
family. She was by no means handsome, but there was an air of simple
frankness in her manner that won us all. For my own part, I thought I
had got a second Jeanie Deans; for she recounted to me histories of her
early youth, wherein her plain good sense and strong mind had enabled
her to win her way through a host of cruel step-mothers, faithless
lovers, and cheating brothers. Among other things, she told me, with
the appearance of much emotion, that she had found, since she came to
town, a cure for all her sorrows, “Thanks and praise for it, I have got
religion!” and then she asked if I would spare her to go to Meeting
every Tuesday and Thursday evening; “You shall not have to want me,
Mrs. Trollope, for our minister knows that we have all our duties to
perform to man, as well as to God, and he makes the Meeting late in the
evening that they may not cross one another.” Who could refuse? Not I,
and Nancy had leave to go to Meeting two evenings in the week, besides
Sundays.

One night, that the mosquitoes had found their way under my net, and
prevented my sleeping, I heard some one enter the house very late; I
got up, went to the top of the stairs, and, by the help of a bright
moon, recognised Nancy’s best bonnet. I called to her: “You are very
late.” said I. “what is the reason of it?” “Oh, Mrs. Trollope,” she
replied, “I am late, indeed! We have this night had seventeen souls
added to our flock. May they live to bless this night! But it has been
a long sitting, and very warm; I’ll just take a drink of water, and get
to bed; you shan’t find me later in the morning for it.” Nor did I. She
was an excellent servant, and performed more than was expected from
her; moreover, she always found time to read the Bible several times in
the day, and I seldom saw her occupied about any thing without
observing that she had placed it near her.

At last she fell sick with the cholera, and her life was despaired of.
I nursed her with great care, and sat up the greatest part of two
nights with her. She was often delirious, and all her wandering
thoughts seemed to ramble to heaven. “I have been a sinner,” she said,
“but I am safe in the Lord Jesus.” When she recovered, she asked me to
let her go into the country for a few days, to change the air, and
begged me to lend her three dollars.

While she was absent a lady called on me, and enquired, with some
agitation, if my servant, Nancy Fletcher, were at home. I replied that
she was gone into the country. “Thank God,” she exclaimed, “never let
her enter your doors again, she is the most abandoned woman in the
town: a gentleman who knows you, has been told that she lives with you,
and that she boasts of having the power of entering your house at any
hour of night.” She told me many other circumstances, unnecessary to
repeat, but all tending to prove that she was a very dangerous inmate.

I expected her home the next evening, and I believe I passed the
interval in meditating how to get rid of her without an
_eclaircissement_. At length she arrived, and all my study having
failed to supply me with any other reason than the real one for
dismissing her, I stated it at once. Not the slightest change passed
over her countenance, but she looked steadily at me, and said, in a
very civil tone, “I should like to know who told you.” I replied that
it could be of no advantage to her to know, and that I wished her to go
immediately. “I am ready to go,” she said, in the same quiet tone, “but
what will you do for your three dollars?” “I must do without them,
Nancy; good morning to you.” “I must just put up my things,” she said,
and left the room. About half an hour afterwards, when we were all
assembled at dinner, she entered with her usual civil composed air,
“Well, I am come to wish you all goodbye,” and with a friendly
good-humoured smile she left us.

This adventure frightened me so heartily, that, notwithstanding I had
the dread of cooking my own dinner before my eyes, I would not take any
more young ladies into my family without receiving some slight sketch
of their former history. At length I met with a very worthy French
woman, and soon after with a tidy English girl to assist her; and I had
the good fortune to keep them till a short time before my departure:
so, happily, I have no more misfortunes of this nature to relate.

Such being the difficulties respecting domestic arrangements, it is
obvious, that the ladies who are brought up amongst them cannot have
leisure for any great development of the mind: it is, in fact, out of
the question; and, remembering this, it is more surprising that some
among them should be very pleasing, than that none should be highly
instructed.

Had I passed as many evenings in company in any other town that I ever
visited as I did in Cincinnati, I should have been able to give some
little account of the conversations I had listened to; but, upon
reading over my notes, and then taxing my memory to the utmost to
supply the deficiency, I can scarcely find a trace of any thing that
deserves the name. Such as I have, shall be given in their place. But,
whatever may be the talents of the persons who meet together in
society, the very shape, form, and arrangement of the meeting is
sufficient to paralyze conversation. The women invariably herd together
at one part of the room, and the men at the other; but, in justice to
Cincinnati, I must acknowledge that this arrangement is by no means
peculiar to that city, or to the western side of the Alleghanies.
Sometimes a small attempt at music produces a partial reunion; a few of
the most daring youths, animated by the consciousness of curled hair
and smart waistcoats, approach the piano forte, and begin to mutter a
little to the half-grown pretty things, who are comparing with one
another “how many quarters’ music they have had.” Where the mansion is
of sufficient dignity to have two drawing-rooms, the piano, the little
ladies, and the slender gentlemen are left to themselves, and on such
occasions the sound of laughter is often heard to issue from among
them. But the fate of the more dignified personages, who are left in
the other room, is extremely dismal. The gentlemen spit, talk of
elections and the price of produce, and spit again. The ladies look at
each other’s dresses till they know every pin by heart; talk of Parson
Somebody’s last sermon on the day of judgment, on Dr. T’otherbody’s new
pills for dyspepsia, till the “tea” is announced, when they all console
themselves together for whatever they may have suffered in keeping
awake, by taking more tea, coffee, hot cake and custard, hoe cake,
johny cake, waffle cake, and dodger cake, pickled peaches, and
preserved cucumbers, ham, turkey, hung beef, apple sauce, and pickled
oysters than ever were prepared in any other country of the known
world. After this massive meal is over, they return to the
drawing-room, and it always appeared to me that they remained together
as long as they could bear it, and then they rise EN MASSE, cloak,
bonnet, shawl, and exit.




CHAPTER VII


Market—Museum—Picture Gallery—Academy of Fine Arts Drawing
School—Phrenological Society—Miss Wright’s Lecture.


Perhaps the most advantageous feature in Cincinnati is its market,
which, for excellence, abundance, and cheapness, can hardly, I should
think, be surpassed in any part of the world, if I except the luxury of
fruits, which are very inferior to any I have seen in Europe. There are
no butchers, fishmongers, or indeed any shops for eatables, except
bakeries, as they are called, in the town; every thing must be
purchased at market; and to accomplish this, the busy housewife must be
stirring betimes, or, ’spite of the abundant supply, she will find her
hopes of breakfast, dinner, and supper for the day defeated, the market
being pretty well over by eight o’clock.

The beef is excellent, and the highest price when we were there, four
cents (about two-pence) the pound. The mutton was inferior, and so was
veal to the eye, but it ate well, though not very fat; the price was
about the same. The poultry was excellent; fowls or full-sized
chickens, ready for table, twelve cents, but much less if bought alive,
and not quite fat; turkeys about fifty cents, and geese the same. The
Ohio furnishes several sorts of fish, some of them very good, and
always to be found cheap and abundant in the market. Eggs, butter,
nearly all kinds of vegetables, excellent, and at moderate prices. From
June till December tomatoes (the great luxury of the American table in
the opinion of most Europeans) may be found in the highest perfection
in the market for about sixpence the peck. They have a great variety of
beans unknown in England, particularly the lima-bean, the seed of which
is dressed like the French harico; it furnishes a very abundant crop,
and is a most delicious vegetable: could it be naturalised with us it
would be a valuable acquisition. The Windsor, or broad-bean, will not
do well there; Mr. Bullock had them in his garden, where they were
cultivated with much care; they grew about a foot high and blossomed,
but the pod never ripened. All the fruit I saw exposed for sale in
Cincinnati was most miserable. I passed two summers there, but never
tasted a peach worth eating. Of apricots and nectarines I saw none;
strawberries very small, raspberries much worse; gooseberries very few,
and quite uneatable; currants about half the size of ours, and about
double the price; grapes too sour for tarts; apples abundant, but very
indifferent, none that would be thought good enough for an English
table; pears, cherries, and plums most miserably bad. The flowers of
these regions were at least equally inferior: whether this proceeds
from want of cultivation or from peculiarity of soil I know not, but
after leaving Cincinnati, I was told by a gentleman who appeared to
understand the subject, that the state of Ohio had no indigenous
flowers or fruits. The water-melons, which in that warm climate furnish
a delightful refreshment, were abundant and cheap; but all other melons
very inferior to those of France, or even of England, when ripened in a
common hot-bed.

From the almost total want of pasturage near the city, it is difficult
for a stranger to divine how milk is furnished for its supply, but we
soon learnt that there are more ways than one of keeping a cow. A large
proportion of the families in the town, particularly of the poorer
class, have one, though apparently without any accommodation whatever
for it. These animals are fed morning and evening at the door of the
house, with a good mess of Indian corn, boiled with water; while they
eat, they are milked, and when the operation is completed the milk-pail
and the meal-tub retreat into the dwelling, leaving the republican cow
to walk away, to take her pleasure on the hills, or in the gutters, as
may suit her fancy best. They generally return very regularly to give
and take the morning and evening meal; though it more than once
happened to us, before we were supplied by a regular milk cart, to have
our jug sent home empty, with the sad news that “the cow was not come
home, and it was too late to look for her to breakfast now.” Once, I
remember, the good woman told us that she had overslept herself, and
that the cow had come and gone again, “not liking, I expect, to hanker
about by herself for nothing, poor thing.”

Cincinnati has not many lions to boast, but among them are two museums
of natural history; both of these contain many respectable specimens,
particularly that of Mr. Dorfeuille, who has moreover, some highly
interesting Indian antiquities. He is a man of taste and science, but a
collection formed strictly according to their dictates, would by no
means satisfy the western metropolis. The people have a most
extravagant passion for wax figures, and the two museums vie with each
other in displaying specimens of this barbarous branch of art. As Mr.
Dorfeuille cannot trust to his science for attracting the citizens, he
has put his ingenuity into requisition, and this has proved to him the
surer aid of the two. He has constructed a pandaemonium in an upper
story of his museum, in which he has congregated all the images of
horror that his fertile fancy could devise; dwarfs that by machinery
grow into giants before the eyes of the spectator; imps of ebony with
eyes of flame; monstrous reptiles devouring youth and beauty; lakes of
fire, and mountains of ice; in short, wax, paint and springs have done
wonders. “To give the scheme some more effect,” he makes it visible
only through a grate of massive iron bars, among which are arranged
wires connected with an electrical machine in a neighbouring chamber;
should any daring hand or foot obtrude itself with the bars, it
receives a smart shock, that often passes through many of the crowd,
and the cause being unknown, the effect is exceedingly comic; terror,
astonishment, curiosity, are all set in action, and all contribute to
make “Dorfeuille’s Hell” one of the most amusing exhibitions
imaginable.

There is also a picture gallery at Cincinnati, and this was a
circumstance of much interest to us, as our friend Mr. H., who had
accompanied Miss Wright to America, in the expectation of finding a
good opening in the line of historical painting, intended commencing
his experiment at Cincinnati. It would be invidious to describe the
picture gallery; I have no doubt, that some years hence it will present
a very different appearance. Mr. H. was very kindly received by many of
the gentlemen of the city, and though the state of the fine arts there
gave him but little hope that he should meet with much success, he
immediately occupied himself in painting a noble historical picture of
the landing of General Lafayette at Cincinnati.

Perhaps the clearest proof of the little feeling for art that existed
at that time in Cincinnati, may be drawn from the result of an
experiment originated by a German, who taught drawing there. He
conceived the project of forming a chartered academy of fine arts; and
he succeeded in the beginning to his utmost wish, or rather, “they
fooled him to the top of his bent.” Three thousand dollars were
subscribed, that is to say, names were written against different sums
to that amount, a house was chosen, and finally, application was made
to the government, and the charter obtained, rehearsing formally the
names of the subscribing members, the professors, and the officers. So
far did the steam of their zeal impel them, but at this point it was
let off; the affair stood still, and I never heard the academy of fine
arts mentioned afterwards.

