American Notes
by Charles Dickens · English · Gutenberg #675 · 610,295 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: American Notes
Author: Charles Dickens
Illustrator: Marcus Stone
Release date: October 1, 1996 [eBook #675]
Most recently updated: February 18, 2013
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/675
Credits: Transcribed from the 1913 Chapman & Hall, Ltd. edition by David Price
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AMERICAN NOTES ***
Transcribed from the 1913 Chapman & Hall, Ltd. edition by David Price,
email ccx074@pglaf.org
[Picture: Emigrants]
AMERICAN NOTES
FOR
GENERAL CIRCULATION
AND
PICTURES FROM ITALY {1}
BY
CHARLES DICKENS
* * * * *
WITH 8 ILLUSTRATIONS BY
MARCUS STONE, R.A.
* * * * *
LONDON
CHAPMAN & HALL, LTD.
1913
* * * * *
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK
TO
THOSE FRIENDS OF MINE
IN AMERICA
WHO, GIVING ME A WELCOME I MUST EVER
GRATEFULLY AND PROUDLY REMEMBER,
LEFT MY JUDGEMENT
FREE;
AND WHO, LOVING THEIR COUNTRY, CAN BEAR
THE TRUTH, WHEN IT IS TOLD GOOD
HUMOUREDLY, AND IN A
KIND SPIRIT.
* * * * *
PREFACE TO THE FIRST CHEAP EDITION OF “AMERICAN NOTES”
IT is nearly eight years since this book was first published. I present
it, unaltered, in the Cheap Edition; and such of my opinions as it
expresses, are quite unaltered too.
My readers have opportunities of judging for themselves whether the
influences and tendencies which I distrust in America, have any existence
not in my imagination. They can examine for themselves whether there has
been anything in the public career of that country during these past
eight years, or whether there is anything in its present position, at
home or abroad, which suggests that those influences and tendencies
really do exist. As they find the fact, they will judge me. If they
discern any evidences of wrong-going in any direction that I have
indicated, they will acknowledge that I had reason in what I wrote. If
they discern no such thing, they will consider me altogether mistaken.
Prejudiced, I never have been otherwise than in favour of the United
States. No visitor can ever have set foot on those shores, with a
stronger faith in the Republic than I had, when I landed in America.
I purposely abstain from extending these observations to any length. I
have nothing to defend, or to explain away. The truth is the truth; and
neither childish absurdities, nor unscrupulous contradictions, can make
it otherwise. The earth would still move round the sun, though the whole
Catholic Church said No.
I have many friends in America, and feel a grateful interest in the
country. To represent me as viewing it with ill-nature, animosity, or
partisanship, is merely to do a very foolish thing, which is always a
very easy one; and which I have disregarded for eight years, and could
disregard for eighty more.
LONDON, _June_ 22, 1850.
PREFACE TO THE “CHARLES DICKENS” EDITION OF “AMERICAN NOTES”
MY readers have opportunities of judging for themselves whether the
influences and tendencies which I distrusted in America, had, at that
time, any existence but in my imagination. They can examine for
themselves whether there has been anything in the public career of that
country since, at home or abroad, which suggests that those influences
and tendencies really did exist. As they find the fact, they will judge
me. If they discern any evidences of wrong-going, in any direction that
I have indicated, they will acknowledge that I had reason in what I
wrote. If they discern no such indications, they will consider me
altogether mistaken—but not wilfully.
Prejudiced, I am not, and never have been, otherwise than in favour of
the United States. I have many friends in America, I feel a grateful
interest in the country, I hope and believe it will successfully work out
a problem of the highest importance to the whole human race. To
represent me as viewing AMERICA with ill-nature, coldness, or animosity,
is merely to do a very foolish thing: which is always a very easy one.
CONTENTS
DEDICATION OF “AMERICAN NOTES” v
PREFACE TO THE FIRST CHEAP EDITION OF “AMERICAN NOTES” vii
PREFACE TO THE “CHARLES DICKENS” EDITION OF “AMERICAN NOTES” ix
AMERICAN NOTES FOR GENERAL CIRCULATION
CHAPTER I
Going Away 3
CHAPTER II
The Passage out 10
CHAPTER III
Boston 22
CHAPTER IV
An American Railroad. Lowell and its Factory System 52
CHAPTER V
Worcester. The Connecticut River. Hartford. New Haven. To 60
New York
CHAPTER VI
New York 67
CHAPTER VII
Philadelphia, and its Solitary Prison 81
CHAPTER VIII
Washington. The Legislature. And the President’s House 94
CHAPTER IX
A Night Steamer on the Potomac River. Virginia Road, and a 107
Black Driver. Richmond. Baltimore. The Harrisburg Mail,
and a Glimpse of the City. A Canal Boat
CHAPTER X
Some further Account of the Canal Boat, its Domestic Economy, 121
and its Passengers. Journey to Pittsburg across the
Alleghany Mountains. Pittsburg
CHAPTER XI
From Pittsburg to Cincinnati in a Western Steamboat. 130
Cincinnati
CHAPTER XII
From Cincinnati to Louisville in another Western Steamboat; 137
and from Louisville to St. Louis in another. St. Louis
CHAPTER XIII
A Jaunt to the Looking-glass Prairie and back 147
CHAPTER XIV
Return to Cincinnati. A Stage-coach Ride from that City to 153
Columbus, and thence to Sandusky. So, by Lake Erie, to the
Falls of Niagara
CHAPTER XV
In Canada; Toronto; Kingston; Montreal; Quebec; St. John’s. 167
In the United States again; Lebanon; The Shaker Village; West
Point
CHAPTER XVI
The Passage Home 182
CHAPTER XVII
Slavery 189
CHAPTER XVIII
Concluding Remarks 202
Postscript 210
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
EMIGRANTS _Marcus Stone_, _R.A._ _Frontispiece_
THE SOLITARY PRISONER 90
BLACK AND WHITE 112
THE LITTLE WIFE 144
CHAPTER I
GOING AWAY
I SHALL never forget the one-fourth serious and three-fourths comical
astonishment, with which, on the morning of the third of January
eighteen-hundred-and-forty-two, I opened the door of, and put my head
into, a ‘state-room’ on board the Britannia steam-packet, twelve hundred
tons burthen per register, bound for Halifax and Boston, and carrying Her
Majesty’s mails.
That this state-room had been specially engaged for ‘Charles Dickens,
Esquire, and Lady,’ was rendered sufficiently clear even to my scared
intellect by a very small manuscript, announcing the fact, which was
pinned on a very flat quilt, covering a very thin mattress, spread like a
surgical plaster on a most inaccessible shelf. But that this was the
state-room concerning which Charles Dickens, Esquire, and Lady, had held
daily and nightly conferences for at least four months preceding: that
this could by any possibility be that small snug chamber of the
imagination, which Charles Dickens, Esquire, with the spirit of prophecy
strong upon him, had always foretold would contain at least one little
sofa, and which his lady, with a modest yet most magnificent sense of its
limited dimensions, had from the first opined would not hold more than
two enormous portmanteaus in some odd corner out of sight (portmanteaus
which could now no more be got in at the door, not to say stowed away,
than a giraffe could be persuaded or forced into a flower-pot): that this
utterly impracticable, thoroughly hopeless, and profoundly preposterous
box, had the remotest reference to, or connection with, those chaste and
pretty, not to say gorgeous little bowers, sketched by a masterly hand,
in the highly varnished lithographic plan hanging up in the agent’s
counting-house in the city of London: that this room of state, in short,
could be anything but a pleasant fiction and cheerful jest of the
captain’s, invented and put in practice for the better relish and
enjoyment of the real state-room presently to be disclosed:—these were
truths which I really could not, for the moment, bring my mind at all to
bear upon or comprehend. And I sat down upon a kind of horsehair slab,
or perch, of which there were two within; and looked, without any
expression of countenance whatever, at some friends who had come on board
with us, and who were crushing their faces into all manner of shapes by
endeavouring to squeeze them through the small doorway.
We had experienced a pretty smart shock before coming below, which, but
that we were the most sanguine people living, might have prepared us for
the worst. The imaginative artist to whom I have already made allusion,
has depicted in the same great work, a chamber of almost interminable
perspective, furnished, as Mr. Robins would say, in a style of more than
Eastern splendour, and filled (but not inconveniently so) with groups of
ladies and gentlemen, in the very highest state of enjoyment and
vivacity. Before descending into the bowels of the ship, we had passed
from the deck into a long narrow apartment, not unlike a gigantic hearse
with windows in the sides; having at the upper end a melancholy stove, at
which three or four chilly stewards were warming their hands; while on
either side, extending down its whole dreary length, was a long, long
table, over each of which a rack, fixed to the low roof, and stuck full
of drinking-glasses and cruet-stands, hinted dismally at rolling seas and
heavy weather. I had not at that time seen the ideal presentment of this
chamber which has since gratified me so much, but I observed that one of
our friends who had made the arrangements for our voyage, turned pale on
entering, retreated on the friend behind him, smote his forehead
involuntarily, and said below his breath, ‘Impossible! it cannot be!’ or
words to that effect. He recovered himself however by a great effort,
and after a preparatory cough or two, cried, with a ghastly smile which
is still before me, looking at the same time round the walls, ‘Ha! the
breakfast-room, steward—eh?’ We all foresaw what the answer must be: we
knew the agony he suffered. He had often spoken of _the saloon_; had
taken in and lived upon the pictorial idea; had usually given us to
understand, at home, that to form a just conception of it, it would be
necessary to multiply the size and furniture of an ordinary drawing-room
by seven, and then fall short of the reality. When the man in reply
avowed the truth; the blunt, remorseless, naked truth; ‘This is the
saloon, sir’—he actually reeled beneath the blow.
In persons who were so soon to part, and interpose between their else
daily communication the formidable barrier of many thousand miles of
stormy space, and who were for that reason anxious to cast no other
cloud, not even the passing shadow of a moment’s disappointment or
discomfiture, upon the short interval of happy companionship that yet
remained to them—in persons so situated, the natural transition from
these first surprises was obviously into peals of hearty laughter, and I
can report that I, for one, being still seated upon the slab or perch
before mentioned, roared outright until the vessel rang again. Thus, in
less than two minutes after coming upon it for the first time, we all by
common consent agreed that this state-room was the pleasantest and most
facetious and capital contrivance possible; and that to have had it one
inch larger, would have been quite a disagreeable and deplorable state of
things. And with this; and with showing how,—by very nearly closing the
door, and twining in and out like serpents, and by counting the little
washing slab as standing-room,—we could manage to insinuate four people
into it, all at one time; and entreating each other to observe how very
airy it was (in dock), and how there was a beautiful port-hole which
could be kept open all day (weather permitting), and how there was quite
a large bull’s-eye just over the looking-glass which would render shaving
a perfectly easy and delightful process (when the ship didn’t roll too
much); we arrived, at last, at the unanimous conclusion that it was
rather spacious than otherwise: though I do verily believe that,
deducting the two berths, one above the other, than which nothing smaller
for sleeping in was ever made except coffins, it was no bigger than one
of those hackney cabriolets which have the door behind, and shoot their
fares out, like sacks of coals, upon the pavement.
Having settled this point to the perfect satisfaction of all parties,
concerned and unconcerned, we sat down round the fire in the ladies’
cabin—just to try the effect. It was rather dark, certainly; but
somebody said, ‘of course it would be light, at sea,’ a proposition to
which we all assented; echoing ‘of course, of course;’ though it would be
exceedingly difficult to say why we thought so. I remember, too, when we
had discovered and exhausted another topic of consolation in the
circumstance of this ladies’ cabin adjoining our state-room, and the
consequently immense feasibility of sitting there at all times and
seasons, and had fallen into a momentary silence, leaning our faces on
our hands and looking at the fire, one of our party said, with the solemn
air of a man who had made a discovery, ‘What a relish mulled claret will
have down here!’ which appeared to strike us all most forcibly; as though
there were something spicy and high-flavoured in cabins, which
essentially improved that composition, and rendered it quite incapable of
perfection anywhere else.
There was a stewardess, too, actively engaged in producing clean sheets
and table-cloths from the very entrails of the sofas, and from unexpected
lockers, of such artful mechanism, that it made one’s head ache to see
them opened one after another, and rendered it quite a distracting
circumstance to follow her proceedings, and to find that every nook and
corner and individual piece of furniture was something else besides what
it pretended to be, and was a mere trap and deception and place of secret
stowage, whose ostensible purpose was its least useful one.
God bless that stewardess for her piously fraudulent account of January
voyages! God bless her for her clear recollection of the companion
passage of last year, when nobody was ill, and everybody dancing from
morning to night, and it was ‘a run’ of twelve days, and a piece of the
purest frolic, and delight, and jollity! All happiness be with her for
her bright face and her pleasant Scotch tongue, which had sounds of old
Home in it for my fellow-traveller; and for her predictions of fair winds
and fine weather (all wrong, or I shouldn’t be half so fond of her); and
for the ten thousand small fragments of genuine womanly tact, by which,
without piecing them elaborately together, and patching them up into
shape and form and case and pointed application, she nevertheless did
plainly show that all young mothers on one side of the Atlantic were near
and close at hand to their little children left upon the other; and that
what seemed to the uninitiated a serious journey, was, to those who were
in the secret, a mere frolic, to be sung about and whistled at! Light be
her heart, and gay her merry eyes, for years!
The state-room had grown pretty fast; but by this time it had expanded
into something quite bulky, and almost boasted a bay-window to view the
sea from. So we went upon deck again in high spirits; and there,
everything was in such a state of bustle and active preparation, that the
blood quickened its pace, and whirled through one’s veins on that clear
frosty morning with involuntary mirthfulness. For every gallant ship was
riding slowly up and down, and every little boat was splashing noisily in
the water; and knots of people stood upon the wharf, gazing with a kind
of ‘dread delight’ on the far-famed fast American steamer; and one party
of men were ‘taking in the milk,’ or, in other words, getting the cow on
board; and another were filling the icehouses to the very throat with
fresh provisions; with butchers’-meat and garden-stuff, pale
sucking-pigs, calves’ heads in scores, beef, veal, and pork, and poultry
out of all proportion; and others were coiling ropes and busy with oakum
yarns; and others were lowering heavy packages into the hold; and the
purser’s head was barely visible as it loomed in a state, of exquisite
perplexity from the midst of a vast pile of passengers’ luggage; and
there seemed to be nothing going on anywhere, or uppermost in the mind of
anybody, but preparations for this mighty voyage. This, with the bright
cold sun, the bracing air, the crisply-curling water, the thin white
crust of morning ice upon the decks which crackled with a sharp and
cheerful sound beneath the lightest tread, was irresistible. And when,
again upon the shore, we turned and saw from the vessel’s mast her name
signalled in flags of joyous colours, and fluttering by their side the
beautiful American banner with its stars and stripes,—the long three
thousand miles and more, and, longer still, the six whole months of
absence, so dwindled and faded, that the ship had gone out and come home
again, and it was broad spring already in the Coburg Dock at Liverpool.
I have not inquired among my medical acquaintance, whether Turtle, and
cold Punch, with Hock, Champagne, and Claret, and all the slight et
cetera usually included in an unlimited order for a good
dinner—especially when it is left to the liberal construction of my
faultless friend, Mr. Radley, of the Adelphi Hotel—are peculiarly
calculated to suffer a sea-change; or whether a plain mutton-chop, and a
glass or two of sherry, would be less likely of conversion into foreign
and disconcerting material. My own opinion is, that whether one is
discreet or indiscreet in these particulars, on the eve of a sea-voyage,
is a matter of little consequence; and that, to use a common phrase, ‘it
comes to very much the same thing in the end.’ Be this as it may, I
know that the dinner of that day was undeniably perfect; that it
comprehended all these items, and a great many more; and that we all did
ample justice to it. And I know too, that, bating a certain tacit
avoidance of any allusion to to-morrow; such as may be supposed to
prevail between delicate-minded turnkeys, and a sensitive prisoner who is
to be hanged next morning; we got on very well, and, all things
considered, were merry enough.