This same German gentleman, on seeing Mr. H.’s sketches, was so well
pleased with them, that he immediately proposed his joining him in his
drawing school, with an agreement, I believe that his payment from it
should be five hundred dollars a year. Mr. H. accepted the proposal,
but the union did not last long, and the cause of its dissolution was
too American to be omitted. Mr. H. prepared his models, and attended
the class, which was numerous, consisting both of boys and girls. He
soon found that the “sage called Decipline” was not one of the
assistants, and he remonstrated against the constant talking, and
running from one part of the room to another, but in vain; finding,
however, that he could do nothing till this was discontinued, he wrote
some rules, enforcing order, for the purpose of placing them at the
door of the academy. When he shewed them to his colleague, he shook his
head, and said, “Very goot, very goot in Europe, but America boys and
gals vill not bear it, dey will do just vat dey please; Suur, dey vould
all go avay next day.” “And you will not enforce these regulations _si
necessaires_, Monsieur?” “Olar! not for de vorld.” “_Eh bien_,
Monsieur, I must leave the young republicans to your management.”

I heard another anecdote that will help to show the state of art at
this time in the west. Mr. Bullock was shewing to some gentlemen of the
first standing, the very _elite_ of Cincinnati, his beautiful
collection of engravings, when one among them exclaimed, “Have you
really done all these since you came here? How hard you must have
worked!”

I was also told of a gentleman of High Cincinnati, TON and critical of
his taste for the fine arts, who, having a drawing put into his hands,
representing Hebe and the bird, umquhile sacred to Jupiter, demanded in
a satirical tone, “What is this?” “Hebe,” replied the alarmed
collector. “Hebe,” sneered the man of taste, “What the devil has Hebe
to do with the American eagle?”

We had not been long at Cincinnati when Dr. Caldwell, the Spurzheim of
America, arrived there for the purpose of delivering lectures on
phrenology. I attended his lectures, and was introduced to him. He has
studied Spurzheim and Combe diligently, and seems to understand the
science to which he has devoted himself; but neither his lectures nor
his conversation had that delightful truth of genuine enthusiasm, which
makes listening to Dr. Spurzheim so great a treat. His lectures,
however, produced considerable effect. Between twenty and thirty of the
most erudite citizens decided upon forming a phrenological society. A
meeting was called, and fully attended; a respectable number of
subscribers’ names was registered, the payment of subscriptions being
arranged for a future day. President, vice- president, treasurer, and
secretary, were chosen; and the first meeting dissolved with every
appearance of energetic perseverance in scientific research.

The second meeting brought together one-half of this learned body, and
they enacted rules and laws, and passed resolutions, sufficient, it was
said, to have filled three folios.

A third day of meeting arrived, which was an important one, as on this
occasion the subscriptions were to be paid. The treasurer came
punctually, but found himself alone. With patient hope, he waited two
hours for the wise men of the west, but he waited in vain: and so
expired the Phrenological Society of Cincinnati.

I had often occasion to remark that the spirit of enterprise or
improvement seldom glowed with sufficient ardour to resist the
smothering effect of a demand for dollars. The Americans love talking.
All great works, however, that promise a profitable result, are sure to
meet support from men who have enterprise and capital sufficient to
await the return; but where there is nothing but glory, or the
gratification of taste to be expected, it is, I believe, very rarely
that they give any thing beyond “their most sweet voices.”

Perhaps they are right. In Europe we see fortunes crippled by a passion
for statues, or for pictures, or for books, or for gems; for all and
every of the artificial wants that give grace to life, and tend to make
man forget that he is a thing of clay. They are wiser in their
generation on the other side the Atlantic; I rarely saw any thing that
led to such oblivion there.

Soon after Dr. Caldwell’s departure, another lecturer appeared upon the
scene, whose purpose of publicly addressing the people was no sooner
made known, than the most violent sensation was excited.

That a lady of fortune, family, and education, whose youth had been
passed in the most refined circles of private life, should present
herself to the people as a public lecturer, would naturally excite
surprise any where, and the nil admirari of the old world itself, would
hardly be sustained before such a spectacle; but in America, where
women are guarded by a seven- fold shield of habitual insignificance,
it caused an effect that can hardly be described. “Miss Wright, of
Nashoba, is going to lecture at the court-house,” sounded from street
to street, and from house to house. I shared the surprise, but not the
wonder; I knew her extraordinary gift of eloquence, her almost
unequalled command of words, and the wonderful power of her rich and
thrilling voice; and I doubted not that if it was her will to do it,
she had the power of commanding the attention, and enchanting the ear
of any audience before whom it was her pleasure to appear. I was most
anxious to hear her, but was almost deterred from attempting it, by the
reports that reached me of the immense crowd that was expected. After
many consultations, and hearing that many other ladies intended going,
my friend Mrs. P—, and myself, decided upon making the attempt,
accompanied by a party of gentlemen, and found the difficulty less than
we anticipated, though the building was crowded in every part. We
congratulated ourselves that we had had the courage to be among the
number, for all my expectations fell far short of the splendour, the
brilliance, the overwhelming eloquence of this extraordinary orator.

Her lecture was upon the nature of true knowledge, and it contained
little that could be objected to, by any sect or party; it was intended
as an introduction to the strange and startling theories contained in
her subsequent lectures, and could alarm only by the hints it contained
that the fabric of human wisdom could rest securely on no other base
than that of human knowledge.

There was, however, one passage from which common-sense revolted; it
was one wherein she quoted that phrase of mischievous sophistry, “all
men are born free and equal.” This false and futile axiom, which has
done, is doing, and will do so much harm to this fine country, came
from Jefferson; and truly his life was a glorious commentary upon it. I
pretend not to criticise his written works, but commonsense enables me
to pronounce this, his favourite maxim, false.

Few names are held in higher estimation in America, than that of
Jefferson; it is the touchstone of the democratic party, and all seem
to agree that he was one of the greatest of men; yet I have heard his
name coupled with deeds which would make the sons of Europe shudder.
The facts I allude to are spoken openly by all, not whispered privately
by a few; and in a country where religion is the tea-table talk, and
its strict observance a fashionable distinction, these facts are
recorded, and listened to, without horror, nay, without emotion.

Mr. Jefferson is said to have been the father of children by almost all
his numerous gang of female slaves. These wretched offspring were also
the lawful slaves of their father, and worked in his house and
plantations as such; in particular, it is recorded that it was his
especial pleasure to be waited upon by them at table, and the
hospitable orgies for which his Montecielo was so celebrated, were
incomplete, unless the goblet he quaffed were tendered by the trembling
hand of his own slavish offspring.

I once heard it stated by a democratical adorer of this great man, that
when, as it sometimes happened, his children by Quadroon slaves were
white enough to escape suspicion of their origin, he did not pursue
them if they attempted to escape, saying laughingly, “Let the rogues
get off, if they can; I will not hinder them.” This was stated in a
large party, as a proof of his kind and noble nature, and was received
by all with approving smiles.

If I know anything of right or wrong, if virtue and vice be indeed
something more than words, then was this great American an unprincipled
tyrant, and most heartless libertine.

But to return to Miss Wright,—it is impossible to imaging any thing
more striking than her appearance. Her tall and majestic figure, the
deep and almost solemn expression of her eyes, the simple contour of
her finely formed head, unadorned excepting by its own natural
ringlets; her garment of plain white muslin, which hung around her in
folds that recalled the drapery of a Grecian statue, all contributed to
produce an effect, unlike anything I had ever seen before, or ever
expect to see again.




CHAPTER VIII


Absence of public and private Amusement—Churches and Chapels—Influence
of the Clergy—A Revival


I never saw any people who appeared to live so much without amusement
as the Cincinnatians. Billiards are forbidden by law, so are cards. To
sell a pack of cards in Ohio subjects the seller to a penalty of fifty
dollars. They have no public balls, excepting, I think, six, during the
Christmas holidays. They have no concerts. They have no dinner parties.

They have a theatre, which is, in fact, the only public amusement of
this triste little town; but they seem to care little about it, and
either from economy or distaste, it is very poorly attended. Ladies are
rarely seen there, and by far the larger proportion of females deem it
an offence against religion to witness the representation of a play. It
is in the churches and chapels of the town that the ladies are to be
seen in full costume; and I am tempted to believe that a stranger from
the continent of Europe would be inclined, on first reconnoitering the
city, to suppose that the places of worship were the theatres and cafes
of the place. No evening in the week but brings throngs of the young
and beautiful to the chapels and meeting- houses, all dressed with
care, and sometimes with great pretension; it is there that all display
is made, and all fashionable distinction sought. The proportion of
gentlemen attending these evening meetings is very small, but often, as
might be expected, a sprinkling of smart young clerks make this
sedulous display of ribbons and ringlets intelligible and natural. Were
it not for the churches, indeed, I think there might be a general
bonfire of best bonnets, for I never could discover any other use for
them.

The ladies are too actively employed in the interior of their houses to
permit much parading in full dress for morning visits. There are no
public gardens or lounging shops of fashionable resort, and were it not
for public worship, and private tea- drinkings, all the ladies in
Cincinnati would be in danger of becoming perfect recluses.

The influence which the ministers of all the innumerable religious
sects throughout America, have on the females of their respective
congregations, approaches very nearly to what we read of in Spain, or
in other strictly Roman Catholic countries. There are many causes for
this peculiar influence. Where equality of rank is affectedly
acknowledged by the rich, and clamourously claimed by the poor,
distinction and preeminence are allowed to the clergy only. This gives
them high importance in the eyes of the ladies. I think, also, that it
is from the clergy only that the women of America receive that sort of
attention which is so dearly valued by every female heart throughout
the world. With the priests of America, the women hold that degree of
influential importance which, in the countries of Europe, is allowed
them throughout all orders and ranks of society, except, perhaps, the
very lowest; and in return for this they seem to give their hearts and
souls into their keeping. I never saw, or read, of any country where
religion had so strong a hold upon the women, or a slighter hold upon
the men.

I mean not to assert that I met with no men of sincerely religious
feelings, or with no women of no religious feeling at all; but I feel
perfectly secure of being correct as to the great majority in the
statement I have made.

We had not been many months in Cincinnati when our curiosity was
excited by hearing the “revival” talked of by every one we met
throughout the town. “The revival will be very full”—“We shall be
constantly engaged during the revival”—were the phrases we constantly
heard repeated, and for a long time, without in the least comprehending
what was meant; but at length I learnt that the un-national church of
America required to be roused, at regular intervals, to greater energy
and exertion. At these seasons the most enthusiastic of the clergy
travel the country, and enter the cities and towns by scores, or by
hundreds, as the accommodation of the place may admit, and for a week
or fortnight, or, if the population be large, for a month; they preach
and pray all day, and often for a considerable portion of the night, in
the various churches and chapels of the place. This is called a
Revival.

I took considerable pains to obtain information on this subject; but in
detailing what I learnt I fear that it is probable I shall be accused
of exaggeration; all I can do is cautiously to avoid deserving it. The
subject is highly interesting, and it would be a fault of no trifling
nature to treat it with levity.