When the morning—_the_ morning—came, and we met at breakfast, it was
curious to see how eager we all were to prevent a moment’s pause in the
conversation, and how astoundingly gay everybody was: the forced spirits
of each member of the little party having as much likeness to his natural
mirth, as hot-house peas at five guineas the quart, resemble in flavour
the growth of the dews, and air, and rain of Heaven. But as one o’clock,
the hour for going aboard, drew near, this volubility dwindled away by
little and little, despite the most persevering efforts to the contrary,
until at last, the matter being now quite desperate, we threw off all
disguise; openly speculated upon where we should be this time to-morrow,
this time next day, and so forth; and entrusted a vast number of messages
to those who intended returning to town that night, which were to be
delivered at home and elsewhere without fail, within the very shortest
possible space of time after the arrival of the railway train at Euston
Square. And commissions and remembrances do so crowd upon one at such a
time, that we were still busied with this employment when we found
ourselves fused, as it were, into a dense conglomeration of passengers
and passengers’ friends and passengers’ luggage, all jumbled together on
the deck of a small steamboat, and panting and snorting off to the
packet, which had worked out of dock yesterday afternoon and was now
lying at her moorings in the river.
And there she is! all eyes are turned to where she lies, dimly
discernible through the gathering fog of the early winter afternoon;
every finger is pointed in the same direction; and murmurs of interest
and admiration—as ‘How beautiful she looks!’ ‘How trim she is!’—are heard
on every side. Even the lazy gentleman with his hat on one side and his
hands in his pockets, who has dispensed so much consolation by inquiring
with a yawn of another gentleman whether he is ‘going across’—as if it
were a ferry—even he condescends to look that way, and nod his head, as
who should say, ‘No mistake about _that_:’ and not even the sage Lord
Burleigh in his nod, included half so much as this lazy gentleman of
might who has made the passage (as everybody on board has found out
already; it’s impossible to say how) thirteen times without a single
accident! There is another passenger very much wrapped-up, who has been
frowned down by the rest, and morally trampled upon and crushed, for
presuming to inquire with a timid interest how long it is since the poor
President went down. He is standing close to the lazy gentleman, and
says with a faint smile that he believes She is a very strong Ship; to
which the lazy gentleman, looking first in his questioner’s eye and then
very hard in the wind’s, answers unexpectedly and ominously, that She
need be. Upon this the lazy gentleman instantly falls very low in the
popular estimation, and the passengers, with looks of defiance, whisper
to each other that he is an ass, and an impostor, and clearly don’t know
anything at all about it.
But we are made fast alongside the packet, whose huge red funnel is
smoking bravely, giving rich promise of serious intentions.
Packing-cases, portmanteaus, carpet-bags, and boxes, are already passed
from hand to hand, and hauled on board with breathless rapidity. The
officers, smartly dressed, are at the gangway handing the passengers up
the side, and hurrying the men. In five minutes’ time, the little
steamer is utterly deserted, and the packet is beset and over-run by its
late freight, who instantly pervade the whole ship, and are to be met
with by the dozen in every nook and corner: swarming down below with
their own baggage, and stumbling over other people’s; disposing
themselves comfortably in wrong cabins, and creating a most horrible
confusion by having to turn out again; madly bent upon opening locked
doors, and on forcing a passage into all kinds of out-of-the-way places
where there is no thoroughfare; sending wild stewards, with elfin hair,
to and fro upon the breezy decks on unintelligible errands, impossible of
execution: and in short, creating the most extraordinary and bewildering
tumult. In the midst of all this, the lazy gentleman, who seems to have
no luggage of any kind—not so much as a friend, even—lounges up and down
the hurricane deck, coolly puffing a cigar; and, as this unconcerned
demeanour again exalts him in the opinion of those who have leisure to
observe his proceedings, every time he looks up at the masts, or down at
the decks, or over the side, they look there too, as wondering whether he
sees anything wrong anywhere, and hoping that, in case he should, he will
have the goodness to mention it.
What have we here? The captain’s boat! and yonder the captain himself.
Now, by all our hopes and wishes, the very man he ought to be! A
well-made, tight-built, dapper little fellow; with a ruddy face, which is
a letter of invitation to shake him by both hands at once; and with a
clear, blue honest eye, that it does one good to see one’s sparkling
image in. ‘Ring the bell!’ ‘Ding, ding, ding!’ the very bell is in a
hurry. ‘Now for the shore—who’s for the shore?’—‘These gentlemen, I am
sorry to say.’ They are away, and never said, Good b’ye. Ah now they
wave it from the little boat. ‘Good b’ye! Good b’ye!’ Three cheers from
them; three more from us; three more from them: and they are gone.
To and fro, to and fro, to and fro again a hundred times! This waiting
for the latest mail-bags is worse than all. If we could have gone off in
the midst of that last burst, we should have started triumphantly: but to
lie here, two hours and more in the damp fog, neither staying at home nor
going abroad, is letting one gradually down into the very depths of
dulness and low spirits. A speck in the mist, at last! That’s
something. It is the boat we wait for! That’s more to the purpose. The
captain appears on the paddle-box with his speaking trumpet; the officers
take their stations; all hands are on the alert; the flagging hopes of
the passengers revive; the cooks pause in their savoury work, and look
out with faces full of interest. The boat comes alongside; the bags are
dragged in anyhow, and flung down for the moment anywhere. Three cheers
more: and as the first one rings upon our ears, the vessel throbs like a
strong giant that has just received the breath of life; the two great
wheels turn fiercely round for the first time; and the noble ship, with
wind and tide astern, breaks proudly through the lashed and roaming
water.
CHAPTER II
THE PASSAGE OUT
WE all dined together that day; and a rather formidable party we were: no
fewer than eighty-six strong. The vessel being pretty deep in the water,
with all her coals on board and so many passengers, and the weather being
calm and quiet, there was but little motion; so that before the dinner
was half over, even those passengers who were most distrustful of
themselves plucked up amazingly; and those who in the morning had
returned to the universal question, ‘Are you a good sailor?’ a very
decided negative, now either parried the inquiry with the evasive reply,
‘Oh! I suppose I’m no worse than anybody else;’ or, reckless of all moral
obligations, answered boldly ‘Yes:’ and with some irritation too, as
though they would add, ‘I should like to know what you see in _me_, sir,
particularly, to justify suspicion!’
Notwithstanding this high tone of courage and confidence, I could not but
observe that very few remained long over their wine; and that everybody
had an unusual love of the open air; and that the favourite and most
coveted seats were invariably those nearest to the door. The tea-table,
too, was by no means as well attended as the dinner-table; and there was
less whist-playing than might have been expected. Still, with the
exception of one lady, who had retired with some precipitation at
dinner-time, immediately after being assisted to the finest cut of a very
yellow boiled leg of mutton with very green capers, there were no
invalids as yet; and walking, and smoking, and drinking of
brandy-and-water (but always in the open air), went on with unabated
spirit, until eleven o’clock or thereabouts, when ‘turning in’—no sailor
of seven hours’ experience talks of going to bed—became the order of the
night. The perpetual tramp of boot-heels on the decks gave place to a
heavy silence, and the whole human freight was stowed away below,
excepting a very few stragglers, like myself, who were probably, like me,
afraid to go there.
To one unaccustomed to such scenes, this is a very striking time on
shipboard. Afterwards, and when its novelty had long worn off, it never
ceased to have a peculiar interest and charm for me. The gloom through
which the great black mass holds its direct and certain course; the
rushing water, plainly heard, but dimly seen; the broad, white,
glistening track, that follows in the vessel’s wake; the men on the
look-out forward, who would be scarcely visible against the dark sky, but
for their blotting out some score of glistening stars; the helmsman at
the wheel, with the illuminated card before him, shining, a speck of
light amidst the darkness, like something sentient and of Divine
intelligence; the melancholy sighing of the wind through block, and rope,
and chain; the gleaming forth of light from every crevice, nook, and tiny
piece of glass about the decks, as though the ship were filled with fire
in hiding, ready to burst through any outlet, wild with its resistless
power of death and ruin. At first, too, and even when the hour, and all
the objects it exalts, have come to be familiar, it is difficult, alone
and thoughtful, to hold them to their proper shapes and forms. They
change with the wandering fancy; assume the semblance of things left far
away; put on the well-remembered aspect of favourite places dearly loved;
and even people them with shadows. Streets, houses, rooms; figures so
like their usual occupants, that they have startled me by their reality,
which far exceeded, as it seemed to me, all power of mine to conjure up
the absent; have, many and many a time, at such an hour, grown suddenly
out of objects with whose real look, and use, and purpose, I was as well
acquainted as with my own two hands.
My own two hands, and feet likewise, being very cold, however, on this
particular occasion, I crept below at midnight. It was not exactly
comfortable below. It was decidedly close; and it was impossible to be
unconscious of the presence of that extraordinary compound of strange
smells, which is to be found nowhere but on board ship, and which is such
a subtle perfume that it seems to enter at every pore of the skin, and
whisper of the hold. Two passengers’ wives (one of them my own) lay
already in silent agonies on the sofa; and one lady’s maid (_my_ lady’s)
was a mere bundle on the floor, execrating her destiny, and pounding her
curl-papers among the stray boxes. Everything sloped the wrong way:
which in itself was an aggravation scarcely to be borne. I had left the
door open, a moment before, in the bosom of a gentle declivity, and, when
I turned to shut it, it was on the summit of a lofty eminence. Now every
plank and timber creaked, as if the ship were made of wicker-work; and
now crackled, like an enormous fire of the driest possible twigs. There
was nothing for it but bed; so I went to bed.
It was pretty much the same for the next two days, with a tolerably fair
wind and dry weather. I read in bed (but to this hour I don’t know what)
a good deal; and reeled on deck a little; drank cold brandy-and-water
with an unspeakable disgust, and ate hard biscuit perseveringly: not ill,
but going to be.
It is the third morning. I am awakened out of my sleep by a dismal
shriek from my wife, who demands to know whether there’s any danger. I
rouse myself, and look out of bed. The water-jug is plunging and leaping
like a lively dolphin; all the smaller articles are afloat, except my
shoes, which are stranded on a carpet-bag, high and dry, like a couple of
coal-barges. Suddenly I see them spring into the air, and behold the
looking-glass, which is nailed to the wall, sticking fast upon the
ceiling. At the same time the door entirely disappears, and a new one is
opened in the floor. Then I begin to comprehend that the state-room is
standing on its head.
Before it is possible to make any arrangement at all compatible with this
novel state of things, the ship rights. Before one can say ‘Thank
Heaven!’ she wrongs again. Before one can cry she _is_ wrong, she seems
to have started forward, and to be a creature actually running of its own
accord, with broken knees and failing legs, through every variety of hole
and pitfall, and stumbling constantly. Before one can so much as wonder,
she takes a high leap into the air. Before she has well done that, she
takes a deep dive into the water. Before she has gained the surface, she
throws a summerset. The instant she is on her legs, she rushes backward.
And so she goes on staggering, heaving, wrestling, leaping, diving,
jumping, pitching, throbbing, rolling, and rocking: and going through all
these movements, sometimes by turns, and sometimes altogether: until one
feels disposed to roar for mercy.
A steward passes. ‘Steward!’ ‘Sir?’ ‘What _is_ the matter? what _do_
you call this?’ ‘Rather a heavy sea on, sir, and a head-wind.’
A head-wind! Imagine a human face upon the vessel’s prow, with fifteen
thousand Samsons in one bent upon driving her back, and hitting her
exactly between the eyes whenever she attempts to advance an inch.
Imagine the ship herself, with every pulse and artery of her huge body
swollen and bursting under this maltreatment, sworn to go on or die.
Imagine the wind howling, the sea roaring, the rain beating: all in
furious array against her. Picture the sky both dark and wild, and the
clouds, in fearful sympathy with the waves, making another ocean in the
air. Add to all this, the clattering on deck and down below; the tread
of hurried feet; the loud hoarse shouts of seamen; the gurgling in and
out of water through the scuppers; with, every now and then, the striking
of a heavy sea upon the planks above, with the deep, dead, heavy sound of
thunder heard within a vault;—and there is the head-wind of that January
morning.
I say nothing of what may be called the domestic noises of the ship: such
as the breaking of glass and crockery, the tumbling down of stewards, the
gambols, overhead, of loose casks and truant dozens of bottled porter,
and the very remarkable and far from exhilarating sounds raised in their
various state-rooms by the seventy passengers who were too ill to get up
to breakfast. I say nothing of them: for although I lay listening to
this concert for three or four days, I don’t think I heard it for more
than a quarter of a minute, at the expiration of which term, I lay down
again, excessively sea-sick.
Not sea-sick, be it understood, in the ordinary acceptation of the term:
I wish I had been: but in a form which I have never seen or heard
described, though I have no doubt it is very common. I lay there, all
the day long, quite coolly and contentedly; with no sense of weariness,
with no desire to get up, or get better, or take the air; with no
curiosity, or care, or regret, of any sort or degree, saving that I think
I can remember, in this universal indifference, having a kind of lazy
joy—of fiendish delight, if anything so lethargic can be dignified with
the title—in the fact of my wife being too ill to talk to me. If I may
be allowed to illustrate my state of mind by such an example, I should
say that I was exactly in the condition of the elder Mr. Willet, after
the incursion of the rioters into his bar at Chigwell. Nothing would
have surprised me. If, in the momentary illumination of any ray of
intelligence that may have come upon me in the way of thoughts of Home, a
goblin postman, with a scarlet coat and bell, had come into that little
kennel before me, broad awake in broad day, and, apologising for being
damp through walking in the sea, had handed me a letter directed to
myself, in familiar characters, I am certain I should not have felt one
atom of astonishment: I should have been perfectly satisfied. If Neptune
himself had walked in, with a toasted shark on his trident, I should have
looked upon the event as one of the very commonest everyday occurrences.
Once—once—I found myself on deck. I don’t know how I got there, or what
possessed me to go there, but there I was; and completely dressed too,
with a huge pea-coat on, and a pair of boots such as no weak man in his
senses could ever have got into. I found myself standing, when a gleam
of consciousness came upon me, holding on to something. I don’t know
what. I think it was the boatswain: or it may have been the pump: or
possibly the cow. I can’t say how long I had been there; whether a day
or a minute. I recollect trying to think about something (about anything
in the whole wide world, I was not particular) without the smallest
effect. I could not even make out which was the sea, and which the sky,
for the horizon seemed drunk, and was flying wildly about in all
directions. Even in that incapable state, however, I recognised the lazy
gentleman standing before me: nautically clad in a suit of shaggy blue,
with an oilskin hat. But I was too imbecile, although I knew it to be
he, to separate him from his dress; and tried to call him, I remember,
_Pilot_. After another interval of total unconsciousness, I found he had
gone, and recognised another figure in its place. It seemed to wave and
fluctuate before me as though I saw it reflected in an unsteady
looking-glass; but I knew it for the captain; and such was the cheerful
influence of his face, that I tried to smile: yes, even then I tried to
smile. I saw by his gestures that he addressed me; but it was a long
time before I could make out that he remonstrated against my standing up
to my knees in water—as I was; of course I don’t know why. I tried to
thank him, but couldn’t. I could only point to my boots—or wherever I
supposed my boots to be—and say in a plaintive voice, ‘Cork soles:’ at
the same time endeavouring, I am told, to sit down in the pool. Finding
that I was quite insensible, and for the time a maniac, he humanely
conducted me below.
There I remained until I got better: suffering, whenever I was
recommended to eat anything, an amount of anguish only second to that
which is said to be endured by the apparently drowned, in the process of
restoration to life. One gentleman on board had a letter of introduction
to me from a mutual friend in London. He sent it below with his card, on
the morning of the head-wind; and I was long troubled with the idea that
he might be up, and well, and a hundred times a day expecting me to call
upon him in the saloon. I imagined him one of those cast-iron images—I
will not call them men—who ask, with red faces, and lusty voices, what
sea-sickness means, and whether it really is as bad as it is represented
to be. This was very torturing indeed; and I don’t think I ever felt
such perfect gratification and gratitude of heart, as I did when I heard
from the ship’s doctor that he had been obliged to put a large mustard
poultice on this very gentleman’s stomach. I date my recovery from the
receipt of that intelligence.
It was materially assisted though, I have no doubt, by a heavy gale of
wind, which came slowly up at sunset, when we were about ten days out,
and raged with gradually increasing fury until morning, saving that it
lulled for an hour a little before midnight. There was something in the
unnatural repose of that hour, and in the after gathering of the storm,
so inconceivably awful and tremendous, that its bursting into full
violence was almost a relief.
The labouring of the ship in the troubled sea on this night I shall never
forget. ‘Will it ever be worse than this?’ was a question I had often
heard asked, when everything was sliding and bumping about, and when it
certainly did seem difficult to comprehend the possibility of anything
afloat being more disturbed, without toppling over and going down. But
what the agitation of a steam-vessel is, on a bad winter’s night in the
wild Atlantic, it is impossible for the most vivid imagination to
conceive. To say that she is flung down on her side in the waves, with
her masts dipping into them, and that, springing up again, she rolls over
on the other side, until a heavy sea strikes her with the noise of a
hundred great guns, and hurls her back—that she stops, and staggers, and
shivers, as though stunned, and then, with a violent throbbing at her
heart, darts onward like a monster goaded into madness, to be beaten
down, and battered, and crushed, and leaped on by the angry sea—that
thunder, lightning, hail, and rain, and wind, are all in fierce
contention for the mastery—that every plank has its groan, every nail its
shriek, and every drop of water in the great ocean its howling voice—is
nothing. To say that all is grand, and all appalling and horrible in the
last degree, is nothing. Words cannot express it. Thoughts cannot
convey it. Only a dream can call it up again, in all its fury, rage, and
passion.
And yet, in the very midst of these terrors, I was placed in a situation
so exquisitely ridiculous, that even then I had as strong a sense of its
absurdity as I have now, and could no more help laughing than I can at
any other comical incident, happening under circumstances the most
favourable to its enjoyment. About midnight we shipped a sea, which
forced its way through the skylights, burst open the doors above, and
came raging and roaring down into the ladies’ cabin, to the unspeakable
consternation of my wife and a little Scotch lady—who, by the way, had
previously sent a message to the captain by the stewardess, requesting
him, with her compliments, to have a steel conductor immediately attached
to the top of every mast, and to the chimney, in order that the ship
might not be struck by lightning. They and the handmaid before
mentioned, being in such ecstasies of fear that I scarcely knew what to
do with them, I naturally bethought myself of some restorative or
comfortable cordial; and nothing better occurring to me, at the moment,
than hot brandy-and-water, I procured a tumbler full without delay. It
being impossible to stand or sit without holding on, they were all heaped
together in one corner of a long sofa—a fixture extending entirely across
the cabin—where they clung to each other in momentary expectation of
being drowned. When I approached this place with my specific, and was
about to administer it with many consolatory expressions to the nearest
sufferer, what was my dismay to see them all roll slowly down to the
other end! And when I staggered to that end, and held out the glass once
more, how immensely baffled were my good intentions by the ship giving
another lurch, and their all rolling back again! I suppose I dodged them
up and down this sofa for at least a quarter of an hour, without reaching
them once; and by the time I did catch them, the brandy-and-water was
diminished, by constant spilling, to a teaspoonful. To complete the
group, it is necessary to recognise in this disconcerted dodger, an
individual very pale from sea-sickness, who had shaved his beard and
brushed his hair, last, at Liverpool: and whose only article of dress
(linen not included) were a pair of dreadnought trousers; a blue jacket,
formerly admired upon the Thames at Richmond; no stockings; and one
slipper.
Of the outrageous antics performed by that ship next morning; which made
bed a practical joke, and getting up, by any process short of falling
out, an impossibility; I say nothing. But anything like the utter
dreariness and desolation that met my eyes when I literally ‘tumbled up’
on deck at noon, I never saw. Ocean and sky were all of one dull, heavy,
uniform, lead colour. There was no extent of prospect even over the
dreary waste that lay around us, for the sea ran high, and the horizon
encompassed us like a large black hoop. Viewed from the air, or some
tall bluff on shore, it would have been imposing and stupendous, no
doubt; but seen from the wet and rolling decks, it only impressed one
giddily and painfully. In the gale of last night the life-boat had been
crushed by one blow of the sea like a walnut-shell; and there it hung
dangling in the air: a mere faggot of crazy boards. The planking of the
paddle-boxes had been torn sheer away. The wheels were exposed and bare;
and they whirled and dashed their spray about the decks at random.
Chimney, white with crusted salt; topmasts struck; storm-sails set;
rigging all knotted, tangled, wet, and drooping: a gloomier picture it
would be hard to look upon.
I was now comfortably established by courtesy in the ladies’ cabin,
where, besides ourselves, there were only four other passengers. First,
the little Scotch lady before mentioned, on her way to join her husband
at New York, who had settled there three years before. Secondly and
thirdly, an honest young Yorkshireman, connected with some American
house; domiciled in that same city, and carrying thither his beautiful
young wife to whom he had been married but a fortnight, and who was the
fairest specimen of a comely English country girl I have ever seen.
Fourthly, fifthly, and lastly, another couple: newly married too, if one
might judge from the endearments they frequently interchanged: of whom I
know no more than that they were rather a mysterious, run-away kind of
couple; that the lady had great personal attractions also; and that the
gentleman carried more guns with him than Robinson Crusoe, wore a
shooting-coat, and had two great dogs on board. On further
consideration, I remember that he tried hot roast pig and bottled ale as
a cure for sea-sickness; and that he took these remedies (usually in bed)
day after day, with astonishing perseverance. I may add, for the
information of the curious, that they decidedly failed.
The weather continuing obstinately and almost unprecedentedly bad, we
usually straggled into this cabin, more or less faint and miserable,
about an hour before noon, and lay down on the sofas to recover; during
which interval, the captain would look in to communicate the state of the
wind, the moral certainty of its changing to-morrow (the weather is
always going to improve to-morrow, at sea), the vessel’s rate of sailing,
and so forth. Observations there were none to tell us of, for there was
no sun to take them by. But a description of one day will serve for all
the rest. Here it is.
The captain being gone, we compose ourselves to read, if the place be
light enough; and if not, we doze and talk alternately. At one, a bell
rings, and the stewardess comes down with a steaming dish of baked
potatoes, and another of roasted apples; and plates of pig’s face, cold
ham, salt beef; or perhaps a smoking mess of rare hot collops. We fall
to upon these dainties; eat as much as we can (we have great appetites
now); and are as long as possible about it. If the fire will burn (it
_will_ sometimes) we are pretty cheerful. If it won’t, we all remark to
each other that it’s very cold, rub our hands, cover ourselves with coats
and cloaks, and lie down again to doze, talk, and read (provided as
aforesaid), until dinner-time. At five, another bell rings, and the
stewardess reappears with another dish of potatoes—boiled this time—and
store of hot meat of various kinds: not forgetting the roast pig, to be
taken medicinally. We sit down at table again (rather more cheerfully
than before); prolong the meal with a rather mouldy dessert of apples,
grapes, and oranges; and drink our wine and brandy-and-water. The
bottles and glasses are still upon the table, and the oranges and so
forth are rolling about according to their fancy and the ship’s way, when
the doctor comes down, by special nightly invitation, to join our evening
rubber: immediately on whose arrival we make a party at whist, and as it
is a rough night and the cards will not lie on the cloth, we put the
tricks in our pockets as we take them. At whist we remain with exemplary
gravity (deducting a short time for tea and toast) until eleven o’clock,
or thereabouts; when the captain comes down again, in a sou’-wester hat
tied under his chin, and a pilot-coat: making the ground wet where he
stands. By this time the card-playing is over, and the bottles and
glasses are again upon the table; and after an hour’s pleasant
conversation about the ship, the passengers, and things in general, the
captain (who never goes to bed, and is never out of humour) turns up his
coat collar for the deck again; shakes hands all round; and goes laughing
out into the weather as merrily as to a birthday party.
As to daily news, there is no dearth of that commodity. This passenger
is reported to have lost fourteen pounds at Vingt-et-un in the saloon
yesterday; and that passenger drinks his bottle of champagne every day,
and how he does it (being only a clerk), nobody knows. The head engineer
has distinctly said that there never was such times—meaning weather—and
four good hands are ill, and have given in, dead beat. Several berths
are full of water, and all the cabins are leaky. The ship’s cook,
secretly swigging damaged whiskey, has been found drunk; and has been
played upon by the fire-engine until quite sober. All the stewards have
fallen down-stairs at various dinner-times, and go about with plasters in
various places. The baker is ill, and so is the pastry-cook. A new man,
horribly indisposed, has been required to fill the place of the latter
officer; and has been propped and jammed up with empty casks in a little
house upon deck, and commanded to roll out pie-crust, which he protests
(being highly bilious) it is death to him to look at. News! A dozen
murders on shore would lack the interest of these slight incidents at
sea.
Divided between our rubber and such topics as these, we were running (as
we thought) into Halifax Harbour, on the fifteenth night, with little
wind and a bright moon—indeed, we had made the Light at its outer
entrance, and put the pilot in charge—when suddenly the ship struck upon
a bank of mud. An immediate rush on deck took place of course; the sides
were crowded in an instant; and for a few minutes we were in as lively a
state of confusion as the greatest lover of disorder would desire to see.
The passengers, and guns, and water-casks, and other heavy matters, being
all huddled together aft, however, to lighten her in the head, she was
soon got off; and after some driving on towards an uncomfortable line of
objects (whose vicinity had been announced very early in the disaster by
a loud cry of ‘Breakers a-head!’) and much backing of paddles, and
heaving of the lead into a constantly decreasing depth of water, we
dropped anchor in a strange outlandish-looking nook which nobody on board
could recognise, although there was land all about us, and so close that
we could plainly see the waving branches of the trees.
It was strange enough, in the silence of midnight, and the dead stillness
that seemed to be created by the sudden and unexpected stoppage of the
engine which had been clanking and blasting in our ears incessantly for
so many days, to watch the look of blank astonishment expressed in every
face: beginning with the officers, tracing it through all the passengers,
and descending to the very stokers and furnacemen, who emerged from
below, one by one, and clustered together in a smoky group about the
hatchway of the engine-room, comparing notes in whispers. After throwing
up a few rockets and firing signal guns in the hope of being hailed from
the land, or at least of seeing a light—but without any other sight or
sound presenting itself—it was determined to send a boat on shore. It
was amusing to observe how very kind some of the passengers were, in
volunteering to go ashore in this same boat: for the general good, of
course: not by any means because they thought the ship in an unsafe
position, or contemplated the possibility of her heeling over in case the
tide were running out. Nor was it less amusing to remark how desperately
unpopular the poor pilot became in one short minute. He had had his
passage out from Liverpool, and during the whole voyage had been quite a
notorious character, as a teller of anecdotes and cracker of jokes. Yet
here were the very men who had laughed the loudest at his jests, now
flourishing their fists in his face, loading him with imprecations, and
defying him to his teeth as a villain!
The boat soon shoved off, with a lantern and sundry blue lights on board;
and in less than an hour returned; the officer in command bringing with
him a tolerably tall young tree, which he had plucked up by the roots, to
satisfy certain distrustful passengers whose minds misgave them that they
were to be imposed upon and shipwrecked, and who would on no other terms
believe that he had been ashore, or had done anything but fraudulently
row a little way into the mist, specially to deceive them and compass
their deaths. Our captain had foreseen from the first that we must be in
a place called the Eastern passage; and so we were. It was about the
last place in the world in which we had any business or reason to be, but
a sudden fog, and some error on the pilot’s part, were the cause. We
were surrounded by banks, and rocks, and shoals of all kinds, but had
happily drifted, it seemed, upon the only safe speck that was to be found
thereabouts. Eased by this report, and by the assurance that the tide
was past the ebb, we turned in at three o’clock in the morning.
I was dressing about half-past nine next day, when the noise above
hurried me on deck. When I had left it overnight, it was dark, foggy,
and damp, and there were bleak hills all round us. Now, we were gliding
down a smooth, broad stream, at the rate of eleven miles an hour: our
colours flying gaily; our crew rigged out in their smartest clothes; our
officers in uniform again; the sun shining as on a brilliant April day in
England; the land stretched out on either side, streaked with light
patches of snow; white wooden houses; people at their doors; telegraphs
working; flags hoisted; wharfs appearing; ships; quays crowded with
people; distant noises; shouts; men and boys running down steep places
towards the pier: all more bright and gay and fresh to our unused eyes
than words can paint them. We came to a wharf, paved with uplifted
faces; got alongside, and were made fast, after some shouting and
straining of cables; darted, a score of us along the gangway, almost as
soon as it was thrust out to meet us, and before it had reached the
ship—and leaped upon the firm glad earth again!
I suppose this Halifax would have appeared an Elysium, though it had been
a curiosity of ugly dulness. But I carried away with me a most pleasant
impression of the town and its inhabitants, and have preserved it to this
hour. Nor was it without regret that I came home, without having found
an opportunity of returning thither, and once more shaking hands with the
friends I made that day.
It happened to be the opening of the Legislative Council and General
Assembly, at which ceremonial the forms observed on the commencement of a
new Session of Parliament in England were so closely copied, and so
gravely presented on a small scale, that it was like looking at
Westminster through the wrong end of a telescope. The governor, as her
Majesty’s representative, delivered what may be called the Speech from
the Throne. He said what he had to say manfully and well. The military
band outside the building struck up “God save the Queen” with great
vigour before his Excellency had quite finished; the people shouted; the
in’s rubbed their hands; the out’s shook their heads; the Government
party said there never was such a good speech; the Opposition declared
there never was such a bad one; the Speaker and members of the House of
Assembly withdrew from the bar to say a great deal among themselves and
do a little: and, in short, everything went on, and promised to go on,
just as it does at home upon the like occasions.
The town is built on the side of a hill, the highest point being
commanded by a strong fortress, not yet quite finished. Several streets
of good breadth and appearance extend from its summit to the water-side,
and are intersected by cross streets running parallel with the river.
The houses are chiefly of wood. The market is abundantly supplied; and
provisions are exceedingly cheap. The weather being unusually mild at
that time for the season of the year, there was no sleighing: but there
were plenty of those vehicles in yards and by-places, and some of them,
from the gorgeous quality of their decorations, might have ‘gone on’
without alteration as triumphal cars in a melodrama at Astley’s. The day
was uncommonly fine; the air bracing and healthful; the whole aspect of
the town cheerful, thriving, and industrious.
We lay there seven hours, to deliver and exchange the mails. At length,
having collected all our bags and all our passengers (including two or
three choice spirits, who, having indulged too freely in oysters and
champagne, were found lying insensible on their backs in unfrequented
streets), the engines were again put in motion, and we stood off for
Boston.
Encountering squally weather again in the Bay of Fundy, we tumbled and
rolled about as usual all that night and all next day. On the next
afternoon, that is to say, on Saturday, the twenty-second of January, an
American pilot-boat came alongside, and soon afterwards the Britannia
steam-packet, from Liverpool, eighteen days out, was telegraphed at
Boston.
The indescribable interest with which I strained my eyes, as the first
patches of American soil peeped like molehills from the green sea, and
followed them, as they swelled, by slow and almost imperceptible degrees,
into a continuous line of coast, can hardly be exaggerated. A sharp keen
wind blew dead against us; a hard frost prevailed on shore; and the cold
was most severe. Yet the air was so intensely clear, and dry, and
bright, that the temperature was not only endurable, but delicious.
How I remained on deck, staring about me, until we came alongside the
dock, and how, though I had had as many eyes as Argus, I should have had
them all wide open, and all employed on new objects—are topics which I
will not prolong this chapter to discuss. Neither will I more than hint
at my foreigner-like mistake in supposing that a party of most active
persons, who scrambled on board at the peril of their lives as we
approached the wharf, were newsmen, answering to that industrious class
at home; whereas, despite the leathern wallets of news slung about the
necks of some, and the broad sheets in the hands of all, they were
Editors, who boarded ships in person (as one gentleman in a worsted
comforter informed me), ‘because they liked the excitement of it.’
Suffice it in this place to say, that one of these invaders, with a ready
courtesy for which I thank him here most gratefully, went on before to
order rooms at the hotel; and that when I followed, as I soon did, I
found myself rolling through the long passages with an involuntary
imitation of the gait of Mr. T. P. Cooke, in a new nautical melodrama.