These itinerant clergymen are of all persuasions, I believe, except the
Episcopalian, Catholic, Unitarian, and Quaker. I heard of Presbyterians
of all varieties; of Baptists of I know not how many divisions; and of
Methodists of more denominations than I can remember; whose innumerable
shades of varying belief, it would require much time to explain, and
more to comprehend. They enter all the cities, towns, and villages of
the Union, in succession; I could not learn with sufficient certainty
to repeat, what the interval generally is between their visits. These
itinerants are, for the most part, lodged in the houses of their
respective followers, and every evening that is not spent in the
churches and meeting-houses, is devoted to what would be called parties
by others, but which they designate as prayer meetings. Here they eat,
drink, pray, sing, hear confessions, and make converts. To these
meetings I never got invited, and therefore I have nothing but hearsay
evidence to offer, but my information comes from an eye-witness, and
one on whom I believe I may depend. If one half of what I heard may be
believed, these social prayer meetings are by no means the most
curious, or the least important part of the business.

It is impossible not to smile at the close resemblance to be traced
between the feelings of a first-rate Presbyterian or Methodist lady,
fortunate enough to have secured a favourite Itinerant for her meeting,
and those of a first-rate London Blue, equally blest in the presence of
a fashionable poet. There is a strong family likeness among us all the
world over.

The best rooms, the best dresses, the choicest refreshments solemnize
the meeting. While the party is assembling, the load-star of the hour
is occupied in whispering conversations with the guests as they arrive.
They are called brothers and sisters, and the greetings are very
affectionate. When the room is full, the company, of whom a vast
majority are always women, are invited, intreated, and coaxed to
confess before their brothers and sisters, all their thoughts, faults,
and follies.

These confessions are strange scenes; the more they confess, the more
invariably are they encouraged and caressed. When this is over, they
all kneel, and the Itinerant prays extempore. They then eat and drink;
and then they sing hymns, pray, exhort, sing, and pray again, till the
excitement reaches a very high pitch indeed. These scenes are going on
at some house or other every evening during the revival, nay, at many
at the same time, for the churches and meeting-houses cannot give
occupation to half the Itinerants, though they are all open throughout
the day, and till a late hour in the night, and the officiating
ministers succeed each other in the occupation of them.

It was at the principal of the Presbyterian churches that I was twice
witness to scenes that made me shudder; in describing one, I describe
both and every one; the same thing is constantly repeated.

It was in the middle of summer, but the service we were recommended to
attend did not begin till it was dark. The church was well lighted, and
crowded almost to suffocation. On entering, we found three priests
standing side by side, in a sort of tribune, placed where the altar
usually is, handsomely fitted up with crimson curtains, and elevated
about as high as our pulpits. We took our places in a pew close to the
rail which surrounded it.

The priest who stood in the middle was praying; the prayer was
extravagantly vehement, and offensively familiar in expression; when
this ended, a hymn was sung, and then another priest took the centre
place, and preached. The sermon had considerable eloquence, but of a
frightful kind. The preacher described, with ghastly minuteness, the
last feeble fainting moments of human life, and then the gradual
progress of decay after death, which he followed through every process
up to the last loathsome stage of decomposition. Suddenly changing his
tone, which had been that of sober accurate description, into the
shrill voice of horror, he bent forward his head, as if to gaze on some
object beneath the pulpit. And as Rebecca made known to Ivanhoe what
she saw through the window, so the preacher made known to us what he
saw in the pit that seemed to open before him. The device was certainly
a happy one for giving effect to his description of hell. No image that
fire, flame, brimestone, molten lead, or red-hot pincers could supply;
with flesh, nerves, and sinews quivering under them, was omitted. The
perspiration ran in streams from the face of the preacher; his eyes
rolled, his lips were covered with foam, and every feature had the deep
expression of horror it would have borne, had he, in truth, been gazing
at the scene he described. The acting was excellent. At length he gave
a languishing look to his supporters on each side, as if to express his
feeble state, and then sat down, and wiped the drops of agony from his
brow.

The other two priests arose, and began to sing a hymn. It was some
seconds before the congregation could join as usual; every upturned
face looked pale and horror struck. When the singing ended, another
took the centre place, and began in a sort of coaxing affectionate
tone, to ask the congregation if what their dear brother had spoken had
reached their hearts? Whether they would avoid the hell he had made
them see? “Come, then!” he continued, stretching out his arms towards
them, “come to us, and tell us so, and we will make you see Jesus, the
dear gentle Jesus, who shall save you from it. But you must come to
him! You must not be ashamed to come to him! This night you shall tell
him that you are not ashamed of him; we will make way for you; we will
clear the bench for anxious sinners to sit upon. Come, then! come to
the anxious bench, and we will shew you Jesus! Come! Come! Come!” Again
a hymn was sung, and while it continued, one of the three was employed
in clearing one or two long benches that went across the rail, sending
the people back to the lower part of the church. The singing ceased,
and again the people were invited, and exhorted not to be ashamed of
Jesus, but to put themselves upon “the anxious benches,” and lay their
heads on his bosom. “Once more we will sing,” he concluded, “that we
may give you time.” And again they sung a hymn.

And now in every part of the church a movement was perceptible, slight
at first, but by degrees becoming more decided. Young girls arose, and
sat down, and rose again; and then the pews opened, and several came
tottering out, their hands clasped, their heads hanging on their
bosoms, and every limb trembling, and still the hymn went on; but as
the poor creatures approached the rail their sobs and groans became
audible. They seated themselves on the “anxious benches;” the hymn
ceased, and two of the three priests walked down from the tribune, and
going, one to the right, and the other to the left, began whispering to
the poor tremblers seated there. These whispers were inaudible to us,
but the sobs and groans increased to a frightful excess. Young
creatures, with features pale and distorted, fell on their knees on the
pavement, and soon sunk forward on their faces; the most violent cries
and shrieks followed, while from time to time a voice was heard in
convulsive accents, exclaiming, “Oh Lord!” “Oh Lord Jesus!” “Help me,
Jesus!” and the like.

Meanwhile the two priests continued to walk among them; they repeatedly
mounted on the benches, and trumpet-mouthed proclaimed to the whole
congregation, “the tidings of salvation,” and then from every corner of
the building arose in reply, short sharp cries of “Amen!” “Glory!”
“Amen!” while the prostrate penitents continued to receive whispered
comfortings, and from time to time a mystic caress. More than once I
saw a young neck encircled by a reverend arm. Violent hysterics and
convulsions seized many of them, and when the tumult was at the
highest, the priest who remained above, again gave out a hymn as if to
drown it.

It was a frightful sight to behold innocent young creatures, in the gay
morning of existence, thus seized upon, horror struck, and rendered
feeble and enervated for ever. One young girl, apparently not more than
fourteen, was supported in the arms of another, some years older; her
face was pale as death; her eyes wide open, and perfectly devoid of
meaning; her chin and bosom wet with slaver; she had every appearance
of idiotism. I saw a priest approach her, he took her delicate hand,
“Jesus is with her! Bless the Lord!” he said, and passed on.

Did the men of America value their women as men ought to value their
wives and daughters, would such scenes be permitted among them?

It is hardly necessary to say that all who obeyed the call to place
themselves on the “anxious benches” were women, and by far the greater
number very young women. The congregation was, in general, extremely
well dressed, and the smartest and most fashionable ladies of the town
were there; during the whole revival the churches and meeting-houses
were every day crowded with well dressed people.

It is thus the ladies of Cincinnati amuse themselves; to attend the
theatre is forbidden; to play cards is unlawful; but they work hard in
their families, and must have some relaxation. For myself, I confess
that I think the coarsest comedy ever written would be a less
detestable exhibition for the eyes of youth and innocence than such a
scene.




CHAPTER IX


Schools—Climate—Water Melons—Fourth of July—Storms—Pigs—Moving
Houses—Mr. Flint—Literature


Cincinnati contains many schools, but of their rank or merit I had very
little opportunity of judging; the only one which I visited was kept by
Dr. Lock, a gentleman who appears to have liberal and enlarged opinions
on the subject of female education. Should his system produce practical
results proportionably excellent, the ladies of Cincinnati will
probably some years hence be much improved in their powers of
companionship. I attended the annual public exhibition at this school,
and perceived, with some surprise, that the higher branches of science
were among the studies of the pretty creatures I saw assembled there.
One lovely girl of sixteen took her degree in mathematics, and another
was examined in moral philosophy. They blushed so sweetly, and looked
so beautifully puzzled and confounded, that it might have been
difficult for an abler judge than I was to decide how far they merited
the diploma they received.

This method of letting young ladies graduate, and granting them
diplomas on quitting the establishment, was quite new to me; at least,
I do not remember to have heard of any thing similar elsewhere. I
should fear that the time allowed to the fair graduates of Cincinnati
for the acquirement of these various branches of education would seldom
be sufficient to permit their reaching the eminence in each which their
enlightened instructor anticipates. “A quarter’s” mathematics, or “two
quarters” political economy, moral philosophy, algebra, and quadratic
equations, would seldom, I should think, enable the teacher and the
scholar, by their joint efforts, to lay in such a stock of these
sciences as would stand the wear and tear of half a score of children,
and one help.

Towards the end of May we began to feel that we were in a climate
warmer than any we had been accustomed to, and my son suffered severely
from the effects of it. A bilious complaint, attended by a frightful
degree of fever, seized him, and for some days we feared for his life.
The treatment he received was, I have no doubt, judicious, but the
quantity of calomel prescribed was enormous. I asked one day how many
grains I should prepare, and was told to give half a teaspoonful. The
difference of climate must, I imagine, make a difference in the effect
of this drug, or the practice of the old and new world could hardly
differ so widely as it does in the use of it. Anstey, speaking of the
Bath physicians, says,

    “No one e’er viewed
Any one of the medical gentlemen stewed.”


But I can vouch, upon my own experience, that no similar imputation
lies against the gentlemen who prescribe large quantities of calomel in
America. To give one instance in proof of this, when I was afterwards
in Montgomery county, near Washington, a physician attended one of our
neighbours, and complained that he was himself unwell. “You must take
care of yourself, Doctor,” said the patient; “I do so,” he replied, “I
took forty grains of calomel yesterday, and I feel better than I did.”
Repeated and violent bleeding was also had recourse to in the case of
my son, and in a few days he was able to leave his room, but he was
dreadfully emaciated, and it was many weeks before he recovered his
strength.

As the heat of the weather increased we heard of much sickness around
us. The city is full of physicians, and they were all to be seen
driving about in their cabs at a very alarming rate. One of these
gentlemen told us, that when a medical man intended settling in a new
situation, he always, if he knew his business, walked through the
streets at nights, before he decided. If he saw the dismal twinkle of
the watch-light from many windows he might be sure that disease was
busy, and the the “location” might suit him well. Judging, by this
criterion, Cincinnati was far from healthy, I began to fear for our
health, and determined to leave the city; but, for a considerable time
I found it impossible to procure a dwelling out of it. There were many
boarding-houses in the vicinity, but they were all overflowing with
guests. We were advised to avoid, as much as possible, walking out in
the heat of the day; but the mornings and evenings were delightful,
particularly the former, if taken sufficiently early. For several weeks
I was never in bed after four o’clock, and at this hour I almost daily
accompanied my “help” to market, where the busy novelty of the scene
afforded me much amusement.

Many waggon-loads of enormous water-melons were brought to market every
day, and I was sure to see groups of men, women, and children seated on
the pavement round the spot where they were sold, sucking in prodigious
quantities of this water-fruit. Their manner of devouring them is
extremely unpleasant; the huge fruit is cut into half a dozen sections,
of about a foot long, and then, dripping as it is with water, applied
to the mouth, from either side of which pour copious streams of the
fluid, while, ever and anon, a mouthful of the hard black seeds are
shot out in all directions, to the great annoyance of all within reach.
When I first tasted this fruit I thought it very vile stuff indeed, but
before the end of the season we all learned to like it. When taken with
claret and sugar it makes delicious wine and water.

It is the custom for the gentlemen to go to market at Cincinnati; the
smartest men in the place, and those of the “highest standing” do not
scruple to leave their beds with the sun, six days in the week, and,
prepared with a mighty basket, to sally forth in search of meat,
butter, eggs and vegetables. I have continually seen them returning,
with their weighty basket on one arm and an enormous ham depending from
the other.