‘Dinner, if you please,’ said I to the waiter.
‘When?’ said the waiter.
‘As quick as possible,’ said I.
‘Right away?’ said the waiter.
After a moment’s hesitation, I answered ‘No,’ at hazard.
‘_Not_ right away?’ cried the waiter, with an amount of surprise that
made me start.
I looked at him doubtfully, and returned, ‘No; I would rather have it in
this private room. I like it very much.’
At this, I really thought the waiter must have gone out of his mind: as I
believe he would have done, but for the interposition of another man, who
whispered in his ear, ‘Directly.’
‘Well! and that’s a fact!’ said the waiter, looking helplessly at me:
‘Right away.’
I saw now that ‘Right away’ and ‘Directly’ were one and the same thing.
So I reversed my previous answer, and sat down to dinner in ten minutes
afterwards; and a capital dinner it was.
The hotel (a very excellent one) is called the Tremont House. It has
more galleries, colonnades, piazzas, and passages than I can remember, or
the reader would believe.
CHAPTER III
BOSTON
_In_ all the public establishments of America, the utmost courtesy
prevails. Most of our Departments are susceptible of considerable
improvement in this respect, but the Custom-house above all others would
do well to take example from the United States and render itself somewhat
less odious and offensive to foreigners. The servile rapacity of the
French officials is sufficiently contemptible; but there is a surly
boorish incivility about our men, alike disgusting to all persons who
fall into their hands, and discreditable to the nation that keeps such
ill-conditioned curs snarling about its gates.
When I landed in America, I could not help being strongly impressed with
the contrast their Custom-house presented, and the attention, politeness
and good humour with which its officers discharged their duty.
As we did not land at Boston, in consequence of some detention at the
wharf, until after dark, I received my first impressions of the city in
walking down to the Custom-house on the morning after our arrival, which
was Sunday. I am afraid to say, by the way, how many offers of pews and
seats in church for that morning were made to us, by formal note of
invitation, before we had half finished our first dinner in America, but
if I may be allowed to make a moderate guess, without going into nicer
calculation, I should say that at least as many sittings were proffered
us, as would have accommodated a score or two of grown-up families. The
number of creeds and forms of religion to which the pleasure of our
company was requested, was in very fair proportion.
Not being able, in the absence of any change of clothes, to go to church
that day, we were compelled to decline these kindnesses, one and all; and
I was reluctantly obliged to forego the delight of hearing Dr. Channing,
who happened to preach that morning for the first time in a very long
interval. I mention the name of this distinguished and accomplished man
(with whom I soon afterwards had the pleasure of becoming personally
acquainted), that I may have the gratification of recording my humble
tribute of admiration and respect for his high abilities and character;
and for the bold philanthropy with which he has ever opposed himself to
that most hideous blot and foul disgrace—Slavery.
To return to Boston. When I got into the streets upon this Sunday
morning, the air was so clear, the houses were so bright and gay: the
signboards were painted in such gaudy colours; the gilded letters were so
very golden; the bricks were so very red, the stone was so very white,
the blinds and area railings were so very green, the knobs and plates
upon the street doors so marvellously bright and twinkling; and all so
slight and unsubstantial in appearance—that every thoroughfare in the
city looked exactly like a scene in a pantomime. It rarely happens in
the business streets that a tradesman, if I may venture to call anybody a
tradesman, where everybody is a merchant, resides above his store; so
that many occupations are often carried on in one house, and the whole
front is covered with boards and inscriptions. As I walked along, I kept
glancing up at these boards, confidently expecting to see a few of them
change into something; and I never turned a corner suddenly without
looking out for the clown and pantaloon, who, I had no doubt, were hiding
in a doorway or behind some pillar close at hand. As to Harlequin and
Columbine, I discovered immediately that they lodged (they are always
looking after lodgings in a pantomime) at a very small clockmaker’s one
story high, near the hotel; which, in addition to various symbols and
devices, almost covering the whole front, had a great dial hanging out—to
be jumped through, of course.
The suburbs are, if possible, even more unsubstantial-looking than the
city. The white wooden houses (so white that it makes one wink to look
at them), with their green jalousie blinds, are so sprinkled and dropped
about in all directions, without seeming to have any root at all in the
ground; and the small churches and chapels are so prim, and bright, and
highly varnished; that I almost believed the whole affair could be taken
up piecemeal like a child’s toy, and crammed into a little box.
The city is a beautiful one, and cannot fail, I should imagine, to
impress all strangers very favourably. The private dwelling-houses are,
for the most part, large and elegant; the shops extremely good; and the
public buildings handsome. The State House is built upon the summit of a
hill, which rises gradually at first, and afterwards by a steep ascent,
almost from the water’s edge. In front is a green enclosure, called the
Common. The site is beautiful: and from the top there is a charming
panoramic view of the whole town and neighbourhood. In addition to a
variety of commodious offices, it contains two handsome chambers; in one
the House of Representatives of the State hold their meetings: in the
other, the Senate. Such proceedings as I saw here, were conducted with
perfect gravity and decorum; and were certainly calculated to inspire
attention and respect.
There is no doubt that much of the intellectual refinement and
superiority of Boston, is referable to the quiet influence of the
University of Cambridge, which is within three or four miles of the city.
The resident professors at that university are gentlemen of learning and
varied attainments; and are, without one exception that I can call to
mind, men who would shed a grace upon, and do honour to, any society in
the civilised world. Many of the resident gentry in Boston and its
neighbourhood, and I think I am not mistaken in adding, a large majority
of those who are attached to the liberal professions there, have been
educated at this same school. Whatever the defects of American
universities may be, they disseminate no prejudices; rear no bigots; dig
up the buried ashes of no old superstitions; never interpose between the
people and their improvement; exclude no man because of his religious
opinions; above all, in their whole course of study and instruction,
recognise a world, and a broad one too, lying beyond the college walls.
It was a source of inexpressible pleasure to me to observe the almost
imperceptible, but not less certain effect, wrought by this institution
among the small community of Boston; and to note at every turn the
humanising tastes and desires it has engendered; the affectionate
friendships to which it has given rise; the amount of vanity and
prejudice it has dispelled. The golden calf they worship at Boston is a
pigmy compared with the giant effigies set up in other parts of that vast
counting-house which lies beyond the Atlantic; and the almighty dollar
sinks into something comparatively insignificant, amidst a whole Pantheon
of better gods.
Above all, I sincerely believe that the public institutions and charities
of this capital of Massachusetts are as nearly perfect, as the most
considerate wisdom, benevolence, and humanity, can make them. I never in
my life was more affected by the contemplation of happiness, under
circumstances of privation and bereavement, than in my visits to these
establishments.
It is a great and pleasant feature of all such institutions in America,
that they are either supported by the State or assisted by the State; or
(in the event of their not needing its helping hand) that they act in
concert with it, and are emphatically the people’s. I cannot but think,
with a view to the principle and its tendency to elevate or depress the
character of the industrious classes, that a Public Charity is
immeasurably better than a Private Foundation, no matter how munificently
the latter may be endowed. In our own country, where it has not, until
within these later days, been a very popular fashion with governments to
display any extraordinary regard for the great mass of the people or to
recognise their existence as improvable creatures, private charities,
unexampled in the history of the earth, have arisen, to do an
incalculable amount of good among the destitute and afflicted. But the
government of the country, having neither act nor part in them, is not in
the receipt of any portion of the gratitude they inspire; and, offering
very little shelter or relief beyond that which is to be found in the
workhouse and the jail, has come, not unnaturally, to be looked upon by
the poor rather as a stern master, quick to correct and punish, than a
kind protector, merciful and vigilant in their hour of need.
The maxim that out of evil cometh good, is strongly illustrated by these
establishments at home; as the records of the Prerogative Office in
Doctors’ Commons can abundantly prove. Some immensely rich old gentleman
or lady, surrounded by needy relatives, makes, upon a low average, a will
a-week. The old gentleman or lady, never very remarkable in the best of
times for good temper, is full of aches and pains from head to foot; full
of fancies and caprices; full of spleen, distrust, suspicion, and
dislike. To cancel old wills, and invent new ones, is at last the sole
business of such a testator’s existence; and relations and friends (some
of whom have been bred up distinctly to inherit a large share of the
property, and have been, from their cradles, specially disqualified from
devoting themselves to any useful pursuit, on that account) are so often
and so unexpectedly and summarily cut off, and reinstated, and cut off
again, that the whole family, down to the remotest cousin, is kept in a
perpetual fever. At length it becomes plain that the old lady or
gentleman has not long to live; and the plainer this becomes, the more
clearly the old lady or gentleman perceives that everybody is in a
conspiracy against their poor old dying relative; wherefore the old lady
or gentleman makes another last will—positively the last this
time—conceals the same in a china teapot, and expires next day. Then it
turns out, that the whole of the real and personal estate is divided
between half-a-dozen charities; and that the dead and gone testator has
in pure spite helped to do a great deal of good, at the cost of an
immense amount of evil passion and misery.
The Perkins Institution and Massachusetts Asylum for the Blind, at
Boston, is superintended by a body of trustees who make an annual report
to the corporation. The indigent blind of that state are admitted
gratuitously. Those from the adjoining state of Connecticut, or from the
states of Maine, Vermont, or New Hampshire, are admitted by a warrant
from the state to which they respectively belong; or, failing that, must
find security among their friends, for the payment of about twenty pounds
English for their first year’s board and instruction, and ten for the
second. ‘After the first year,’ say the trustees, ‘an account current
will be opened with each pupil; he will be charged with the actual cost
of his board, which will not exceed two dollars per week;’ a trifle more
than eight shillings English; ‘and he will be credited with the amount
paid for him by the state, or by his friends; also with his earnings over
and above the cost of the stock which he uses; so that all his earnings
over one dollar per week will be his own. By the third year it will be
known whether his earnings will more than pay the actual cost of his
board; if they should, he will have it at his option to remain and
receive his earnings, or not. Those who prove unable to earn their own
livelihood will not be retained; as it is not desirable to convert the
establishment into an alms-house, or to retain any but working bees in
the hive. Those who by physical or mental imbecility are disqualified
from work, are thereby disqualified from being members of an industrious
community; and they can be better provided for in establishments fitted
for the infirm.’
I went to see this place one very fine winter morning: an Italian sky
above, and the air so clear and bright on every side, that even my eyes,
which are none of the best, could follow the minute lines and scraps of
tracery in distant buildings. Like most other public institutions in
America, of the same class, it stands a mile or two without the town, in
a cheerful healthy spot; and is an airy, spacious, handsome edifice. It
is built upon a height, commanding the harbour. When I paused for a
moment at the door, and marked how fresh and free the whole scene
was—what sparkling bubbles glanced upon the waves, and welled up every
moment to the surface, as though the world below, like that above, were
radiant with the bright day, and gushing over in its fulness of light:
when I gazed from sail to sail away upon a ship at sea, a tiny speck of
shining white, the only cloud upon the still, deep, distant blue—and,
turning, saw a blind boy with his sightless face addressed that way, as
though he too had some sense within him of the glorious distance: I felt
a kind of sorrow that the place should be so very light, and a strange
wish that for his sake it were darker. It was but momentary, of course,
and a mere fancy, but I felt it keenly for all that.
The children were at their daily tasks in different rooms, except a few
who were already dismissed, and were at play. Here, as in many
institutions, no uniform is worn; and I was very glad of it, for two
reasons. Firstly, because I am sure that nothing but senseless custom
and want of thought would reconcile us to the liveries and badges we are
so fond of at home. Secondly, because the absence of these things
presents each child to the visitor in his or her own proper character,
with its individuality unimpaired; not lost in a dull, ugly, monotonous
repetition of the same unmeaning garb: which is really an important
consideration. The wisdom of encouraging a little harmless pride in
personal appearance even among the blind, or the whimsical absurdity of
considering charity and leather breeches inseparable companions, as we
do, requires no comment.
Good order, cleanliness, and comfort, pervaded every corner of the
building. The various classes, who were gathered round their teachers,
answered the questions put to them with readiness and intelligence, and
in a spirit of cheerful contest for precedence which pleased me very
much. Those who were at play, were gleesome and noisy as other children.
More spiritual and affectionate friendships appeared to exist among them,
than would be found among other young persons suffering under no
deprivation; but this I expected and was prepared to find. It is a part
of the great scheme of Heaven’s merciful consideration for the afflicted.
In a portion of the building, set apart for that purpose, are work-shops
for blind persons whose education is finished, and who have acquired a
trade, but who cannot pursue it in an ordinary manufactory because of
their deprivation. Several people were at work here; making brushes,
mattresses, and so forth; and the cheerfulness, industry, and good order
discernible in every other part of the building, extended to this
department also.
On the ringing of a bell, the pupils all repaired, without any guide or
leader, to a spacious music-hall, where they took their seats in an
orchestra erected for that purpose, and listened with manifest delight to
a voluntary on the organ, played by one of themselves. At its
conclusion, the performer, a boy of nineteen or twenty, gave place to a
girl; and to her accompaniment they all sang a hymn, and afterwards a
sort of chorus. It was very sad to look upon and hear them, happy though
their condition unquestionably was; and I saw that one blind girl, who
(being for the time deprived of the use of her limbs, by illness) sat
close beside me with her face towards them, wept silently the while she
listened.
It is strange to watch the faces of the blind, and see how free they are
from all concealment of what is passing in their thoughts; observing
which, a man with eyes may blush to contemplate the mask he wears.
Allowing for one shade of anxious expression which is never absent from
their countenances, and the like of which we may readily detect in our
own faces if we try to feel our way in the dark, every idea, as it rises
within them, is expressed with the lightning’s speed and nature’s truth.
If the company at a rout, or drawing-room at court, could only for one
time be as unconscious of the eyes upon them as blind men and women are,
what secrets would come out, and what a worker of hypocrisy this sight,
the loss of which we so much pity, would appear to be!
The thought occurred to me as I sat down in another room, before a girl,
blind, deaf, and dumb; destitute of smell; and nearly so of taste: before
a fair young creature with every human faculty, and hope, and power of
goodness and affection, inclosed within her delicate frame, and but one
outward sense—the sense of touch. There she was, before me; built up, as
it were, in a marble cell, impervious to any ray of light, or particle of
sound; with her poor white hand peeping through a chink in the wall,
beckoning to some good man for help, that an Immortal soul might be
awakened.
Long before I looked upon her, the help had come. Her face was radiant
with intelligence and pleasure. Her hair, braided by her own hands, was
bound about a head, whose intellectual capacity and development were
beautifully expressed in its graceful outline, and its broad open brow;
her dress, arranged by herself, was a pattern of neatness and simplicity;
the work she had knitted, lay beside her; her writing-book was on the
desk she leaned upon.—From the mournful ruin of such bereavement, there
had slowly risen up this gentle, tender, guileless, grateful-hearted
being.
Like other inmates of that house, she had a green ribbon bound round her
eyelids. A doll she had dressed lay near upon the ground. I took it up,
and saw that she had made a green fillet such as she wore herself, and
fastened it about its mimic eyes.
She was seated in a little enclosure, made by school-desks and forms,
writing her daily journal. But soon finishing this pursuit, she engaged
in an animated conversation with a teacher who sat beside her. This was
a favourite mistress with the poor pupil. If she could see the face of
her fair instructress, she would not love her less, I am sure.
I have extracted a few disjointed fragments of her history, from an
account, written by that one man who has made her what she is. It is a
very beautiful and touching narrative; and I wish I could present it
entire.
Her name is Laura Bridgman. ‘She was born in Hanover, New Hampshire, on
the twenty-first of December, 1829. She is described as having been a
very sprightly and pretty infant, with bright blue eyes. She was,
however, so puny and feeble until she was a year and a half old, that her
parents hardly hoped to rear her. She was subject to severe fits, which
seemed to rack her frame almost beyond her power of endurance: and life
was held by the feeblest tenure: but when a year and a half old, she
seemed to rally; the dangerous symptoms subsided; and at twenty months
old, she was perfectly well.
‘Then her mental powers, hitherto stinted in their growth, rapidly
developed themselves; and during the four months of health which she
enjoyed, she appears (making due allowance for a fond mother’s account)
to have displayed a considerable degree of intelligence.