And now arrived the 4th of July, that greatest of all American
festivals. On the 4th of July, 1776, the declaration of their
independence was signed, at the State-house in Philadelphia.

To me, the dreary coldness and want of enthusiasm in American manners
is one of their greatest defects, and I therefore hailed the
demonstrations of general feeling which this day elicits with real
pleasure. On the 4th of July the hearts of the people seem to awaken
from a three hundred and sixty-four days’ sleep; they appear
high-spirited, gay, animated, social, generous, or at least liberal in
expense; and would they but refrain from spitting on that hallowed day,
I should say, that on the 4th of July, at least, they appeared to be an
amiable people. It is true that the women have but little to do with
the pageantry, the splendour, or the gaiety of the day; but, setting
this defect aside, it was indeed a glorious sight to behold a jubilee
so heartfelt as this; and had they not the bad taste and bad feeling to
utter an annual oration, with unvarying abuse of the mother country, to
say nothing of the warlike manifesto called Declaration of
Independence, our gracious king himself might look upon the scene and
say that it was good; nay, even rejoice, that twelve millions of
bustling bodies, at four thousand miles distance from his throne and
his altars, should make their own laws, and drink their own tea, after
the fashion that pleased them best.

One source of deep interest to us, in this new clime, was the frequent
recurrence of thunderstorms. Those who have only listened to thunder in
England have but a faint idea of the language which the gods speak when
they are angry. Thomson’s description, however, will do: it is hardly
possible that words can better paint the spectacle, or more truly echo
to the sound, than his do. The only point he does not reach is the vast
blaze of rose-coloured light that ever and anon sets the landscape on
fire.

In reading this celebrated description in America, and observing how
admirably true it was to nature there, I seemed to get a glimpse at a
poet’s machinery, and to perceive, that in order to produce effect he
must give his images more vast than he finds them in nature; but the
proportions must be just, and the colouring true. Every thing seems
colossal on this great continent; if it rains, if it blows, if it
thunders, it is all done _fortissimo_; but I often felt terror yield to
wonder and delight, so grand, so glorious were the scenes a storm
exhibited. Accidents are certainly more frequent than with us, but not
so much so as reasonably to bring terror home to one’s bosom every time
a mass of lurid clouds is seen rolling up against the wind.

It seems hardly fair to quarrel with a place because its staple
commodity is not pretty, but I am sure I should have liked Cincinnati
much better if the people had not dealt so very largely in hogs. The
immense quantity of business done in this line would hardly be believed
by those who had not witnessed it. I never saw a newspaper without
remarking such advertisements as the following:

“Wanted, immediately, 4,000 fat hogs.”
“For sale, 2,000 barrels of prime pork.”


But the annoyance came nearer than this; if I determined upon a walk up
Main-street, the chances were five hundred to one against my reaching
the shady side without brushing by a snout fresh dripping from the
kennel; when we had screwed our courage to the enterprise of mounting a
certain noble looking sugar-loaf hill, that promised pure air and a
fine view, we found the brook we had to cross, at its foot, red with
the stream from a pig slaughter house; while our noses, instead of
meeting “the thyme that loves the green hill’s breast,” were greeted by
odours that I will not describe, and which I heartily hope my readers
cannot imagine; our feet, that on leaving the city had expected to
press the flowery sod, literally got entangled in pigs’ tails and
jaw-bones: and thus the prettiest walk in the neighbourhood was
interdicted for ever.

One of the sights to stare at in America is that of houses moving from
place to place. We were often amused by watching this exhibition of
mechanical skill in the streets. They make no difficulty of moving
dwellings from one part of the town to another. Those I saw travelling
were all of them frame-houses, that is, built wholly of wood, except
the chimneys; but it is said that brick buildings are sometimes treated
in the same manner. The largest dwelling that I saw in motion was one
containing two stories of four rooms each; forty oxen were yoked to it.
The first few yards brought down the two stacks of chimneys, but it
afterwards went on well. The great difficulties were the first getting
it in motion and the stopping exactly in the right place. This
locomotive power was extremely convenient at Cincinnati, as the
constant improvements going on there made it often desirable to change
a wooden dwelling for one of brick; and whenever this happened, we were
sure to see the ex No.100 of Main-street or the ex No.55 of Second
street creeping quietly out of town, to take possession of a humble
suburban station on the common above it.

The most agreeable acquaintance I made in Cincinnati, and indeed one of
the most talented men I ever met, was Mr. Flint, the author of several
extremely clever volumes, and the editor of the Western Monthly Review.
His conversational powers are of the highest order: he is the only
person I remember to have known with first rate powers of satire, and
even of sarcasm, whose kindness of nature and of manner remained
perfectly uninjured. In some of his critical notices there is a
strength and keenness second to nothing of the kind I have ever read.
He is a warm patriot, and so true-hearted an American, that we could
not always be of the same opinion on all the subjects we discussed; but
whether it were the force and brilliancy of his language, his genuine
and manly sincerity of feeling, or his bland and gentleman-like manner
that beguiled me, I know not, but certainly he is the only American I
ever listened to whose unqualified praise of his country did not appear
to me somewhat overstrained and ridiculous.

On one occasion, but not at the house of Mr. Flint, I passed an evening
in company with a gentleman said to be a scholar and a man of reading;
he was also what is called a _serious_ gentleman, and he appeared to
have pleasure in feeling that his claim to distinction was acknowledged
in both capacities. There was a very amiable _serious_ lady in the
company, to whom he seemed to trust for the development of his
celestial pretensions, and to me he did the honour of addressing most
of his terrestrial superiority. The difference between us was, that
when he spoke to her, he spoke as to a being who, if not his equal, was
at least deserving high distinction; and he gave her smiles, such as
Michael might have vouchsafed to Eve. To me he spoke as Paul to the
offending Jews; he did not, indeed, shake his raiment at me, but he
used his pocket-handkerchief so as to answer the purpose; and if every
sentence did not end with “I am clean,” pronounced by his lips, his
tone, his look, his action, fully supplied the deficiency.

Our poor Lord Byron, as may be supposed, was the bull’s-eye against
which every dart in his black little quiver was aimed. I had never
heard any serious gentleman talk of Lord Byron at full length before,
and I listened attentively. It was evident that the noble passages
which are graven on the hearts of the genuine lovers of poetry had
altogether escaped the serious gentleman’s attention; and it was
equally evident that he knew by rote all those that they wish the
mighty master had never written. I told him so, and I shall not soon
forget the look he gave me.

Of other authors his knowledge was very imperfect, but his criticisms
very amusing. Of Pope, he said, “He is so entirely gone by, that in
_our_ country it is considered quite fustian to speak of him”

But I persevered, and named “the Rape of the Lock” as evincing some
little talent, and being in a tone that might still hope for admittance
in the drawing-room; but, on the mention of this poem, the serious
gentleman became almost as strongly agitated as when he talked of Don
Juan; and I was unfeignedly at a loss to comprehend the nature of his
feelings, till he muttered, with an indignant shake of the
handkerchief, “The very title!”

At the name of Dryden he smiled, and the smile spoke as plainly as a
smile could speak, “How the old woman twaddles!”

“We only know Dryden by quotations. Madam, and these, indeed, are found
only in books that have long since had their day.”

“And Shakspeare, sir?”

“Shakspeare, Madam, is obscene, and, thank God, WE are sufficiently
advanced to have found it out! If we must have the abomination of stage
plays, let them at least be marked by the refinement of the age in
which we live.”

This was certainly being _au courant du jour_.

Of Massenger he knew nothing. Of Ford he had never heard. Gray had had
his day. Prior he had never read, but understood he was a very childish
writer. Chaucer and Spenser he tied in a couple, and dismissed by
saying, that he thought it was neither more nor less than affectation
to talk of authors who wrote in a tongue no longer intelligible.

This was the most literary conversation I was ever present at in
Cincinnati.[1]

 [1] The pleasant, easy, unpretending talk on all subjects, which I
 enjoyed in Mr. Flint’s family, was an exception to every thing else I
 met at Cincinnati.


In truth, there are many reasons which render a very general diffusion
of literature impossible in America. I can scarcely class the universal
reading of newspapers as an exception to this remark; if I could, my
statement would be exactly the reverse, and I should say that America
beat the world in letters. The fact is, that throughout all ranks of
society, from the successful merchant, which is the highest, to the
domestic serving man, which is the lowest, they are all too actively
employed to read, except at such broken moments as may suffice for a
peep at a newspaper. It is for this reason, I presume, that every
_American newspaper_ is more or less a magazine, wherein the merchant
may scan while he holds out his hand for an invoice, “Stanzas by Mrs.
Hemans,” or a garbled extract from Moore’s Life of Byron; the lawyer
may study his brief faithfully, and yet contrive to pick up the
valuable dictum of some American critic, that “Bulwer’s novels are
decidedly superior to Sir Walter Scott’s;” nay, even the auctioneer may
find time, as he bustles to his tub, or his tribune, to support his
pretensions to polite learning, by glancing his quick eye over the
columns, and reading that “Miss Mitford’s descriptions are
indescribable.” If you buy a yard of ribbon, the shopkeeper lays down
his newspaper, perhaps two or three, to measure it. I have seen a
brewer’s drayman perched on the shaft of his dray and reading one
newspaper, while another was tucked under his arm; and I once went into
the cottage of a country shoemaker, of the name of Harris, where I saw
a newspaper half full of “original” poetry, directed to Madison F.
Harris. To be sure of the fact, I asked the man if his name were
Madison. “Yes, Madam, Madison Franklin Harris is my name.” The last and
the lyre divided his time, I fear too equally, for he looked pale and
poor.

This, I presume, is what is meant by the general diffusion of
knowledge, so boasted of in the United States; such as it is, the
diffusion of it is general enough, certainly; but I greatly doubt its
being advantageous to the population.

The only reading men I met with were those who made letters their
profession; and of these, there were some who would hold a higher rank
in the great Republic (not of America, but of letters), did they write
for persons less given to the study of magazines and newspapers; and
they might hold a higher rank still, did they write for the few and not
for the many. I was always drawing a parallel, perhaps a childish one,
between the external and internal deficiency of polish and of elegance
in the native volumes of the country. Their compositions have not that
condensation of thought, or that elaborate finish, which the
consciousness of writing for the scholar and the man of taste is
calculated to give; nor have their dirty blue paper and slovenly
types[2] the polished elegance that fits a volume for the hand or the
eye of the fastidious epicure in literary enjoyment. The first book I
bought in America was the “Chronicles of the Cannongate.” In asking the
price, I was agreeably surprised to hear a dollar and a half named,
being about one sixth of what I used to pay for its fellows in England;
but on opening the grim pages, it was long before I could again call
them cheap. To be sure the pleasure of a bright well-printed page ought
to be quite lost sight of in the glowing, galloping, bewitching course
that the imagination sets out upon with a new Waverley novel; and so it
was with me till I felt the want of it; and then I am almost ashamed to
confess how often, in turning the thin dusky pages, my poor earth-born
spirit paused in its pleasure, to sigh for hot-pressed wire-wove.

 [2] I must make an exception in favour of the American Quarterly
 Review. To the eye of the body it is in  all respects exactly the same
 thing as the English Quarterly Review.