‘But suddenly she sickened again; her disease raged with great violence
during five weeks, when her eyes and ears were inflamed, suppurated, and
their contents were discharged. But though sight and hearing were gone
for ever, the poor child’s sufferings were not ended. The fever raged
during seven weeks; for five months she was kept in bed in a darkened
room; it was a year before she could walk unsupported, and two years
before she could sit up all day. It was now observed that her sense of
smell was almost entirely destroyed; and, consequently, that her taste
was much blunted.
‘It was not until four years of age that the poor child’s bodily health
seemed restored, and she was able to enter upon her apprenticeship of
life and the world.
‘But what a situation was hers! The darkness and the silence of the tomb
were around her: no mother’s smile called forth her answering smile, no
father’s voice taught her to imitate his sounds:—they, brothers and
sisters, were but forms of matter which resisted her touch, but which
differed not from the furniture of the house, save in warmth, and in the
power of locomotion; and not even in these respects from the dog and the
cat.
‘But the immortal spirit which had been implanted within her could not
die, nor be maimed nor mutilated; and though most of its avenues of
communication with the world were cut off, it began to manifest itself
through the others. As soon as she could walk, she began to explore the
room, and then the house; she became familiar with the form, density,
weight, and heat, of every article she could lay her hands upon. She
followed her mother, and felt her hands and arms, as she was occupied
about the house; and her disposition to imitate, led her to repeat
everything herself. She even learned to sew a little, and to knit.’
The reader will scarcely need to be told, however, that the opportunities
of communicating with her, were very, very limited; and that the moral
effects of her wretched state soon began to appear. Those who cannot be
enlightened by reason, can only be controlled by force; and this, coupled
with her great privations, must soon have reduced her to a worse
condition than that of the beasts that perish, but for timely and
unhoped-for aid.
‘At this time, I was so fortunate as to hear of the child, and
immediately hastened to Hanover to see her. I found her with a
well-formed figure; a strongly-marked, nervous-sanguine temperament; a
large and beautifully-shaped head; and the whole system in healthy
action. The parents were easily induced to consent to her coming to
Boston, and on the 4th of October, 1837, they brought her to the
Institution.
‘For a while, she was much bewildered; and after waiting about two weeks,
until she became acquainted with her new locality, and somewhat familiar
with the inmates, the attempt was made to give her knowledge of arbitrary
signs, by which she could interchange thoughts with others.
‘There was one of two ways to be adopted: either to go on to build up a
language of signs on the basis of the natural language which she had
already commenced herself, or to teach her the purely arbitrary language
in common use: that is, to give her a sign for every individual thing, or
to give her a knowledge of letters by combination of which she might
express her idea of the existence, and the mode and condition of
existence, of any thing. The former would have been easy, but very
ineffectual; the latter seemed very difficult, but, if accomplished, very
effectual. I determined therefore to try the latter.
‘The first experiments were made by taking articles in common use, such
as knives, forks, spoons, keys, &c., and pasting upon them labels with
their names printed in raised letters. These she felt very carefully,
and soon, of course, distinguished that the crooked lines _spoon_,
differed as much from the crooked lines _key_, as the spoon differed from
the key in form.
‘Then small detached labels, with the same words printed upon them, were
put into her hands; and she soon observed that they were similar to the
ones pasted on the articles.’ She showed her perception of this
similarity by laying the label _key_ upon the key, and the label _spoon_
upon the spoon. She was encouraged here by the natural sign of
approbation, patting on the head.
‘The same process was then repeated with all the articles which she could
handle; and she very easily learned to place the proper labels upon them.
It was evident, however, that the only intellectual exercise was that of
imitation and memory. She recollected that the label _book_ was placed
upon a book, and she repeated the process first from imitation, next from
memory, with only the motive of love of approbation, but apparently
without the intellectual perception of any relation between the things.
‘After a while, instead of labels, the individual letters were given to
her on detached bits of paper: they were arranged side by side so as to
spell _book_, _key_, &c.; then they were mixed up in a heap and a sign
was made for her to arrange them herself so as to express the words
_book_, _key_, &c.; and she did so.
‘Hitherto, the process had been mechanical, and the success about as
great as teaching a very knowing dog a variety of tricks. The poor child
had sat in mute amazement, and patiently imitated everything her teacher
did; but now the truth began to flash upon her: her intellect began to
work: she perceived that here was a way by which she could herself make
up a sign of anything that was in her own mind, and show it to another
mind; and at once her countenance lighted up with a human expression: it
was no longer a dog, or parrot: it was an immortal spirit, eagerly
seizing upon a new link of union with other spirits! I could almost fix
upon the moment when this truth dawned upon her mind, and spread its
light to her countenance; I saw that the great obstacle was overcome; and
that henceforward nothing but patient and persevering, but plain and
straightforward, efforts were to be used.
‘The result thus far, is quickly related, and easily conceived; but not
so was the process; for many weeks of apparently unprofitable labour were
passed before it was effected.
‘When it was said above that a sign was made, it was intended to say,
that the action was performed by her teacher, she feeling his hands, and
then imitating the motion.
‘The next step was to procure a set of metal types, with the different
letters of the alphabet cast upon their ends; also a board, in which were
square holes, into which holes she could set the types; so that the
letters on their ends could alone be felt above the surface.
‘Then, on any article being handed to her, for instance, a pencil, or a
watch, she would select the component letters, and arrange them on her
board, and read them with apparent pleasure.
‘She was exercised for several weeks in this way, until her vocabulary
became extensive; and then the important step was taken of teaching her
how to represent the different letters by the position of her fingers,
instead of the cumbrous apparatus of the board and types. She
accomplished this speedily and easily, for her intellect had begun to
work in aid of her teacher, and her progress was rapid.
‘This was the period, about three months after she had commenced, that
the first report of her case was made, in which it was stated that “she
has just learned the manual alphabet, as used by the deaf mutes, and it
is a subject of delight and wonder to see how rapidly, correctly, and
eagerly, she goes on with her labours. Her teacher gives her a new
object, for instance, a pencil, first lets her examine it, and get an
idea of its use, then teaches her how to spell it by making the signs for
the letters with her own fingers: the child grasps her hand, and feels
her fingers, as the different letters are formed; she turns her head a
little on one side like a person listening closely; her lips are apart;
she seems scarcely to breathe; and her countenance, at first anxious,
gradually changes to a smile, as she comprehends the lesson. She then
holds up her tiny fingers, and spells the word in the manual alphabet;
next, she takes her types and arranges her letters; and last, to make
sure that she is right, she takes the whole of the types composing the
word, and places them upon or in contact with the pencil, or whatever the
object may be.”
‘The whole of the succeeding year was passed in gratifying her eager
inquiries for the names of every object which she could possibly handle;
in exercising her in the use of the manual alphabet; in extending in
every possible way her knowledge of the physical relations of things; and
in proper care of her health.
‘At the end of the year a report of her case was made, from which the
following is an extract.
‘“It has been ascertained beyond the possibility of doubt, that she
cannot see a ray of light, cannot hear the least sound, and never
exercises her sense of smell, if she have any. Thus her mind dwells in
darkness and stillness, as profound as that of a closed tomb at midnight.
Of beautiful sights, and sweet sounds, and pleasant odours, she has no
conception; nevertheless, she seems as happy and playful as a bird or a
lamb; and the employment of her intellectual faculties, or the
acquirement of a new idea, gives her a vivid pleasure, which is plainly
marked in her expressive features. She never seems to repine, but has
all the buoyancy and gaiety of childhood. She is fond of fun and frolic,
and when playing with the rest of the children, her shrill laugh sounds
loudest of the group.
‘“When left alone, she seems very happy if she have her knitting or
sewing, and will busy herself for hours; if she have no occupation, she
evidently amuses herself by imaginary dialogues, or by recalling past
impressions; she counts with her fingers, or spells out names of things
which she has recently learned, in the manual alphabet of the deaf mutes.
In this lonely self-communion she seems to reason, reflect, and argue; if
she spell a word wrong with the fingers of her right hand, she instantly
strikes it with her left, as her teacher does, in sign of disapprobation;
if right, then she pats herself upon the head, and looks pleased. She
sometimes purposely spells a word wrong with the left hand, looks roguish
for a moment and laughs, and then with the right hand strikes the left,
as if to correct it.
‘“During the year she has attained great dexterity in the use of the
manual alphabet of the deaf mutes; and she spells out the words and
sentences which she knows, so fast and so deftly, that only those
accustomed to this language can follow with the eye the rapid motions of
her fingers.
‘“But wonderful as is the rapidity with which she writes her thoughts
upon the air, still more so is the ease and accuracy with which she reads
the words thus written by another; grasping their hands in hers, and
following every movement of their fingers, as letter after letter conveys
their meaning to her mind. It is in this way that she converses with her
blind playmates, and nothing can more forcibly show the power of mind in
forcing matter to its purpose than a meeting between them. For if great
talent and skill are necessary for two pantomimes to paint their thoughts
and feelings by the movements of the body, and the expression of the
countenance, how much greater the difficulty when darkness shrouds them
both, and the one can hear no sound.
‘“When Laura is walking through a passage-way, with her hands spread
before her, she knows instantly every one she meets, and passes them with
a sign of recognition: but if it be a girl of her own age, and especially
if it be one of her favourites, there is instantly a bright smile of
recognition, a twining of arms, a grasping of hands, and a swift
telegraphing upon the tiny fingers; whose rapid evolutions convey the
thoughts and feelings from the outposts of one mind to those of the
other. There are questions and answers, exchanges of joy or sorrow,
there are kissings and partings, just as between little children with all
their senses.”
‘During this year, and six months after she had left home, her mother
came to visit her, and the scene of their meeting was an interesting one.
‘The mother stood some time, gazing with overflowing eyes upon her
unfortunate child, who, all unconscious of her presence, was playing
about the room. Presently Laura ran against her, and at once began
feeling her hands, examining her dress, and trying to find out if she
knew her; but not succeeding in this, she turned away as from a stranger,
and the poor woman could not conceal the pang she felt, at finding that
her beloved child did not know her.
‘She then gave Laura a string of beads which she used to wear at home,
which were recognised by the child at once, who, with much joy, put them
around her neck, and sought me eagerly to say she understood the string
was from her home.
‘The mother now sought to caress her, but poor Laura repelled her,
preferring to be with her acquaintances.
‘Another article from home was now given her, and she began to look much
interested; she examined the stranger much closer, and gave me to
understand that she knew she came from Hanover; she even endured her
caresses, but would leave her with indifference at the slightest signal.
The distress of the mother was now painful to behold; for, although she
had feared that she should not be recognised, the painful reality of
being treated with cold indifference by a darling child, was too much for
woman’s nature to bear.
‘After a while, on the mother taking hold of her again, a vague idea
seemed to flit across Laura’s mind, that this could not be a stranger;
she therefore felt her hands very eagerly, while her countenance assumed
an expression of intense interest; she became very pale; and then
suddenly red; hope seemed struggling with doubt and anxiety, and never
were contending emotions more strongly painted upon the human face: at
this moment of painful uncertainty, the mother drew her close to her
side, and kissed her fondly, when at once the truth flashed upon the
child, and all mistrust and anxiety disappeared from her face, as with an
expression of exceeding joy she eagerly nestled to the bosom of her
parent, and yielded herself to her fond embraces.
‘After this, the beads were all unheeded; the playthings which were
offered to her were utterly disregarded; her playmates, for whom but a
moment before she gladly left the stranger, now vainly strove to pull her
from her mother; and though she yielded her usual instantaneous obedience
to my signal to follow me, it was evidently with painful reluctance. She
clung close to me, as if bewildered and fearful; and when, after a
moment, I took her to her mother, she sprang to her arms, and clung to
her with eager joy.
‘The subsequent parting between them, showed alike the affection, the
intelligence, and the resolution of the child.
‘Laura accompanied her mother to the door, clinging close to her all the
way, until they arrived at the threshold, where she paused, and felt
around, to ascertain who was near her. Perceiving the matron, of whom
she is very fond, she grasped her with one hand, holding on convulsively
to her mother with the other; and thus she stood for a moment: then she
dropped her mother’s hand; put her handkerchief to her eyes; and turning
round, clung sobbing to the matron; while her mother departed, with
emotions as deep as those of her child.
* * * * * *
‘It has been remarked in former reports, that she can distinguish
different degrees of intellect in others, and that she soon regarded,
almost with contempt, a new-comer, when, after a few days, she discovered
her weakness of mind. This unamiable part of her character has been more
strongly developed during the past year.
‘She chooses for her friends and companions, those children who are
intelligent, and can talk best with her; and she evidently dislikes to be
with those who are deficient in intellect, unless, indeed, she can make
them serve her purposes, which she is evidently inclined to do. She
takes advantage of them, and makes them wait upon her, in a manner that
she knows she could not exact of others; and in various ways shows her
Saxon blood.
‘She is fond of having other children noticed and caressed by the
teachers, and those whom she respects; but this must not be carried too
far, or she becomes jealous. She wants to have her share, which, if not
the lion’s, is the greater part; and if she does not get it, she says,
“_My mother will love me_.”
‘Her tendency to imitation is so strong, that it leads her to actions
which must be entirely incomprehensible to her, and which can give her no
other pleasure than the gratification of an internal faculty. She has
been known to sit for half an hour, holding a book before her sightless
eyes, and moving her lips, as she has observed seeing people do when
reading.
‘She one day pretended that her doll was sick; and went through all the
motions of tending it, and giving it medicine; she then put it carefully
to bed, and placed a bottle of hot water to its feet, laughing all the
time most heartily. When I came home, she insisted upon my going to see
it, and feel its pulse; and when I told her to put a blister on its back,
she seemed to enjoy it amazingly, and almost screamed with delight.
‘Her social feelings, and her affections, are very strong; and when she
is sitting at work, or at her studies, by the side of one of her little
friends, she will break off from her task every few moments, to hug and
kiss them with an earnestness and warmth that is touching to behold.
‘When left alone, she occupies and apparently amuses herself, and seems
quite contented; and so strong seems to be the natural tendency of
thought to put on the garb of language, that she often soliloquizes in
the _finger language_, slow and tedious as it is. But it is only when
alone, that she is quiet: for if she becomes sensible of the presence of
any one near her, she is restless until she can sit close beside them,
hold their hand, and converse with them by signs.
‘In her intellectual character it is pleasing to observe an insatiable
thirst for knowledge, and a quick perception of the relations of things.
In her moral character, it is beautiful to behold her continual gladness,
her keen enjoyment of existence, her expansive love, her unhesitating
confidence, her sympathy with suffering, her conscientiousness,
truthfulness, and hopefulness.’
Such are a few fragments from the simple but most interesting and
instructive history of Laura Bridgman. The name of her great benefactor
and friend, who writes it, is Dr. Howe. There are not many persons, I
hope and believe, who, after reading these passages, can ever hear that
name with indifference.
A further account has been published by Dr. Howe, since the report from
which I have just quoted. It describes her rapid mental growth and
improvement during twelve months more, and brings her little history down
to the end of last year. It is very remarkable, that as we dream in
words, and carry on imaginary conversations, in which we speak both for
ourselves and for the shadows who appear to us in those visions of the
night, so she, having no words, uses her finger alphabet in her sleep.
And it has been ascertained that when her slumber is broken, and is much
disturbed by dreams, she expresses her thoughts in an irregular and
confused manner on her fingers: just as we should murmur and mutter them
indistinctly, in the like circumstances.
I turned over the leaves of her Diary, and found it written in a fair
legible square hand, and expressed in terms which were quite intelligible
without any explanation. On my saying that I should like to see her
write again, the teacher who sat beside her, bade her, in their language,
sign her name upon a slip of paper, twice or thrice. In doing so, I
observed that she kept her left hand always touching, and following up,
her right, in which, of course, she held the pen. No line was indicated
by any contrivance, but she wrote straight and freely.
She had, until now, been quite unconscious of the presence of visitors;
but, having her hand placed in that of the gentleman who accompanied me,
she immediately expressed his name upon her teacher’s palm. Indeed her
sense of touch is now so exquisite, that having been acquainted with a
person once, she can recognise him or her after almost any interval.