CHAPTER X


Removal to the country—Walk in the forest—Equality


At length my wish of obtaining a house in the country was gratified. A
very pretty cottage, the residence of a gentleman who was removing into
town, for the convenience of his business as a lawyer, was to let, and
I immediately secured it. It was situated in a little village about a
mile and a half from the town, close to the foot of the hills formerly
mentioned as the northern boundary of it. We found ourselves much more
comfortable here than in the city. The house was pretty and commodious,
our sitting-rooms were cool and airy; we had got rid of the detestable
mosquitoes, and we had an ice-house that never failed. Beside all this,
we had the pleasure of gathering our tomatoes from our own garden, and
receiving our milk from our own cow. Our manner of life was infinitely
more to my taste than before; it gave us all the privileges of
rusticity, which are fully as incompatible with a residence in a little
town of Western America as with a residence in London. We lived on
terms of primaeval intimacy with our cow, for if we lay down on our
lawn she did not scruple to take a sniff at the book we were reading,
but then she gave us her own sweet breath in return. The verge of the
cool-looking forest that rose opposite our windows was so near, that we
often used it as an extra drawing- room, and there was no one to wonder
if we went out with no other preparation than our parasols, carrying
books and work enough to while away a long summer day in the shade; the
meadow that divided us from it was covered with a fine short grass,
that continued for a little way under the trees, making a beautiful
carpet, while sundry logs and stumps furnished our sofas and tables.
But even this was not enough to satisfy us when we first escaped from
the city, and we determined upon having a day’s enjoyment of the
wildest forest scenery we could find. So we packed up books, albums,
pencils, and sandwiches, and, despite a burning sun, dragged up a hill
so steep that we sometimes fancied we could rest ourselves against it
by only leaning forward a little. In panting and in groaning we reached
the top, hoping to be refreshed by the purest breath of heaven; but to
have tasted the breath of heaven we must have climbed yet farther, even
to the tops of the trees themselves, for we soon found that the air
beneath them stirred not, nor ever had stirred, as it seemed to us,
since first it settled there, so heavily did it weigh upon our lungs.

Still we were determined to enjoy ourselves, and forward we went,
crunching knee deep through aboriginal leaves, hoping to reach some
spot less perfectly airtight than our landing-place. Wearied with the
fruitless search, we decided on reposing awhile on the trunk of a
fallen tree; being all considerably exhausted, the idea of sitting down
on this tempting log was conceived and executed simultaneously by the
whole party, and the whole party sunk together through its treacherous
surface into a mass of rotten rubbish that had formed part of the pith
and marrow of the eternal forest a hundred years before.

We were by no means the only sufferers by the accident; frogs, lizards,
locusts, katiedids, beetles, and hornets, had the whole of their
various tenements disturbed, and testified their displeasure very
naturally by annoying us as much as possible in return; we were bit, we
were stung, we were scratched; and when, at last, we succeeded in
raising ourselves from the venerable ruin, we presented as woeful a
spectacle as can well be imagined. We shook our (not ambrosial)
garments, and panting with heat, stings, and vexation, moved a few
paces from the scene of our misfortune, and again sat down; but this
time it was upon the solid earth.

We had no sooner began to “chew the cud” of the bitter fancy that had
beguiled us to these mountain solitudes than a new annoyance assailed
us. A cloud of mosquitoes gathered round, and while each sharp
proboscis sucked our blood, they teased us with their humming chorus,
till we lost all patience, and started again on our feet, pretty firmly
resolved never to try the _al fresco_ joys of an American forest again.
The sun was now in its meridian splendour, but our homeward path was
short and down hill, so again packing up our preparations for felicity,
we started homeward, or, more properly speaking, we started, for in
looking for an agreeable spot in this dungeon forest we had advanced so
far from the verge of the hill that we had lost all trace of the
precise spot where we had entered it. Nothing was to be seen but
multitudes of tall, slender, melancholy stems, as like as peas, and
standing within a foot of each other. The ground, as far as the eye
could reach (which certainly was not far), was covered with an unvaried
bed of dried leaves; no trace, no track, no trail, as Mr. Cooper would
call it, gave us a hint which way to turn; and having paused for a
moment to meditate, we remembered that chance must decide for us at
last, so we set forward, in no very good mood, to encounter new
misfortunes. We walked about a quarter of a mile, and coming to a steep
descent, we thought ourselves extremely fortunate, and began to
scramble down, nothing doubting that it was the same we had scrambled
up. In truth, nothing could be more like, but, alas! things that are
like are not the same; when we had slipped and stumbled down to the
edge of the wood, and were able to look beyond it, we saw no pretty
cottage with the shadow of its beautiful acacias coming forward to meet
us: all was different; and, what was worse, all was distant from the
spot where we had hoped to be. We had come down the opposite side of
the ridge, and had now to win our weary way a distance of three miles
round its base, I believe we shall none of us ever forget that walk.
The bright, glowing, furnace- like heat of the atmosphere seems to
scorch as I recall it. It was painful to tread, it was painful to
breathe, it was painful to look round; every object glowed with the
reflection of the fierce tyrant that glared upon us from above.

We got home alive, which agreeably surprised us; and when our parched
tongues again found power of utterance, we promised each other
faithfully never to propose any more parties of pleasure in the grim
store-like forests of Ohio.

We were now in daily expectation of the arrival of Mr. T.; but day
after day, and week after week passed by till we began to fear some
untoward circumstance might delay his coming till the Spring; at last,
when we had almost ceased to look out for him. on the road which led
from the town, he arrived, late at night, by that which leads across
the country from Pitzburgh. The pleasure we felt at seeing him was
greatly increased by his bringing with him our eldest son, which was a
happiness we had not hoped for. Our walks and our drives now became
doubly interesting. The young men, fresh from a public school, found
America so totally unlike all the nations with which their reading had
made them acquainted, that it was indeed a new world to them. Had they
visited Greece or Rome they would have encountered objects with whose
images their minds had been long acquainted; or had they travelled to
France or Italy they would have seen only what daily conversation had
already rendered familiar; but at our public schools America (except
perhaps as to her geographical position) is hardly better known than
Fairy Land; and the American character has not been much more deeply
studied than that of the Anthropophagi: all, therefore, was new, and
every thing amusing.

The extraordinary familiarity of our poor neighbours startled us at
first, and we hardly knew how to receive their uncouth advances, or
what was expected of us in return; however, it sometimes produced very
laughable scenes. Upon one occasion two of my children set off upon an
exploring walk up the hills; they were absent rather longer than we
expected, and the rest of our party determined upon going out to meet
them; we knew the direction they had taken, but thought it would be as
well to enquire at a little public-house at the bottom of the hill, if
such a pair had been seen to pass. A woman, whose appearance more
resembled a Covent Garden market-woman than any thing else I can
remember, came out and answered my question with the most jovial good
humour in the affirmative, and prepared to join us in our search. Her
look, her voice, her manner, were so exceedingly coarse and vehement,
that she almost frightened me; she passed her arm within mine, and to
the inexpressible amusement of my young people, she dragged me on,
talking and questioning me without ceasing. She lived but a short
distance from us, and I am sure intended to be a very good neighbour;
but her violent intimacy made me dread to pass her door; my children,
including my sons, she always addressed by their Christian names,
excepting when she substituted the word “honey;” this familiarity of
address, however, I afterwards found was universal throughout all ranks
in the United States.

My general appellation amongst my neighbours was “the English old
woman,” but in mentioning each other they constantly employed the term
“lady;” and they evidently had a pleasure in using it, for I repeatedly
observed, that in speaking of a neighbour, instead of saying Mrs.
Such-a-one, they described her as “the lady over the way what takes in
washing,” or as “that there lady, out by the Gulley, what is making
dip-candles.” Mr. Trollope was as constantly called “the old man,”
while draymen, butchers’ boys, and the labourers on the canal were
invariably denominated “them gentlemen;” nay, we once saw one of the
most gentlemanlike men in Cincinnati introduce a fellow in dirty shirt
sleeves, and all sorts of detestable et cetera, to one of his friends,
with this formula, “D— let me introduce this gentleman to you.” Our
respective titles certainly were not very important; but the eternal
shaking hands with these ladies and gentlemen was really an annoyance,
and the more so, as the near approach of the gentlemen was always
redolent of whiskey and tobacco.

But the point where this republican equality was the most distressing
was in the long and frequent visitations that it produced. No one
dreams of fastening a door in Western America; I was told that it would
be considered as an affront by the whole neighbourhood. I was thus
exposed to perpetual, and most vexatious interruptions from people whom
I had often never seen, and whose names still oftener were unknown to
me.

Those who are native there, and to the manner born, seem to pass over
these annoyances with more skill than I could ever acquire. More than
once I have seen some of my acquaintance beset in the same way, without
appearing at all distressed by it; they continued their employment or
conversation with me, much as if no such interruption had taken place;
when the visitor entered, they would say, “How do you do?” and shake
hands.

“Tolerable, I thank ye, how be you?” was the reply.

If it was a female, she took off her hat; if a male, he kept it on, and
then taking possession of the first chair in their way, they would
retain it for an hour together, without uttering another word; at
length, rising abruptly, they would again shake hands, with, “Well, now
I must be going, I guess,” and so take themselves off, apparently well
contented with their reception.

I could never attain this philosophical composure; I could neither
write nor read, and I always fancied I must talk to them. I will give
the minutes of a conversation which I once set down after one of their
visits, as a specimen of their tone and manner of speaking and
thinking. My visitor was a milkman.

“Well now, so you be from the old country? Ay—you’ll see sights here, I
guess.”

“I hope I shall see many.”

“That’s a fact. I expect your little place of an island don’t grow such
dreadful fine corn as you sees here?” [Corn always means Indian corn,
or maize.]

“It grows no corn at all, sir.’”

“Possible! no wonder, then, that we reads such awful stories in the
papers of your poor people being starved to death.”

“We have wheat, however.”

“Ay, for your rich folks, but I calculate the poor seldom gets a belly
full.”

“You have certainly much greater abundance here.”

“I expect so. Why they do say, that if a poor body contrives to be
smart enough to scrape together a few dollars, that your King George
always comes down upon ’em, and takes it all away. Don’t he?”

“I do not remember hearing of such a transaction.”

“I guess they be pretty close about it. Your papers ben’t like ourn, I
reckon? Now we says and prints just what we likes.”

“You spend a good deal of time in reading the newspapers.”

“And I’d like you to tell me how we can spend it better. How should
freemen spend their time, but looking after their government, and
watching that them fellers as we gives offices to, doos their duty, and
gives themselves no airs?”

“But I sometimes think, sir, that your fences might be in more thorough
repair, and your roads in better order, if less time was spent in
politics.”

“The Lord! to see how little you knows of a free country? Why, what’s
the smoothness of a road, put against the freedom of a free-born
American? And what does a broken zig-zag signify, comparable to knowing
that the men what we have been pleased to send up to Congress, speaks
handsome and straight, as we chooses they should?”

“It is from a sense of duty, then, that you all go to the liquor store
to read the papers?”

“To be sure it is, and he’d be no true born American as didn’t. I don’t
say that the father of a family should always be after liquor, but I do
say that I’d rather have my son drunk three times in a week, than not
look after the affairs of his country.”

Our autumn walks were delightful; the sun ceased to scorch; the want of
flowers was no longer peculiar to Ohio; and the trees took a colouring,
which in richness, brilliance, and variety, exceeded all description. I
think it is the maple, or sugar- tree, that first sprinkles the forest
with rich crimson; the beech follows, with all its harmony of golden
tints, from pale yellow up to brightest orange. The dog-wood gives
almost the purple colour of the mulberry; the chesnut softens all with
its frequent mass of delicate brown, and the sturdy oak carries its
deep green into the very lap of winter. These tints are too bright for
the landscape painter; the attempt to follow nature in an American
autumn scene must be abortive. The colours are in reality extremely
brilliant, but the medium through which they are seen increases the
effect surprisingly. Of all the points in which America has the
advantage of England, the one I felt most sensibly was the clearness
and brightness of the atmosphere. By day and by night this exquisite
purity of air gives tenfold beauty to every object. I could hardly
believe the stars were the same; the Great Bear looked like a
constellation of suns; and Jupiter justified all the fine things said
of him in those beautiful lines from I know not what spirited pen,
beginning,

“I looked on thee, Jove! till my gaze
Shrunk, smote by the pow’r of thy blaze.”