This gentleman had been in her company, I believe, but very seldom, and
certainly had not seen her for many months. My hand she rejected at
once, as she does that of any man who is a stranger to her. But she
retained my wife’s with evident pleasure, kissed her, and examined her
dress with a girl’s curiosity and interest.
She was merry and cheerful, and showed much innocent playfulness in her
intercourse with her teacher. Her delight on recognising a favourite
playfellow and companion—herself a blind girl—who silently, and with an
equal enjoyment of the coming surprise, took a seat beside her, was
beautiful to witness. It elicited from her at first, as other slight
circumstances did twice or thrice during my visit, an uncouth noise which
was rather painful to hear. But of her teacher touching her lips, she
immediately desisted, and embraced her laughingly and affectionately.
I had previously been into another chamber, where a number of blind boys
were swinging, and climbing, and engaged in various sports. They all
clamoured, as we entered, to the assistant-master, who accompanied us,
‘Look at me, Mr. Hart! Please, Mr. Hart, look at me!’ evincing, I
thought, even in this, an anxiety peculiar to their condition, that their
little feats of agility should be _seen_. Among them was a small
laughing fellow, who stood aloof, entertaining himself with a gymnastic
exercise for bringing the arms and chest into play; which he enjoyed
mightily; especially when, in thrusting out his right arm, he brought it
into contact with another boy. Like Laura Bridgman, this young child was
deaf, and dumb, and blind.
Dr. Howe’s account of this pupil’s first instruction is so very striking,
and so intimately connected with Laura herself, that I cannot refrain
from a short extract. I may premise that the poor boy’s name is Oliver
Caswell; that he is thirteen years of age; and that he was in full
possession of all his faculties, until three years and four months old.
He was then attacked by scarlet fever; in four weeks became deaf; in a
few weeks more, blind; in six months, dumb. He showed his anxious sense
of this last deprivation, by often feeling the lips of other persons when
they were talking, and then putting his hand upon his own, as if to
assure himself that he had them in the right position.
‘His thirst for knowledge,’ says Dr. Howe, ‘proclaimed itself as soon as
he entered the house, by his eager examination of everything he could
feel or smell in his new location. For instance, treading upon the
register of a furnace, he instantly stooped down, and began to feel it,
and soon discovered the way in which the upper plate moved upon the lower
one; but this was not enough for him, so lying down upon his face, he
applied his tongue first to one, then to the other, and seemed to
discover that they were of different kinds of metal.
‘His signs were expressive: and the strictly natural language, laughing,
crying, sighing, kissing, embracing, &c., was perfect.
‘Some of the analogical signs which (guided by his faculty of imitation)
he had contrived, were comprehensible; such as the waving motion of his
hand for the motion of a boat, the circular one for a wheel, &c.
‘The first object was to break up the use of these signs and to
substitute for them the use of purely arbitrary ones.
‘Profiting by the experience I had gained in the other cases, I omitted
several steps of the process before employed, and commenced at once with
the finger language. Taking, therefore, several articles having short
names, such as key, cup, mug, &c., and with Laura for an auxiliary, I sat
down, and taking his hand, placed it upon one of them, and then with my
own, made the letters _key_. He felt my hands eagerly with both of his,
and on my repeating the process, he evidently tried to imitate the
motions of my fingers. In a few minutes he contrived to feel the motions
of my fingers with one hand, and holding out the other he tried to
imitate them, laughing most heartily when he succeeded. Laura was by,
interested even to agitation; and the two presented a singular sight: her
face was flushed and anxious, and her fingers twining in among ours so
closely as to follow every motion, but so slightly as not to embarrass
them; while Oliver stood attentive, his head a little aside, his face
turned up, his left hand grasping mine, and his right held out: at every
motion of my fingers his countenance betokened keen attention; there was
an expression of anxiety as he tried to imitate the motions; then a smile
came stealing out as he thought he could do so, and spread into a joyous
laugh the moment he succeeded, and felt me pat his head, and Laura clap
him heartily upon the back, and jump up and down in her joy.
‘He learned more than a half-dozen letters in half an hour, and seemed
delighted with his success, at least in gaining approbation. His
attention then began to flag, and I commenced playing with him. It was
evident that in all this he had merely been imitating the motions of my
fingers, and placing his hand upon the key, cup, &c., as part of the
process, without any perception of the relation between the sign and the
object.
‘When he was tired with play I took him back to the table, and he was
quite ready to begin again his process of imitation. He soon learned to
make the letters for _key_, _pen_, _pin_; and by having the object
repeatedly placed in his hand, he at last perceived the relation I wished
to establish between them. This was evident, because, when I made the
letters _pin_, or _pen_, or _cup_, he would select the article.
‘The perception of this relation was not accompanied by that radiant
flash of intelligence, and that glow of joy, which marked the delightful
moment when Laura first perceived it. I then placed all the articles on
the table, and going away a little distance with the children, placed
Oliver’s fingers in the positions to spell _key_, on which Laura went and
brought the article: the little fellow seemed much amused by this, and
looked very attentive and smiling. I then caused him to make the letters
_bread_, and in an instant Laura went and brought him a piece: he smelled
at it; put it to his lips; cocked up his head with a most knowing look;
seemed to reflect a moment; and then laughed outright, as much as to say,
“Aha! I understand now how something may be made out of this.”
‘It was now clear that he had the capacity and inclination to learn, that
he was a proper subject for instruction, and needed only persevering
attention. I therefore put him in the hands of an intelligent teacher,
nothing doubting of his rapid progress.’
Well may this gentleman call that a delightful moment, in which some
distant promise of her present state first gleamed upon the darkened mind
of Laura Bridgman. Throughout his life, the recollection of that moment
will be to him a source of pure, unfading happiness; nor will it shine
less brightly on the evening of his days of Noble Usefulness.
The affection which exists between these two—the master and the pupil—is
as far removed from all ordinary care and regard, as the circumstances in
which it has had its growth, are apart from the common occurrences of
life. He is occupied now, in devising means of imparting to her, higher
knowledge; and of conveying to her some adequate idea of the Great
Creator of that universe in which, dark and silent and scentless though
it be to her, she has such deep delight and glad enjoyment.
Ye who have eyes and see not, and have ears and hear not; ye who are as
the hypocrites of sad countenances, and disfigure your faces that ye may
seem unto men to fast; learn healthy cheerfulness, and mild contentment,
from the deaf, and dumb, and blind! Self-elected saints with gloomy
brows, this sightless, earless, voiceless child may teach you lessons you
will do well to follow. Let that poor hand of hers lie gently on your
hearts; for there may be something in its healing touch akin to that of
the Great Master whose precepts you misconstrue, whose lessons you
pervert, of whose charity and sympathy with all the world, not one among
you in his daily practice knows as much as many of the worst among those
fallen sinners, to whom you are liberal in nothing but the preachment of
perdition!
As I rose to quit the room, a pretty little child of one of the
attendants came running in to greet its father. For the moment, a child
with eyes, among the sightless crowd, impressed me almost as painfully as
the blind boy in the porch had done, two hours ago. Ah! how much
brighter and more deeply blue, glowing and rich though it had been
before, was the scene without, contrasting with the darkness of so many
youthful lives within!
* * * * *
At SOUTH BOSTON, as it is called, in a situation excellently adapted for
the purpose, several charitable institutions are clustered together. One
of these, is the State Hospital for the insane; admirably conducted on
those enlightened principles of conciliation and kindness, which twenty
years ago would have been worse than heretical, and which have been acted
upon with so much success in our own pauper Asylum at Hanwell. ‘Evince a
desire to show some confidence, and repose some trust, even in mad
people,’ said the resident physician, as we walked along the galleries,
his patients flocking round us unrestrained. Of those who deny or doubt
the wisdom of this maxim after witnessing its effects, if there be such
people still alive, I can only say that I hope I may never be summoned as
a Juryman on a Commission of Lunacy whereof they are the subjects; for I
should certainly find them out of their senses, on such evidence alone.
Each ward in this institution is shaped like a long gallery or hall, with
the dormitories of the patients opening from it on either hand. Here
they work, read, play at skittles, and other games; and when the weather
does not admit of their taking exercise out of doors, pass the day
together. In one of these rooms, seated, calmly, and quite as a matter
of course, among a throng of mad-women, black and white, were the
physician’s wife and another lady, with a couple of children. These
ladies were graceful and handsome; and it was not difficult to perceive
at a glance that even their presence there, had a highly beneficial
influence on the patients who were grouped about them.
Leaning her head against the chimney-piece, with a great assumption of
dignity and refinement of manner, sat an elderly female, in as many
scraps of finery as Madge Wildfire herself. Her head in particular was
so strewn with scraps of gauze and cotton and bits of paper, and had so
many queer odds and ends stuck all about it, that it looked like a
bird’s-nest. She was radiant with imaginary jewels; wore a rich pair of
undoubted gold spectacles; and gracefully dropped upon her lap, as we
approached, a very old greasy newspaper, in which I dare say she had been
reading an account of her own presentation at some Foreign Court.
I have been thus particular in describing her, because she will serve to
exemplify the physician’s manner of acquiring and retaining the
confidence of his patients.
‘This,’ he said aloud, taking me by the hand, and advancing to the
fantastic figure with great politeness—not raising her suspicions by the
slightest look or whisper, or any kind of aside, to me: ‘This lady is the
hostess of this mansion, sir. It belongs to her. Nobody else has
anything whatever to do with it. It is a large establishment, as you
see, and requires a great number of attendants. She lives, you observe,
in the very first style. She is kind enough to receive my visits, and to
permit my wife and family to reside here; for which it is hardly
necessary to say, we are much indebted to her. She is exceedingly
courteous, you perceive,’ on this hint she bowed condescendingly, ‘and
will permit me to have the pleasure of introducing you: a gentleman from
England, Ma’am: newly arrived from England, after a very tempestuous
passage: Mr. Dickens,—the lady of the house!’
We exchanged the most dignified salutations with profound gravity and
respect, and so went on. The rest of the madwomen seemed to understand
the joke perfectly (not only in this case, but in all the others, except
their own), and be highly amused by it. The nature of their several
kinds of insanity was made known to me in the same way, and we left each
of them in high good humour. Not only is a thorough confidence
established, by those means, between the physician and patient, in
respect of the nature and extent of their hallucinations, but it is easy
to understand that opportunities are afforded for seizing any moment of
reason, to startle them by placing their own delusion before them in its
most incongruous and ridiculous light.
Every patient in this asylum sits down to dinner every day with a knife
and fork; and in the midst of them sits the gentleman, whose manner of
dealing with his charges, I have just described. At every meal, moral
influence alone restrains the more violent among them from cutting the
throats of the rest; but the effect of that influence is reduced to an
absolute certainty, and is found, even as a means of restraint, to say
nothing of it as a means of cure, a hundred times more efficacious than
all the strait-waistcoats, fetters, and handcuffs, that ignorance,
prejudice, and cruelty have manufactured since the creation of the world.
In the labour department, every patient is as freely trusted with the
tools of his trade as if he were a sane man. In the garden, and on the
farm, they work with spades, rakes, and hoes. For amusement, they walk,
run, fish, paint, read, and ride out to take the air in carriages
provided for the purpose. They have among themselves a sewing society to
make clothes for the poor, which holds meetings, passes resolutions,
never comes to fisty-cuffs or bowie-knives as sane assemblies have been
known to do elsewhere; and conducts all its proceedings with the greatest
decorum. The irritability, which would otherwise be expended on their
own flesh, clothes, and furniture, is dissipated in these pursuits. They
are cheerful, tranquil, and healthy.
Once a week they have a ball, in which the Doctor and his family, with
all the nurses and attendants, take an active part. Dances and marches
are performed alternately, to the enlivening strains of a piano; and now
and then some gentleman or lady (whose proficiency has been previously
ascertained) obliges the company with a song: nor does it ever
degenerate, at a tender crisis, into a screech or howl; wherein, I must
confess, I should have thought the danger lay. At an early hour they all
meet together for these festive purposes; at eight o’clock refreshments
are served; and at nine they separate.
Immense politeness and good breeding are observed throughout. They all
take their tone from the Doctor; and he moves a very Chesterfield among
the company. Like other assemblies, these entertainments afford a
fruitful topic of conversation among the ladies for some days; and the
gentlemen are so anxious to shine on these occasions, that they have been
sometimes found ‘practising their steps’ in private, to cut a more
distinguished figure in the dance.
It is obvious that one great feature of this system, is the inculcation
and encouragement, even among such unhappy persons, of a decent
self-respect. Something of the same spirit pervades all the Institutions
at South Boston.
There is the House of Industry. In that branch of it, which is devoted
to the reception of old or otherwise helpless paupers, these words are
painted on the walls: ‘WORTHY OF NOTICE. SELF-GOVERNMENT, QUIETUDE, AND
PEACE, ARE BLESSINGS.’ It is not assumed and taken for granted that
being there they must be evil-disposed and wicked people, before whose
vicious eyes it is necessary to flourish threats and harsh restraints.
They are met at the very threshold with this mild appeal. All
within-doors is very plain and simple, as it ought to be, but arranged
with a view to peace and comfort. It costs no more than any other plan
of arrangement, but it speaks an amount of consideration for those who
are reduced to seek a shelter there, which puts them at once upon their
gratitude and good behaviour. Instead of being parcelled out in great,
long, rambling wards, where a certain amount of weazen life may mope, and
pine, and shiver, all day long, the building is divided into separate
rooms, each with its share of light and air. In these, the better kind
of paupers live. They have a motive for exertion and becoming pride, in
the desire to make these little chambers comfortable and decent.
I do not remember one but it was clean and neat, and had its plant or two
upon the window-sill, or row of crockery upon the shelf, or small display
of coloured prints upon the whitewashed wall, or, perhaps, its wooden
clock behind the door.
The orphans and young children are in an adjoining building separate from
this, but a part of the same Institution. Some are such little
creatures, that the stairs are of Lilliputian measurement, fitted to
their tiny strides. The same consideration for their years and weakness
is expressed in their very seats, which are perfect curiosities, and look
like articles of furniture for a pauper doll’s-house. I can imagine the
glee of our Poor Law Commissioners at the notion of these seats having
arms and backs; but small spines being of older date than their
occupation of the Board-room at Somerset House, I thought even this
provision very merciful and kind.
Here again, I was greatly pleased with the inscriptions on the wall,
which were scraps of plain morality, easily remembered and understood:
such as ‘Love one another’—‘God remembers the smallest creature in his
creation:’ and straightforward advice of that nature. The books and
tasks of these smallest of scholars, were adapted, in the same judicious
manner, to their childish powers. When we had examined these lessons,
four morsels of girls (of whom one was blind) sang a little song, about
the merry month of May, which I thought (being extremely dismal) would
have suited an English November better. That done, we went to see their
sleeping-rooms on the floor above, in which the arrangements were no less
excellent and gentle than those we had seen below. And after observing
that the teachers were of a class and character well suited to the spirit
of the place, I took leave of the infants with a lighter heart than ever
I have taken leave of pauper infants yet.
Connected with the House of Industry, there is also an Hospital, which
was in the best order, and had, I am glad to say, many beds unoccupied.
It had one fault, however, which is common to all American interiors: the
presence of the eternal, accursed, suffocating, red-hot demon of a stove,
whose breath would blight the purest air under Heaven.
There are two establishments for boys in this same neighbourhood. One is
called the Boylston school, and is an asylum for neglected and indigent
boys who have committed no crime, but who in the ordinary course of
things would very soon be purged of that distinction if they were not
taken from the hungry streets and sent here. The other is a House of
Reformation for Juvenile Offenders. They are both under the same roof,
but the two classes of boys never come in contact.
The Boylston boys, as may be readily supposed, have very much the
advantage of the others in point of personal appearance. They were in
their school-room when I came upon them, and answered correctly, without
book, such questions as where was England; how far was it; what was its
population; its capital city; its form of government; and so forth. They
sang a song too, about a farmer sowing his seed: with corresponding
action at such parts as ‘’tis thus he sows,’ ‘he turns him round,’ ‘he
claps his hands;’ which gave it greater interest for them, and accustomed
them to act together, in an orderly manner. They appeared exceedingly
well-taught, and not better taught than fed; for a more chubby-looking
full-waistcoated set of boys, I never saw.
The juvenile offenders had not such pleasant faces by a great deal, and
in this establishment there were many boys of colour. I saw them first
at their work (basket-making, and the manufacture of palm-leaf hats),
afterwards in their school, where they sang a chorus in praise of
Liberty: an odd, and, one would think, rather aggravating, theme for
prisoners. These boys are divided into four classes, each denoted by a
numeral, worn on a badge upon the arm. On the arrival of a new-comer, he
is put into the fourth or lowest class, and left, by good behaviour, to
work his way up into the first. The design and object of this
Institution is to reclaim the youthful criminal by firm but kind and
judicious treatment; to make his prison a place of purification and
improvement, not of demoralisation and corruption; to impress upon him
that there is but one path, and that one sober industry, which can ever
lead him to happiness; to teach him how it may be trodden, if his
footsteps have never yet been led that way; and to lure him back to it if
they have strayed: in a word, to snatch him from destruction, and restore
him to society a penitent and useful member. The importance of such an
establishment, in every point of view, and with reference to every
consideration of humanity and social policy, requires no comment.
One other establishment closes the catalogue. It is the House of
Correction for the State, in which silence is strictly maintained, but
where the prisoners have the comfort and mental relief of seeing each
other, and of working together. This is the improved system of Prison
Discipline which we have imported into England, and which has been in
successful operation among us for some years past.
America, as a new and not over-populated country, has in all her prisons,
the one great advantage, of being enabled to find useful and profitable
work for the inmates; whereas, with us, the prejudice against prison
labour is naturally very strong, and almost insurmountable, when honest
men who have not offended against the laws are frequently doomed to seek
employment in vain. Even in the United States, the principle of bringing
convict labour and free labour into a competition which must obviously be
to the disadvantage of the latter, has already found many opponents,
whose number is not likely to diminish with access of years.
For this very reason though, our best prisons would seem at the first
glance to be better conducted than those of America. The treadmill is
conducted with little or no noise; five hundred men may pick oakum in the
same room, without a sound; and both kinds of labour admit of such keen
and vigilant superintendence, as will render even a word of personal
communication amongst the prisoners almost impossible. On the other
hand, the noise of the loom, the forge, the carpenter’s hammer, or the
stonemason’s saw, greatly favour those opportunities of
intercourse—hurried and brief no doubt, but opportunities still—which
these several kinds of work, by rendering it necessary for men to be
employed very near to each other, and often side by side, without any
barrier or partition between them, in their very nature present. A
visitor, too, requires to reason and reflect a little, before the sight
of a number of men engaged in ordinary labour, such as he is accustomed
to out of doors, will impress him half as strongly as the contemplation
of the same persons in the same place and garb would, if they were
occupied in some task, marked and degraded everywhere as belonging only
to felons in jails. In an American state prison or house of correction,
I found it difficult at first to persuade myself that I was really in a
jail: a place of ignominious punishment and endurance. And to this hour
I very much question whether the humane boast that it is not like one,
has its root in the true wisdom or philosophy of the matter.
I hope I may not be misunderstood on this subject, for it is one in which
I take a strong and deep interest. I incline as little to the sickly
feeling which makes every canting lie or maudlin speech of a notorious
criminal a subject of newspaper report and general sympathy, as I do to
those good old customs of the good old times which made England, even so
recently as in the reign of the Third King George, in respect of her
criminal code and her prison regulations, one of the most bloody-minded
and barbarous countries on the earth. If I thought it would do any good
to the rising generation, I would cheerfully give my consent to the
disinterment of the bones of any genteel highwayman (the more genteel,
the more cheerfully), and to their exposure, piecemeal, on any sign-post,
gate, or gibbet, that might be deemed a good elevation for the purpose.
My reason is as well convinced that these gentry were as utterly
worthless and debauched villains, as it is that the laws and jails
hardened them in their evil courses, or that their wonderful escapes were
effected by the prison-turnkeys who, in those admirable days, had always
been felons themselves, and were, to the last, their bosom-friends and
pot-companions. At the same time I know, as all men do or should, that
the subject of Prison Discipline is one of the highest importance to any
community; and that in her sweeping reform and bright example to other
countries on this head, America has shown great wisdom, great
benevolence, and exalted policy. In contrasting her system with that
which we have modelled upon it, I merely seek to show that with all its
drawbacks, ours has some advantages of its own.
The House of Correction which has led to these remarks, is not walled,
like other prisons, but is palisaded round about with tall rough stakes,
something after the manner of an enclosure for keeping elephants in, as
we see it represented in Eastern prints and pictures. The prisoners wear
a parti-coloured dress; and those who are sentenced to hard labour, work
at nail-making, or stone-cutting. When I was there, the latter class of
labourers were employed upon the stone for a new custom-house in course
of erection at Boston. They appeared to shape it skilfully and with
expedition, though there were very few among them (if any) who had not
acquired the art within the prison gates.
The women, all in one large room, were employed in making light clothing,
for New Orleans and the Southern States. They did their work in silence
like the men; and like them were over-looked by the person contracting
for their labour, or by some agent of his appointment. In addition to
this, they are every moment liable to be visited by the prison officers
appointed for that purpose.
The arrangements for cooking, washing of clothes, and so forth, are much
upon the plan of those I have seen at home. Their mode of bestowing the
prisoners at night (which is of general adoption) differs from ours, and
is both simple and effective. In the centre of a lofty area, lighted by
windows in the four walls, are five tiers of cells, one above the other;
each tier having before it a light iron gallery, attainable by stairs of
the same construction and material: excepting the lower one, which is on
the ground. Behind these, back to back with them and facing the opposite
wall, are five corresponding rows of cells, accessible by similar means:
so that supposing the prisoners locked up in their cells, an officer
stationed on the ground, with his back to the wall, has half their number
under his eye at once; the remaining half being equally under the
observation of another officer on the opposite side; and all in one great
apartment. Unless this watch be corrupted or sleeping on his post, it is
impossible for a man to escape; for even in the event of his forcing the
iron door of his cell without noise (which is exceedingly improbable),
the moment he appears outside, and steps into that one of the five
galleries on which it is situated, he must be plainly and fully visible
to the officer below. Each of these cells holds a small truckle bed, in
which one prisoner sleeps; never more. It is small, of course; and the
door being not solid, but grated, and without blind or curtain, the
prisoner within is at all times exposed to the observation and inspection
of any guard who may pass along that tier at any hour or minute of the
night. Every day, the prisoners receive their dinner, singly, through a
trap in the kitchen wall; and each man carries his to his sleeping cell
to eat it, where he is locked up, alone, for that purpose, one hour. The
whole of this arrangement struck me as being admirable; and I hope that
the next new prison we erect in England may be built on this plan.
I was given to understand that in this prison no swords or fire-arms, or
even cudgels, are kept; nor is it probable that, so long as its present
excellent management continues, any weapon, offensive or defensive, will
ever be required within its bounds.
Such are the Institutions at South Boston! In all of them, the
unfortunate or degenerate citizens of the State are carefully instructed
in their duties both to God and man; are surrounded by all reasonable
means of comfort and happiness that their condition will admit of; are
appealed to, as members of the great human family, however afflicted,
indigent, or fallen; are ruled by the strong Heart, and not by the strong
(though immeasurably weaker) Hand. I have described them at some length;
firstly, because their worth demanded it; and secondly, because I mean to
take them for a model, and to content myself with saying of others we may
come to, whose design and purpose are the same, that in this or that
respect they practically fail, or differ.
I wish by this account of them, imperfect in its execution, but in its
just intention, honest, I could hope to convey to my readers
one-hundredth part of the gratification, the sights I have described,
afforded me.
* * * * *
To an Englishman, accustomed to the paraphernalia of Westminster Hall, an
American Court of Law is as odd a sight as, I suppose, an English Court
of Law would be to an American. Except in the Supreme Court at
Washington (where the judges wear a plain black robe), there is no such
thing as a wig or gown connected with the administration of justice. The
gentlemen of the bar being barristers and attorneys too (for there is no
division of those functions as in England) are no more removed from their
clients than attorneys in our Court for the Relief of Insolvent Debtors
are, from theirs. The jury are quite at home, and make themselves as
comfortable as circumstances will permit. The witness is so little
elevated above, or put aloof from, the crowd in the court, that a
stranger entering during a pause in the proceedings would find it
difficult to pick him out from the rest. And if it chanced to be a
criminal trial, his eyes, in nine cases out of ten, would wander to the
dock in search of the prisoner, in vain; for that gentleman would most
likely be lounging among the most distinguished ornaments of the legal
profession, whispering suggestions in his counsel’s ear, or making a
toothpick out of an old quill with his penknife.
I could not but notice these differences, when I visited the courts at
Boston. I was much surprised at first, too, to observe that the counsel
who interrogated the witness under examination at the time, did so
_sitting_. But seeing that he was also occupied in writing down the
answers, and remembering that he was alone and had no ‘junior,’ I quickly
consoled myself with the reflection that law was not quite so expensive
an article here, as at home; and that the absence of sundry formalities
which we regard as indispensable, had doubtless a very favourable
influence upon the bill of costs.
In every Court, ample and commodious provision is made for the
accommodation of the citizens. This is the case all through America. In
every Public Institution, the right of the people to attend, and to have
an interest in the proceedings, is most fully and distinctly recognised.
There are no grim door-keepers to dole out their tardy civility by the
sixpenny-worth; nor is there, I sincerely believe, any insolence of
office of any kind. Nothing national is exhibited for money; and no
public officer is a showman. We have begun of late years to imitate this
good example. I hope we shall continue to do so; and that in the fulness
of time, even deans and chapters may be converted.
In the civil court an action was trying, for damages sustained in some
accident upon a railway. The witnesses had been examined, and counsel
was addressing the jury. The learned gentleman (like a few of his
English brethren) was desperately long-winded, and had a remarkable
capacity of saying the same thing over and over again. His great theme
was ‘Warren the ěn_gine_ driver,’ whom he pressed into the service of
every sentence he uttered. I listened to him for about a quarter of an
hour; and, coming out of court at the expiration of that time, without
the faintest ray of enlightenment as to the merits of the case, felt as
if I were at home again.
In the prisoner’s cell, waiting to be examined by the magistrate on a
charge of theft, was a boy. This lad, instead of being committed to a
common jail, would be sent to the asylum at South Boston, and there
taught a trade; and in the course of time he would be bound apprentice to
some respectable master. Thus, his detection in this offence, instead of
being the prelude to a life of infamy and a miserable death, would lead,
there was a reasonable hope, to his being reclaimed from vice, and
becoming a worthy member of society.
I am by no means a wholesale admirer of our legal solemnities, many of
which impress me as being exceedingly ludicrous. Strange as it may seem
too, there is undoubtedly a degree of protection in the wig and gown—a
dismissal of individual responsibility in dressing for the part—which
encourages that insolent bearing and language, and that gross perversion
of the office of a pleader for The Truth, so frequent in our courts of
law. Still, I cannot help doubting whether America, in her desire to
shake off the absurdities and abuses of the old system, may not have gone
too far into the opposite extreme; and whether it is not desirable,
especially in the small community of a city like this, where each man
knows the other, to surround the administration of justice with some
artificial barriers against the ‘Hail fellow, well met’ deportment of
everyday life. All the aid it can have in the very high character and
ability of the Bench, not only here but elsewhere, it has, and well
deserves to have; but it may need something more: not to impress the
thoughtful and the well-informed, but the ignorant and heedless; a class
which includes some prisoners and many witnesses. These institutions
were established, no doubt, upon the principle that those who had so
large a share in making the laws, would certainly respect them. But
experience has proved this hope to be fallacious; for no men know better
than the judges of America, that on the occasion of any great popular
excitement the law is powerless, and cannot, for the time, assert its own
supremacy.
The tone of society in Boston is one of perfect politeness, courtesy, and
good breeding. The ladies are unquestionably very beautiful—in face: but
there I am compelled to stop. Their education is much as with us;
neither better nor worse. I had heard some very marvellous stories in
this respect; but not believing them, was not disappointed. Blue ladies
there are, in Boston; but like philosophers of that colour and sex in
most other latitudes, they rather desire to be thought superior than to
be so. Evangelical ladies there are, likewise, whose attachment to the
forms of religion, and horror of theatrical entertainments, are most
exemplary. Ladies who have a passion for attending lectures are to be
found among all classes and all conditions. In the kind of provincial
life which prevails in cities such as this, the Pulpit has great
influence. The peculiar province of the Pulpit in New England (always
excepting the Unitarian Ministry) would appear to be the denouncement of
all innocent and rational amusements. The church, the chapel, and the
lecture-room, are the only means of excitement excepted; and to the
church, the chapel, and the lecture-room, the ladies resort in crowds.
Wherever religion is resorted to, as a strong drink, and as an escape
from the dull monotonous round of home, those of its ministers who pepper
the highest will be the surest to please. They who strew the Eternal
Path with the greatest amount of brimstone, and who most ruthlessly tread
down the flowers and leaves that grow by the wayside, will be voted the
most righteous; and they who enlarge with the greatest pertinacity on the
difficulty of getting into heaven, will be considered by all true
believers certain of going there: though it would be hard to say by what
process of reasoning this conclusion is arrived at. It is so at home,
and it is so abroad. With regard to the other means of excitement, the
Lecture, it has at least the merit of being always new. One lecture
treads so quickly on the heels of another, that none are remembered; and
the course of this month may be safely repeated next, with its charm of
novelty unbroken, and its interest unabated.
The fruits of the earth have their growth in corruption. Out of the
rottenness of these things, there has sprung up in Boston a sect of
philosophers known as Transcendentalists. On inquiring what this
appellation might be supposed to signify, I was given to understand that
whatever was unintelligible would be certainly transcendental. Not
deriving much comfort from this elucidation, I pursued the inquiry still
further, and found that the Transcendentalists are followers of my friend
Mr. Carlyle, or I should rather say, of a follower of his, Mr. Ralph
Waldo Emerson. This gentleman has written a volume of Essays, in which,
among much that is dreamy and fanciful (if he will pardon me for saying
so), there is much more that is true and manly, honest and bold.
Transcendentalism has its occasional vagaries (what school has not?), but
it has good healthful qualities in spite of them; not least among the
number a hearty disgust of Cant, and an aptitude to detect her in all the
million varieties of her everlasting wardrobe. And therefore if I were a
Bostonian, I think I would be a Transcendentalist.
The only preacher I heard in Boston was Mr. Taylor, who addresses himself
peculiarly to seamen, and who was once a mariner himself. I found his
chapel down among the shipping, in one of the narrow, old, water-side
streets, with a gay blue flag waving freely from its roof. In the
gallery opposite to the pulpit were a little choir of male and female
singers, a violoncello, and a violin. The preacher already sat in the
pulpit, which was raised on pillars, and ornamented behind him with
painted drapery of a lively and somewhat theatrical appearance. He
looked a weather-beaten hard-featured man, of about six or eight and
fifty; with deep lines graven as it were into his face, dark hair, and a
stern, keen eye. Yet the general character of his countenance was
pleasant and agreeable. The service commenced with a hymn, to which
succeeded an extemporary prayer. It had the fault of frequent
repetition, incidental to all such prayers; but it was plain and
comprehensive in its doctrines, and breathed a tone of general sympathy
and charity, which is not so commonly a characteristic of this form of
address to the Deity as it might be. That done he opened his discourse,
taking for his text a passage from the Song of Solomon, laid upon the
desk before the commencement of the service by some unknown member of the
congregation: ‘Who is this coming up from the wilderness, leaning on the
arm of her beloved!’
He handled his text in all kinds of ways, and twisted it into all manner
of shapes; but always ingeniously, and with a rude eloquence, well
adapted to the comprehension of his hearers. Indeed if I be not
mistaken, he studied their sympathies and understandings much more than
the display of his own powers. His imagery was all drawn from the sea,
and from the incidents of a seaman’s life; and was often remarkably good.