I always remarked that the first silver line of the moon’s crescent
attracted the eye on the first day, in America, as strongly as it does
here on the third. I observed another phenomenon in the crescent moon
of that region, the cause of which I less understood. That appearance
which Shakespear describes as “the new moon, with the old moon in her
lap,” and which I have heard ingeniously explained as the effect of
_earth light_, was less visible there than here.

Cuyp’s clearest landscapes have an atmosphere that approaches nearer to
that of America than any I remember on canvas; but even Cuyp’s _air_
cannot reach the lungs, and, therefore, can only give an idea of half
the enjoyment; for it makes itself felt as well as seen, and is indeed
a constant source of pleasure.

Our walks were, however, curtailed in several directions by my old
Cincinnati enemies, the pigs; immense droves of them were continually
arriving from the country by the road that led to most of our favourite
walks; they were often fed and lodged in the prettiest valleys,and
worse still, were slaughtered beside the prettiest streams. Another
evil threatened us from the same quarter, that was yet heavier. Our
cottage had an ample piazza, (a luxury almost universal in the country
houses of America), which, shaded by a group of acacias, made a
delightful sitting- room; from this favourite spot we one day perceived
symptoms of building in a field close to it; with much anxiety we
hastened to the spot, and asked what building was to be erected there.

“’Tis to be a slaughter house for hogs,” was the dreadful reply. As
there were several gentlemen’s houses in the neighbourhood, I asked if
such an erection might not be indicted as a nuisance.

“A what?”

“A nuisance,” I repeated, and explained what I meant.

“No, no,” was the reply, “that may do very well for your tyrannical
country, where a rich man’s nose is more thought of than a poor man’s
mouth; but hogs be profitable produce here, and we be too free for such
a law as that, I guess.”

During my residence in America, little circumstances like the foregoing
often recalled to my mind a conversation I once held in France with an
old gentleman on the subject of their active police, and its
omnipresent gens d’armerie; “Croyez moi, Madame, il n’y a que ceux, à
qui ils ont à faire, qui les trouvent de trop.” And the old gentleman
was right, not only in speaking of France, but of the whole human
family, as philosophers call us. The well disposed, those whose own
feeling of justice would prevent their annoying others, will never
complain of the restraints of the law. All the freedom enjoyed in
America, beyond what is enjoyed in England, is enjoyed solely by the
disorderly at the expense of the orderly; and were I a stout knight,
either of the sword or of the pen, I would fearlessly throw down my
gauntlet, and challenge the whole Republic to prove the contrary; but
being, as I am, a feeble looker on, with a needle for my spear, and “I
talk” for my device, I must be contented with the power of stating the
fact, perfectly certain that I shall be contradicted by one loud shout
from Maine to Georgia.




CHAPTER XI


Religion


I had often heard it observed before I visited America, that one of the
great blessings of its constitution was the absence of a national
religion, the country being thus exonerated from all obligation of
supporting the clergy; those only contributing to do so whose
principles led them to it. My residence in the country has shewn me
that a religious tyranny may be exerted very effectually without the
aid of the government, in a way much more oppressive than the paying of
tithe, and without obtaining any of the salutary decorum, which I
presume no one will deny is the result of an established mode of
worship.

As it was impossible to remain many weeks in the country without being
struck with the strange anomalies produced by its religious system, my
early notes contain many observations on the subject; but as nearly the
same scenes recurred in every part of the country, I state them here,
not as belonging to the west alone, but to the whole Union, the same
cause producing the same effect every where.

The whole people appear to be divided into an almost endless variety of
religious factions, and I was told, that to be well received in
society, it was necessary to declare yourself as belonging to some one
of these. Let your acknowledged belief be what it may, you are said to
be _not a Christian_, unless you attach yourself to a particular
congregation. Besides the broad and well-known distinctions of
Episcopalian, Catholic, Presbyterian, Calvinist, Baptist, Quaker,
Sweden-borgian, Universalist, Dunker, &c. &c. &c.; there are
innumerable others springing out of these, each of which assumes a
church government of its own; of this, the most intriguing and factious
individual is invariably the head; and in order, as it should seem, to
shew a reason for this separation, each congregation invests itself
with some queer variety of external observance that has the melancholy
effect of exposing _all_ religious ceremonies to contempt.

It is impossible, in witnessing all these unseemly vagaries, not to
recognise the advantages of an established church as a sort of
headquarters for quiet unpresuming Christians, who are contented to
serve faithfully, without insisting upon having each a little separate
banner, embroidered with a device of their own imagining.

The Catholics alone appear exempt from the fury of division and
sub-division that has seized every other persuasion. Having the Pope
for their common head, regulates, I presume, their movements, and
prevents the outrageous display of individual whim which every other
sect is permitted.

I had the pleasure of being introduced to the Catholic bishop of
Cincinnati, and have never known in any country a priest of a character
and bearing more truly apostolic. He was an American, but I should
never have discovered it from his pronunciation or manner. He received
his education partly in England, and partly in France. His manners were
highly polished; his piety active and sincere, and infinitely more mild
and tolerant than that of the factious Sectarians who form the great
majority of the American priesthood.

I believe I am sufficiently tolerant; but this does not prevent my
seeing that the object of all religious observances is better obtained,
when the government of the church is confided to the wisdom and
experience of the most venerated among the people, than when it is
placed in the hands of every tinker and tailor who chooses to claim a
share in it. Nor is this the only evil attending the want of a national
religion, supported by the State. As there is no legal and fixed
provision for the clergy, it is hardly surprising that their services
are confined to those who can pay them. The vehement expressions of
insane or hypocritical zeal, such as were exhibited during “the
Revival,” can but ill atone for the want of village worship, any more
than the eternal talk of the admirable and unequalled government, can
atone for the continual contempt of social order. Church and State
hobble along, side by side, notwithstanding their boasted independence.
Almost every man you meet will tell you, that he is occupied in labours
most abundant for the good of his country; and almost every woman will
tell you, that besides those things that are within (her house) she has
coming upon her daily the care of all the churches. Yet spite of this
universal attention to the government, its laws are half asleep; and
spite of the old women and their Dorcas societies, atheism is awake and
thriving.

In the smaller cities and towns prayer-meetings take the place of
almost all other amusements; but as the thinly scattered population of
most villages can give no parties, and pay no priests, they contrive to
marry, christen, and bury without them. A stranger taking up his
residence in any city in America must think the natives the most
religious people upon earth; but if chance lead him among her western
villages, he will rarely find either churches or chapels, prayer or
preacher; except, indeed, at that most terrific saturnalia, “a
camp-meeting.” I was much struck with the answer of a poor woman, whom
I saw ironing on a Sunday. “Do you make no difference in your
occupations on a Sunday?” I said. “I beant a Christian, Ma’am; we have
got no opportunity,” was the reply. It occurred to me, that in a
country where “all men are equal,” the government would be guilty of no
great crime, did it so far interfere as to give them all _an
opportunity_ of becoming Christians if they wished it. But should the
federal government dare to propose building a church, and endowing it,
in some village that has never heard “the bringing home of bell and
burial,” it is perfectly certain that not only the sovereign state
where such an abomination was proposed, would rush into the Congress to
resent the odious interference, but that all the other states would
join the clamour, and such an intermeddling administration would run
great risk of impeachment and degradation.

Where there is a church-government so constituted as to deserve human
respect, I believe it will always be found to receive it, even from
those who may not assent to the dogma of its creed; and where such
respect exists, it produces a decorum in manners and language often
found wanting where it does not. Sectarians will not venture to
rhapsodise, nor infidels to scoff, in the common intercourse of
society. Both are injurious to the cause of rational religion, and to
check both must be advantageous.

It is certainly possible that some of the fanciful variations upon the
ancient creeds of the Christian Church, with which transatlantic
religionists amuse themselves, might inspire morbid imaginations in
Europe as well as in America; but before they can disturb the solemn
harmony HERE they must prelude by a defiance, not only to common sense,
but what is infinitely more appalling, to common usage. They must at
once rank themselves with the low and the illiterate, for only such
prefer the eloquence of the tub to that of the pulpit. The aristocracy
must ever, as a body, belong to the established Church, and it is but a
small proportion of the influential classes who would be willing to
allow that they do not belong to the aristocracy. That such feelings
influence the professions of men it were ignorance or hypocrisy to
deny; and that nation is wise who knows how to turn even such feelings
into a wholesome stream of popular influence.

As a specimen of the tone in which religion is mixed in the ordinary
intercourse of society, I will transcribe the notes I took of a
conversation, at which I was present, at Cincinnati; I wrote them
immediately after the conversation took place.

Dr. A.


“I wish, Mrs. M., that you would explain to me what a revival is. I
hear it talked of all over the city, and I know it means something
about Jesus Christ and religion; but that is all I know, will you
instruct me farther?”

Mrs. M.


“I expect, Dr. A., that you want to laugh at me. But that makes no
difference. I am firm in my principles, and I fear no one’s laughter.”

Dr. A.


“Well, but what is a revival?”

Mrs. M.


“It is difficult, very difficult, to make those see who have no light;
to make those understand whose souls are darkened. A revival means just
an elegant kindling of the spirit; it is brought about to the Lord’s
people by the hands of his saints, and it means salvation in the
highest.”

Dr. A.


“But what is it the people mean by talking of feeling the revival? and
waiting in spirit for the revival? and the extacy of the revival?”

Mrs. M.


“Oh Doctor! I am afraid that you are too far gone astray to understand
all that. It is a glorious assurance, a whispering of the everlasting
covenant, it is the bleating of the lamb, it is the welcome of the
shepherd, it is the essence of love, it is the fullness of glory, it is
being in Jesus, it is Jesus being in us, it is taking the Holy Ghost
into our bosoms, it is sitting ourselves down by God, it is being
called to the high places, it is eating, and drinking, and sleeping in
the Lord, it is becoming a lion in the faith, it is being lowly and
meek, and kissing the hand that smites, it is being mighty and
powerful, and scorning reproof, it is—”

Dr. A.


“Thank you, Mrs. M., I feel quite satisfied; and I think I understand a
revival now almost as well as you do yourself.”

Mrs. A.


“My! Where can you have learnt all that stuff, Mrs. M.?”

Mrs. M.


“How benighted you are! From the holy book, from the Word of the Lord,
from the Holy Ghost, and Jesus Christ themselves.”

Mrs. A.


“It does seem so droll to me, to hear you talk of “the Word of the
Lord.” Why, I have been brought up to look upon the Bible as nothing
better than an old newspaper.”

Mrs. O.


“Surely you only say this for the sake of hearing what Mrs. M. will say
in return—you do not mean it?”

Mrs. A.


“La, yes! to be sure I do.”

Dr. A.


“I profess that I by no means wish my wife to read all she might find
there.—What says the Colonel, Mrs. M.?”

Mrs. M.


“As to that, I never stop to ask him. I tell him every day that I
believe in Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and that it is his duty to
believe in them too, and then my conscience is clear, and I don’t care
what he believes. Really, I have no notion of one’s husband interfering
in such matters.”

Dr. A.


“You are quite right. I am sure I give my wife leave to believe just
what she likes; but she is a good woman, and does not abuse the
liberty; for she believes nothing.”

It was not once, nor twice, nor thrice, but many many times, during my
residence in America, that I was present when subjects which custom as
well as principle had taught me to consider as fitter for the closet
than the tea-table, were thus lightly discussed. I hardly know whether
I was more startled at first hearing, in little dainty namby pamby
tones, a profession of Atheism over a teacup, or at having my attention
called from a Johnny cake, to a rhapsody on election and the second
birth.

But, notwithstanding this revolting license, persecution exists to a
degree unknown, I believe, in our well-ordered land since the days of
Cromwell. I had the following anecdote from a gentleman perfectly well
acquainted with the circumstances. A tailor sold a suit of clothes to a
sailor a few moments before he sailed, which was on a Sunday morning.
The corporation of New York prosecuted the tailor, and he was
convicted, and sentenced to a fine greatly beyond his means to pay. Mr.
F., a lawyer of New York, defended him with much eloquence, but in
vain. His powerful speech, however, was not without effect, for it
raised him such a host of Presbyterian enemies as sufficed to destroy
his practice. Nor was this all: his nephew was at the time preparing
for the bar, and soon after the above circumstance occurred his
certificates were presented, and refused, with this declaration, “that
no man of the name and family of F. should be admitted.” I have met
this young man in society; he is a person of very considerable talent,
and being thus cruelly robbed of his profession, has become the editor
of a newspaper.




CHAPTER XII


Peasantry, compared to that of England—Early
marriages—Charity—Independence and equality—Cottage prayer-meeting


Mohawk, as our little village was called, gave us an excellent
opportunity of comparing the peasants of the United States with those
of England, and of judging the average degree of comfort enjoyed by
each. I believe Ohio gives as fair a specimen as any part of the union;
if they have the roughness and inconveniences of a new state to contend
with, they have higher wages and cheaper provisions; if I err in
supposing it a mean state in point of comfort, it certainly is not in
taking too low a standard.

Mechanics, if good workmen, are certain of employment, and good wages,
rather higher than with us; the average wages of a labourer throughout
the Union is ten dollars a month, with lodging, boarding, washing, and
mending; if he lives at his own expense he has a dollar a day. It
appears to me that the necessaries of life, that is to say, meat,
bread, butter, tea, and coffee, (not to mention whiskey), are within
the reach of every sober, industrious, and healthy man who chooses to
have them; and yet I think that an English peasant, with the same
qualifications, would, in coming to the United States, change for the
worse. He would find wages somewhat higher, and provisions in Western
America considerably lower: but this statement, true as it is, can lead
to nothing but delusion if taken apart from other facts, fully as
certain, and not less important, but which require more detail in
describing, and which perhaps cannot be fully comprehended, except by
an eye-witness. The American poor are accustomed to eat meat three
times a day; I never enquired into the habits of any cottagers in
Western America, where this was not the case. I found afterwards in
Maryland, Pennsylvania, and other parts of the country, where the price
of meat was higher, that it was used with more economy; yet still a
much larger portion of the weekly income is thus expended than with us.
Ardent spirits, though lamentably cheap,[3] still cost something, and
the use of them among the men, with more or less of discretion,
according to the character, is universal. Tobacco also grows at their
doors, and is not taxed; yet this too costs something, and the air of
heaven is not in more general use among the men of America, than
chewing tobacco. I am not now pointing out the evils of dram-drinking,
but it is evident, that where this practice prevails universally, and
often to the most frightful excess, the consequence must be, that the
money spent to obtain the dram is less than the money lost by the time
consumed in drinking it. Long, disabling, and expensive fits of
sickness are incontestably more frequent in every part of America, than
in England, and the sufferers have no aid to look to, but what they
have saved, or what they may be enabled to sell. I have never seen
misery exceed what I have witnessed in an American cottage where
disease has entered.

 [3] About a shilling a gallon is the retail price of good whiskey. If
 bought wholesale, or of inferior quality, it is much cheaper.


But if the condition of the labourer be not superior to that of the
English peasant, that of his wife and daughters is incomparably worse.
It is they who are indeed the slaves of the soil. One has but to look
at the wife of an American cottager, and ask her age, to be convinced
that the life she leads is one of hardship, privation, and labour. It
is rare to see a woman in this station who has reached the age of
thirty, without losing every trace of youth and beauty. You continually
see women with infants on their knee, that you feel sure are their
grand- children, till some convincing proof of the contrary is
displayed. Even the young girls, though often with lovely features,
look pale, thin, and haggard. I do not remember to have seen in any
single instance among the poor, a specimen of the plump, rosy, laughing
physiognomy so common among our cottage girls. The horror of domestic
service, which the reality of slavery, and the fable of equality, have
generated, excludes the young women from that sure and most comfortable
resource of decent English girls; and the consequence is, that with a
most irreverend freedom of manner to the parents, the daughters are, to
the full extent of the word, domestic slaves. This condition, which no
periodical merry-making, no village FÊTE, ever occurs to cheer, is only
changed for the still sadder burdens of a teeming wife. They marry very
young; in fact, in no rank of life do you meet with young women in that
delightful period of existence between childhood and marriage, wherein,
if only tolerably well spent, so much useful information is gained, and
the character takes a sufficient degree of firmness to support with
dignity the more important parts of wife and mother. The slender,
childish thing, without vigour of mind or body, is made to stem a sea
of troubles that dims her young eye and makes her cheek grow pale, even
before nature has given it the last beautiful finish of the full-grown
woman.

“We shall get along,” is the answer in full, for all that can be said
in way of advice to a boy and girl who take it into their heads to go
before a magistrate and “get married.” And they do get along, till
sickness overtakes them, by means perhaps of borrowing a kettle from
one and a tea-pot from another; but intemperance, idleness, or sickness
will, in one week, plunge those who are even getting along well, into
utter destitution; and where this happens, they are completely without
resource.

The absence of poor-laws is, without doubt, a blessing to the country,
but they have not that natural and reasonable dependence on the richer
classes which, in countries differently constituted, may so well supply
their place. I suppose there is less alms-giving in America than in any
other Christian country on the face of the globe. It is not in the
temper of the people either to give or to receive.

I extract the following pompous passage from a Washington paper of Feb.
1829, (a season of uncommon severity and distress,) which, I think,
justifies my observation.

“Among the liberal evidences of sympathy for the suffering poor of this
city, two have come to our knowledge which deserve to be especially
noticed: the one a donation by the President of the United States to
the committee of the ward in which he resides of fifty dollars; the
other the donation by a few of the officers of the war department to
the Howard and Dorcas Societies, of seventy-two dollars.” When such
mention is made of a gift of about nine pounds sterling from the
sovereign magistrate of the United States, and of thirteen pounds
sterling as a contribution from one of the state departments, the
inference is pretty obvious, that the sufferings of the destitute in
America are not liberally relieved by individual charity.

I had not been three days at Mohawk-cottage before a pair of ragged
children came to ask for medicine for a sick mother; and when it was
given to them, the eldest produced a handful of cents, and desired to
know what he was to pay. The superfluous milk of our cow was sought
after eagerly, but every new comer always proposed to pay for it. When
they found out that “the English old woman” did not sell anything, I am
persuaded they by no means liked her the better for it; but they seemed
to think, that if she were a fool it was no reason they should be so
too, and accordingly the borrowing, as they called it, became very
constant, but always in a form that shewed their dignity and freedom.
One woman sent to borrow a pound of cheese; another half a pound of
coffee; and more than once an intimation accompanied the milk-jug, that
the milk must be fresh, and unskimmed: on one occasion the messenger
refused milk, and said, “Mother only wanted a little cream for her
coffee.”

I could never teach them to believe, during above a year that I lived
at this house, that I would not sell the old clothes of the family; and
so pertinacious were they in bargain-making, that often, when I had
given them the articles which they wanted to purchase, they would say,
“Well, I expect I shall have to do a turn of work for this; you may
send for me when you want me.” But as I never did ask for the turn of
work, and as this formula was constantly repeated, I began to suspect
that it was spoken solely to avoid uttering the most un-American phrase
“I thank you.”

There was one man whose progress in wealth I watched with much interest
and pleasure. When I first became his neighbour, himself, his wife, and
four children, were living in one room, with plenty of beef-steaks and
onions for breakfast, dinner and supper, but with very few other
comforts. He was one of the finest men I ever saw, full of natural
intelligence and activity of mind and body, but he could neither read
nor write. He drank but little whiskey, and but rarely chewed tobacco,
and was therefore more free from that plague spot of spitting which
rendered male colloquy so difficult to endure. He worked for us
frequently, and often used to walk into the drawing-room and seat
himself on the sofa, and tell me all his plans. He made an engagement
with the proprietor of the wooded hill before mentioned, by which half
the wood he could fell was to be his own. His unwearied industry made
this a profitable bargain, and from the proceeds he purchased the
materials for building a comfortable frame (or wooden) house; he did
the work almost entirely himself. He then got a job for cutting rails,
and, as he could cut twice as many in a day as any other man in the
neighbourhood, he made a good thing of it. He then let half his pretty
house, which was admirably constructed, with an ample portico, that
kept it always cool. His next step was contracting for the building a
wooden bridge, and when I left Mohawk he had fitted up his half of the
building as an hotel and grocery store; and I have no doubt that every
sun that sets sees him a richer man than when it rose. He hopes to make
his son a lawyer, and I have little doubt that he will live to see him
sit in congress; when this time arrives, the wood-cutter’s son will
rank with any other member of congress, not of courtesy, but of right,
and the idea that his origin is a disadvantage, will never occur to the
imagination of the most exalted of his fellow-citizens.

This is the only feature in American society that I recognise as
indicative of the equality they profess. Any man’s son may become the
equal of any other man’s son, and the consciousness of this is
certainly a spur to exertion; on the other hand, it is also a spur to
that coarse familiarity, untempered by any shadow of respect, which is
assumed by the grossest and the lowest in their intercourse with the
highest and most refined. This is a positive evil, and, I think, more
than balances its advantages.

And here again it may be observed, that the theory of equality may be
very daintily discussed by English gentlemen in a London dining-room,
when the servant, having placed a fresh bottle of cool wine on the
table, respectfully shuts the door, and leaves them to their walnuts
and their wisdom; but it will be found less palatable when it presents
itself in the shape of a hard, greasy paw, and is claimed in accents
that breathe less of freedom than of onions and whiskey. Strong,
indeed, must be the love of equality in an English breast if it can
survive a tour through the Union.

There was one house in the village which was remarkable from its
wretchedness. It had an air of indecent poverty about it, which long
prevented my attempting an entrance; but at length, upon being told
that I could get chicken and eggs there whenever I wanted them, I
determined upon venturing. The door being opened to my knock, I very
nearly abandoned my almost blunted purpose; I never beheld such a den
of filth and misery: a woman, the very image of dirt and disease, held
a squalid imp of a baby on her hip bone while she kneaded her dough
with her right fist only A great lanky girl, of twelve years old, was
sitting on a barrel, gnawing a corn cob; when I made known my business,
the woman answered, “No not I; I got no chickens to sell, nor eggs
neither; but my son will, plenty I expect. Here Nick,” (bawling at the
bottom of a ladder), “here’s an old woman what wants chickens.” Half a
moment brought Nick to the bottom of the ladder, and I found my
merchant was one of a ragged crew, whom I had been used to observe in
my daily walk, playing marbles in the dust, and swearing lustily; he
looked about ten years old.

“Have you chicken to sell, my boy?”

“Yes, and eggs too, more nor what you’ll buy.”

Having enquired price, condition, and so on, I recollected that I had
been used to give the same price at market, the feathers plucked, and
the chicken prepared for the table, and I told him that he ought not to
charge the same.

“Oh for that, I expect I can fix ’em as well as ever them was, what you
got in market.”

“You fix them?”

“Yes to be sure, why not?”

“I thought you were too fond of marbles.”

He gave me a keen glance, and said, “You don’t know I.—When will you be
wanting the chickens?”

He brought them at the time directed, extremely well “fixed,” and I
often dealt with him afterwards. When I paid him, he always thrust his
hand into his breaches pocket, which I presume, as being _the keep_,
was fortified more strongly than the dilapidated outworks, and drew
from thence rather more dollars, half-dollars, levies, and fips, than
his dirty little hand could well hold. My curiosity was excited, and
though I felt an involuntary disgust towards the young Jew, I
repeatedly conversed with him.

“You are very rich, Nick,” I said to him one day, on his making an
ostentatious display of change, as he called it; he sneered with a most
unchildish expression of countenance, and replied, “I guess ’twould be
a bad job for I, if that was all I’d got to shew.”

I asked him how he managed his business. He told me that he bought eggs
by the hundred, and lean chicken by the score, from the waggons that
passed their door on the way to market; that he fatted the latter in
coops he had made himself, and could easily double their price, and
that his eggs answered well too, when he sold them out by the dozen.

“And do you give the money to your mother?”

“I expect not,” was the answer, with another sharp glance of his ugly
blue eyes.

“What do you do with it. Nick?”

His look said plainly, what is that to you? but he only answered,
quaintly enough, “I takes care of it.”

How Nick got his first dollar is very doubtful; I was told that when he
entered the village store, the person serving always called in another
pair of eyes; but having obtained it, the spirit, activity, and
industry, with which he caused it to increase and multiply, would have
been delightful in one of Miss Edgeworth’s dear little clean
bright-looking boys, who would have carried all he got to his mother;
but in Nick it was detestable. No human feeling seemed to warm his
young heart, not even the love of self-indulgence, for he was not only
ragged and dirty, but looked considerably more than half starved, and I
doubt not his dinners and suppers half fed his fat chickens.

I by no means give this history of Nick, the chicken merchant, as an
anecdote characteristic in all respects of America; the only part of
the story which is so, is the independence of the little man, and is
one instance out of a thousand, of the hard, dry, calculating character
that is the result of it. Probably Nick will be very rich; perhaps he
will be President. I once got so heartily scolded for saying, that I
did not think all American citizens were equally eligible to that
office, that I shall never again venture to doubt it.

Another of our cottage acquaintance was a market-gardener, from whom we
frequently bought vegetables; from the wife of this man we one day
received a very civil invitation to “please to come and pass the
evening with them in prayer.” The novelty of the circumstance, and its
great dissimilarity to the ways and manners of our own country, induced
me to accept the invitation, and also to record the visit here.

We were received with great attention, and a place was assigned us on
one of the benches that surrounded the little parlour. Several persons,
looking like mechanics and their wives, were present; every one sat in
profound silence, and with that quiet subdued air, that serious people
assume on entering a church. At length, a long, black, grim-looking man
entered; his dress, the cut of his hair, and his whole appearance,
strongly recalled the idea of one of Cromwell’s fanatics. He stepped
solemnly into the middle of the room, and took a chair that stood
there, but not to sit upon it; he turned the back towards him, on which
he placed his hands, and stoutly uttering a sound between a hem and a
cough, he deposited freely on either side of him a considerable portion
of masticated tobacco. He then began to preach. His text was “Live in
hope,” and he continued to expound it for two hours in a drawling,
nasal tone, with no other respite than what he allowed himself for
expectoration. If I say that he repeated the words of this text a
hundred times, I think I shall not exceed the truth, for that allows
more than a minute for each repetition, and in fact the whole discourse
was made up of it. The various tones in which he uttered it might have
served as a lesson on emphasis; as a question—in accents of triumph—in
accents of despair—of pity—of threatening—of authority—of doubt—of
hope—of faith. Having exhausted every imaginable variety of tone, he
abruptly said, “Let us pray,” and twisting his chair round, knelt
before it. Every one knelt before the seat they had occupied, and
listened for another half hour to a rant of miserable, low, familiar
jargon, that he presumed to improvise to his Maker as a prayer. In
this, however, the cottage apostle only followed the example set by
every preacher throughout the Union, excepting those of the
Episcopalian and Catholic congregations; THEY only do not deem
themselves privileged to address the Deity in strains of crude and
unweighed importunity. These ranters may sometimes be very much in
earnest, but surely the least we can say of it is, that they

“Praise their God amiss.”


I enquired afterwards of a friend, well acquainted with such matters,
how the grim preacher of “Hope” got paid for his labours, and he told
me that the trade was an excellent one, for that many a gude wife
bestowed more than a tithe of what her gude man trusted to her keeping,
in rewarding the zeal of these self- chosen apostles. These sable
ministers walk from house to house, or if the distance be considerable,
ride on a comfortable ambling nag. They are not only as empty as wind,
but resemble it in other particulars; for they blow where they list,
and no man knoweth whence they come, nor whither they go. When they see
a house that promises comfortable lodging and entertainment, they enter
there, and say to the good woman of the house, “Sister, shall I pray
with you?” If the answer be favourable, and it is seldom otherwise, he
instals himself and his horse till after breakfast the next morning.
The best meat, drink, and lodging are his, while he stays, and he
seldom departs without some little contribution in money for the
support of the crucified and suffering church. Is it not strange that
“the most intelligent people in the world” should prefer such a
religion as this, to a form established by the wisdom and piety of the
ablest and best among the erring sons of men, solemnly sanctioned by
the nation’s law, and rendered sacred by the use of their fathers?

It would be well for all reasoners on the social system to observe
steadily, and with an eye obscured by no beam of prejudice, the result
of the experiment that is making on the other side of the Atlantic. If
I mistake not, they might learn there, better than by any abstract
speculation, what are the points on which the magistrates of a great
people should dictate to them and on what points they should be left
freely to their own guidance, I sincerely believe, that if a
fire-worshipper, or an Indian Brahmin, were to come to the United
States, prepared to preach and pray in English, he would not be long
without a “very respectable congregation.”

The influence of a religion, sanctioned by the government, could in no
country, in the nineteenth century, interfere with the speculations of
a philosopher in his closet, but it might, and must, steady the weak
and wavering opinions of the multitude. There is something really
pitiable in the effect produced by the want of this rudder oar. I knew
a family where one was a Methodist, one a Presbyterian, and a third a
Baptist; and another, where one was a Quaker, one a declared Atheist,
and another an Universalist. These are all females, and all moving in
the best society that America affords; but one and all of them as
incapable of reasoning on things past, present, and to come, as the
infants they nourish, yet one and all of them perfectly fit to move
steadily and usefully in a path marked out for them. But I shall be
called an itinerant preacher myself if I pursue this theme.

As I have not the magic power of my admirable friend, Miss Mitford, to
give grace and interest to the humblest rustic details, I must not
venture to linger among the cottages that surrounded us; but before I
quit them I must record the pleasing recollection of one or two
neighbours of more companionable rank, from whom I received so much
friendly attention, and such unfailing kindness, in all my little
domestic embarrassments, that I shall never recall the memory of
Mohawk, without paying an affectionate tribute to these far distant
friends. I wish it were within the range of hope, that I might see them
again, in my own country, and repay, in part, the obligations I owe
them.




CHAPTER XIII


Theatre—Fine Arts—Delicacy—Shaking Quakers—Big-Bone Lick—Visit of the
President


The theatre at Cincinnati is small, and not very brilliant in
decoration, but in the absence of every other amusement our young men
frequently attended it, and in the bright clear nights of autumn and
winter, the mile and a half of distance was not enough to prevent the
less enterprising members of the family from sometimes accompanying
them. The great inducement to this was the excellent acting of Mr. and
Mrs. Alexander Drake, the managers.[4] Nothing could be more distinct
than their line of acting, but the great versatility of their powers
enabled them often to appear together. Her cast was the highest walk of
tragedy, and his the broadest comedy; but yet, as Goldsmith says of his
sister heroines, I have known them change characters for a whole
evening together, and have wept with him and laughed with her, as it
was their will and pleasure to ordain. I think in his comedy he was
superior to any actor I ever saw in the same parts, except Emery.
Alexander Drake’s comedy was like that of the French, who never appear
to be acting at all; he was himself the comic being the author aimed at
depicting. Let him speak whose words he would, from Shakspeare to
Colman, it was impossible not to feel that half the fun was his own; he
had, too, in a very high degree, the power that Fawcett possessed, of
drawing tears by a sudden touch of natural feeling. His comic songs
might have set the gravity of the judges and bishops together at
defiance. Liston is great, but Alexander Drake was greater.

 [4] Mr. Drake was an Englishman.


Mrs. Drake, formerly Miss Denny, greatly resembles Miss O’Neil; a proof
of this is, that Mr. Kean, who had heard of the resemblance, arrived at
New York late in the evening, and having repaired to the theatre, saw
her for the first time across the stage, and immediately exclaimed,
“that’s Miss Denny.” Her voice, too, has the same rich and touching
tones, and is superior in power. Her talent is decidedly first-rate.
Deep and genuine feeling, correct judgment, and the most perfect good
taste, distinguish her play in every character. Her last act of
Belvidera is superior in tragic effect to any thing I ever saw on the
stage, the one great exception to all comparison, Mrs. Siddons, being
set aside.

It was painful to see these excellent performers playing to a miserable
house, not a third full, and the audience probably not including half a
dozen persons who would prefer their playing to that of the vilest
strollers. In proof of this, I saw them, as managers, give place to
paltry third-rate actors from London, who would immediately draw
crowded houses, and be overwhelmed with applause.

Poor Drake died just before we left Ohio, and his wife, who, besides
her merit as an actress, is a most estimable and amiable woman, is left
with a large family. I have little, or rather no doubt, of her being
able to obtain an excellent engagement in London, but her having
property in several of the Western theatres will, I fear, detain her in
a neighbourhood, where she is neither understood nor appreciated. She
told me many very excellent professional anecdotes collected during her
residence in the West; one of these particularly amused me as a
specimen of Western idiom. A lady who professed a great admiration for
Mrs. Drake had obtained her permission to be present upon one occasion
at her theatrical toilet. She was dressing for some character in which
she was to stab herself, and her dagger was lying on the table. The
visitor took it up, and examining it with much emotion, exclaimed,
“what! do you really jab this into yourself sevagarous?”

We also saw the great American star, Mr. Forrest. What he may become I
will not pretend to prophesy; but when I saw him play Hamlet at
Cincinnati, not even Mrs. Drake’s sweet Ophelia could keep me beyond
the third act. It is true that I have seen Kemble, Macready, Kean,
Young, C. Kemble, Cook, and Talma play Hamlet, and I might not,
perhaps, be a very fair judge of this young actor’s merits; but I was
greatly amused when a gentleman, who asked my opinion of him, told me
upon hearing it, that he would not advise me to state it freely in
America, “for they would not bear it.” The theatre was really not a bad
one, though the very poor receipts rendered it impossible to keep it in
high order; but an annoyance infinitely greater than decorations
indifferently clean, was the style and manner of the audience. Men came
into the lower tier of boxes without their coats; and I have seen shirt
sleeves tucked up to the shoulder; the spitting was incessant, and the
mixed smell of onions and whiskey was enough to make one feel even the
Drakes’ acting dearly bought by the obligation of enduring its
accompaniments. The bearing and attitudes of the men are perfectly
indescribable; the heels thrown higher than the head, the entire rear
of the person presented to the audience, the whole length supported on
the benches, are among the varieties that these exquisite
posture-masters exhibit. The noises, too, were perpetual, and of the
most unpleasant kind; the applause is expressed by cries and thumping
with the feet, instead of clapping; and when a patriotic fit seized
them, and “Yankee Doodle” was called for, every man seemed to think his
reputation as a citizen depended on the noise he made.

Two very indifferent figurantes, probably from the Ambigu Comique, or
la Gaiete, made their appearance at Cincinnati while we were there; and
had Mercury stepped down, and danced a _pas seul_ upon earth, his
godship could not have produced a more violent sensation. But wonder
and admiration were by no means

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