He spoke to them of ‘that glorious man, Lord Nelson,’ and of Collingwood;
and drew nothing in, as the saying is, by the head and shoulders, but
brought it to bear upon his purpose, naturally, and with a sharp mind to
its effect. Sometimes, when much excited with his subject, he had an odd
way—compounded of John Bunyan, and Balfour of Burley—of taking his great
quarto Bible under his arm and pacing up and down the pulpit with it;
looking steadily down, meantime, into the midst of the congregation.
Thus, when he applied his text to the first assemblage of his hearers,
and pictured the wonder of the church at their presumption in forming a
congregation among themselves, he stopped short with his Bible under his
arm in the manner I have described, and pursued his discourse after this
manner:
‘Who are these—who are they—who are these fellows? where do they come
from? Where are they going to?—Come from! What’s the answer?’—leaning
out of the pulpit, and pointing downward with his right hand: ‘From
below!’—starting back again, and looking at the sailors before him: ‘From
below, my brethren. From under the hatches of sin, battened down above
you by the evil one. That’s where you came from!’—a walk up and down the
pulpit: ‘and where are you going’—stopping abruptly: ‘where are you
going? Aloft!’—very softly, and pointing upward: ‘Aloft!’—louder:
‘aloft!’—louder still: ‘That’s where you are going—with a fair wind,—all
taut and trim, steering direct for Heaven in its glory, where there are
no storms or foul weather, and where the wicked cease from troubling, and
the weary are at rest.’—Another walk: ‘That’s where you’re going to, my
friends. That’s it. That’s the place. That’s the port. That’s the
haven. It’s a blessed harbour—still water there, in all changes of the
winds and tides; no driving ashore upon the rocks, or slipping your
cables and running out to sea, there: Peace—Peace—Peace—all
peace!’—Another walk, and patting the Bible under his left arm: ‘What!
These fellows are coming from the wilderness, are they? Yes. From the
dreary, blighted wilderness of Iniquity, whose only crop is Death. But
do they lean upon anything—do they lean upon nothing, these poor
seamen?’—Three raps upon the Bible: ‘Oh yes.—Yes.—They lean upon the arm
of their Beloved’—three more raps: ‘upon the arm of their Beloved’—three
more, and a walk: ‘Pilot, guiding-star, and compass, all in one, to all
hands—here it is’—three more: ‘Here it is. They can do their seaman’s
duty manfully, and be easy in their minds in the utmost peril and danger,
with this’—two more: ‘They can come, even these poor fellows can come,
from the wilderness leaning on the arm of their Beloved, and go
up—up—up!’—raising his hand higher, and higher, at every repetition of
the word, so that he stood with it at last stretched above his head,
regarding them in a strange, rapt manner, and pressing the book
triumphantly to his breast, until he gradually subsided into some other
portion of his discourse.
I have cited this, rather as an instance of the preacher’s eccentricities
than his merits, though taken in connection with his look and manner, and
the character of his audience, even this was striking. It is possible,
however, that my favourable impression of him may have been greatly
influenced and strengthened, firstly, by his impressing upon his hearers
that the true observance of religion was not inconsistent with a cheerful
deportment and an exact discharge of the duties of their station, which,
indeed, it scrupulously required of them; and secondly, by his cautioning
them not to set up any monopoly in Paradise and its mercies. I never
heard these two points so wisely touched (if indeed I have ever heard
them touched at all), by any preacher of that kind before.
Having passed the time I spent in Boston, in making myself acquainted
with these things, in settling the course I should take in my future
travels, and in mixing constantly with its society, I am not aware that I
have any occasion to prolong this chapter. Such of its social customs as
I have not mentioned, however, may be told in a very few words.
The usual dinner-hour is two o’clock. A dinner party takes place at
five; and at an evening party, they seldom sup later than eleven; so that
it goes hard but one gets home, even from a rout, by midnight. I never
could find out any difference between a party at Boston and a party in
London, saving that at the former place all assemblies are held at more
rational hours; that the conversation may possibly be a little louder and
more cheerful; and a guest is usually expected to ascend to the very top
of the house to take his cloak off; that he is certain to see, at every
dinner, an unusual amount of poultry on the table; and at every supper,
at least two mighty bowls of hot stewed oysters, in any one of which a
half-grown Duke of Clarence might be smothered easily.
There are two theatres in Boston, of good size and construction, but
sadly in want of patronage. The few ladies who resort to them, sit, as
of right, in the front rows of the boxes.
The bar is a large room with a stone floor, and there people stand and
smoke, and lounge about, all the evening: dropping in and out as the
humour takes them. There too the stranger is initiated into the
mysteries of Gin-sling, Cock-tail, Sangaree, Mint Julep, Sherry-cobbler,
Timber Doodle, and other rare drinks. The house is full of boarders,
both married and single, many of whom sleep upon the premises, and
contract by the week for their board and lodging: the charge for which
diminishes as they go nearer the sky to roost. A public table is laid in
a very handsome hall for breakfast, and for dinner, and for supper. The
party sitting down together to these meals will vary in number from one
to two hundred: sometimes more. The advent of each of these epochs in
the day is proclaimed by an awful gong, which shakes the very
window-frames as it reverberates through the house, and horribly disturbs
nervous foreigners. There is an ordinary for ladies, and an ordinary for
gentlemen.
In our private room the cloth could not, for any earthly consideration,
have been laid for dinner without a huge glass dish of cranberries in the
middle of the table; and breakfast would have been no breakfast unless
the principal dish were a deformed beef-steak with a great flat bone in
the centre, swimming in hot butter, and sprinkled with the very blackest
of all possible pepper. Our bedroom was spacious and airy, but (like
every bedroom on this side of the Atlantic) very bare of furniture,
having no curtains to the French bedstead or to the window. It had one
unusual luxury, however, in the shape of a wardrobe of painted wood,
something smaller than an English watch-box; or if this comparison should
be insufficient to convey a just idea of its dimensions, they may be
estimated from the fact of my having lived for fourteen days and nights
in the firm belief that it was a shower-bath.
CHAPTER IV
AN AMERICAN RAILROAD. LOWELL AND ITS FACTORY SYSTEM
BEFORE leaving Boston, I devoted one day to an excursion to Lowell. I
assign a separate chapter to this visit; not because I am about to
describe it at any great length, but because I remember it as a thing by
itself, and am desirous that my readers should do the same.
I made acquaintance with an American railroad, on this occasion, for the
first time. As these works are pretty much alike all through the States,
their general characteristics are easily described.
There are no first and second class carriages as with us; but there is a
gentleman’s car and a ladies’ car: the main distinction between which is
that in the first, everybody smokes; and in the second, nobody does. As
a black man never travels with a white one, there is also a negro car;
which is a great, blundering, clumsy chest, such as Gulliver put to sea
in, from the kingdom of Brobdingnag. There is a great deal of jolting, a
great deal of noise, a great deal of wall, not much window, a locomotive
engine, a shriek, and a bell.
The cars are like shabby omnibuses, but larger: holding thirty, forty,
fifty, people. The seats, instead of stretching from end to end, are
placed crosswise. Each seat holds two persons. There is a long row of
them on each side of the caravan, a narrow passage up the middle, and a
door at both ends. In the centre of the carriage there is usually a
stove, fed with charcoal or anthracite coal; which is for the most part
red-hot. It is insufferably close; and you see the hot air fluttering
between yourself and any other object you may happen to look at, like the
ghost of smoke.
In the ladies’ car, there are a great many gentlemen who have ladies with
them. There are also a great many ladies who have nobody with them: for
any lady may travel alone, from one end of the United States to the
other, and be certain of the most courteous and considerate treatment
everywhere. The conductor or check-taker, or guard, or whatever he may
be, wears no uniform. He walks up and down the car, and in and out of
it, as his fancy dictates; leans against the door with his hands in his
pockets and stares at you, if you chance to be a stranger; or enters into
conversation with the passengers about him. A great many newspapers are
pulled out, and a few of them are read. Everybody talks to you, or to
anybody else who hits his fancy. If you are an Englishman, he expects
that that railroad is pretty much like an English railroad. If you say
‘No,’ he says ‘Yes?’ (interrogatively), and asks in what respect they
differ. You enumerate the heads of difference, one by one, and he says
‘Yes?’ (still interrogatively) to each. Then he guesses that you don’t
travel faster in England; and on your replying that you do, says ‘Yes?’
again (still interrogatively), and it is quite evident, don’t believe it.
After a long pause he remarks, partly to you, and partly to the knob on
the top of his stick, that ‘Yankees are reckoned to be considerable of a
go-ahead people too;’ upon which _you_ say ‘Yes,’ and then _he_ says
‘Yes’ again (affirmatively this time); and upon your looking out of
window, tells you that behind that hill, and some three miles from the
next station, there is a clever town in a smart lo-ca-tion, where he
expects you have concluded to stop. Your answer in the negative
naturally leads to more questions in reference to your intended route
(always pronounced rout); and wherever you are going, you invariably
learn that you can’t get there without immense difficulty and danger, and
that all the great sights are somewhere else.
If a lady take a fancy to any male passenger’s seat, the gentleman who
accompanies her gives him notice of the fact, and he immediately vacates
it with great politeness. Politics are much discussed, so are banks, so
is cotton. Quiet people avoid the question of the Presidency, for there
will be a new election in three years and a half, and party feeling runs
very high: the great constitutional feature of this institution being,
that directly the acrimony of the last election is over, the acrimony of
the next one begins; which is an unspeakable comfort to all strong
politicians and true lovers of their country: that is to say, to
ninety-nine men and boys out of every ninety-nine and a quarter.
Except when a branch road joins the main one, there is seldom more than
one track of rails; so that the road is very narrow, and the view, where
there is a deep cutting, by no means extensive. When there is not, the
character of the scenery is always the same. Mile after mile of stunted
trees: some hewn down by the axe, some blown down by the wind, some half
fallen and resting on their neighbours, many mere logs half hidden in the
swamp, others mouldered away to spongy chips. The very soil of the earth
is made up of minute fragments such as these; each pool of stagnant water
has its crust of vegetable rottenness; on every side there are the
boughs, and trunks, and stumps of trees, in every possible stage of
decay, decomposition, and neglect. Now you emerge for a few brief
minutes on an open country, glittering with some bright lake or pool,
broad as many an English river, but so small here that it scarcely has a
name; now catch hasty glimpses of a distant town, with its clean white
houses and their cool piazzas, its prim New England church and
school-house; when whir-r-r-r! almost before you have seen them, comes
the same dark screen: the stunted trees, the stumps, the logs, the
stagnant water—all so like the last that you seem to have been
transported back again by magic.
The train calls at stations in the woods, where the wild impossibility of
anybody having the smallest reason to get out, is only to be equalled by
the apparently desperate hopelessness of there being anybody to get in.
It rushes across the turnpike road, where there is no gate, no policeman,
no signal: nothing but a rough wooden arch, on which is painted ‘WHEN THE
BELL RINGS, LOOK OUT FOR THE LOCOMOTIVE.’ On it whirls headlong, dives
through the woods again, emerges in the light, clatters over frail
arches, rumbles upon the heavy ground, shoots beneath a wooden bridge
which intercepts the light for a second like a wink, suddenly awakens all
the slumbering echoes in the main street of a large town, and dashes on
haphazard, pell-mell, neck-or-nothing, down the middle of the road.
There—with mechanics working at their trades, and people leaning from
their doors and windows, and boys flying kites and playing marbles, and
men smoking, and women talking, and children crawling, and pigs
burrowing, and unaccustomed horses plunging and rearing, close to the
very rails—there—on, on, on—tears the mad dragon of an engine with its
train of cars; scattering in all directions a shower of burning sparks
from its wood fire; screeching, hissing, yelling, panting; until at last
the thirsty monster stops beneath a covered way to drink, the people
cluster round, and you have time to breathe again.
I was met at the station at Lowell by a gentleman intimately connected
with the management of the factories there; and gladly putting myself
under his guidance, drove off at once to that quarter of the town in
which the works, the object of my visit, were situated. Although only
just of age—for if my recollection serve me, it has been a manufacturing
town barely one-and-twenty years—Lowell is a large, populous, thriving
place. Those indications of its youth which first attract the eye, give
it a quaintness and oddity of character which, to a visitor from the old
country, is amusing enough. It was a very dirty winter’s day, and
nothing in the whole town looked old to me, except the mud, which in some
parts was almost knee-deep, and might have been deposited there, on the
subsiding of the waters after the Deluge. In one place, there was a new
wooden church, which, having no steeple, and being yet unpainted, looked
like an enormous packing-case without any direction upon it. In another
there was a large hotel, whose walls and colonnades were so crisp, and
thin, and slight, that it had exactly the appearance of being built with
cards. I was careful not to draw my breath as we passed, and trembled
when I saw a workman come out upon the roof, lest with one thoughtless
stamp of his foot he should crush the structure beneath him, and bring it
rattling down. The very river that moves the machinery in the mills (for
they are all worked by water power), seems to acquire a new character
from the fresh buildings of bright red brick and painted wood among which
it takes its course; and to be as light-headed, thoughtless, and brisk a
young river, in its murmurings and tumblings, as one would desire to see.
One would swear that every ‘Bakery,’ ‘Grocery,’ and ‘Bookbindery,’ and
other kind of store, took its shutters down for the first time, and
started in business yesterday. The golden pestles and mortars fixed as
signs upon the sun-blind frames outside the Druggists’, appear to have
been just turned out of the United States’ Mint; and when I saw a baby of
some week or ten days old in a woman’s arms at a street corner, I found
myself unconsciously wondering where it came from: never supposing for an
instant that it could have been born in such a young town as that.
There are several factories in Lowell, each of which belongs to what we
should term a Company of Proprietors, but what they call in America a
Corporation. I went over several of these; such as a woollen factory, a
carpet factory, and a cotton factory: examined them in every part; and
saw them in their ordinary working aspect, with no preparation of any
kind, or departure from their ordinary everyday proceedings. I may add
that I am well acquainted with our manufacturing towns in England, and
have visited many mills in Manchester and elsewhere in the same manner.
I happened to arrive at the first factory just as the dinner hour was
over, and the girls were returning to their work; indeed the stairs of
the mill were thronged with them as I ascended. They were all well
dressed, but not to my thinking above their condition; for I like to see
the humbler classes of society careful of their dress and appearance, and
even, if they please, decorated with such little trinkets as come within
the compass of their means. Supposing it confined within reasonable
limits, I would always encourage this kind of pride, as a worthy element
of self-respect, in any person I employed; and should no more be deterred
from doing so, because some wretched female referred her fall to a love
of dress, than I would allow my construction of the real intent and
meaning of the Sabbath to be influenced by any warning to the
well-disposed, founded on his backslidings on that particular day, which
might emanate from the rather doubtful authority of a murderer in
Newgate.
These girls, as I have said, were all well dressed: and that phrase
necessarily includes extreme cleanliness. They had serviceable bonnets,
good warm cloaks, and shawls; and were not above clogs and pattens.
Moreover, there were places in the mill in which they could deposit these
things without injury; and there were conveniences for washing. They
were healthy in appearance, many of them remarkably so, and had the
manners and deportment of young women: not of degraded brutes of burden.
If I had seen in one of those mills (but I did not, though I looked for
something of this kind with a sharp eye), the most lisping, mincing,
affected, and ridiculous young creature that my imagination could
suggest, I should have thought of the careless, moping, slatternly,
degraded, dull reverse (I _have_ seen that), and should have been still
well pleased to look upon her.
The rooms in which they worked, were as well ordered as themselves. In
the windows of some, there were green plants, which were trained to shade
the glass; in all, there was as much fresh air, cleanliness, and comfort,
as the nature of the occupation would possibly admit of. Out of so large
a number of females, many of whom were only then just verging upon
womanhood, it may be reasonably supposed that some were delicate and
fragile in appearance: no doubt there were. But I solemnly declare, that
from all the crowd I saw in the different factories that day, I cannot
recall or separate one young face that gave me a painful impression; not
one young girl whom, assuming it to be a matter of necessity that she
should gain her daily bread by the labour of her hands, I would have
removed from those works if I had had the power.
They reside in various boarding-houses near at hand. The owners of the
mills are particularly careful to allow no persons to enter upon the
possession of these houses, whose characters have not undergone the most
searching and thorough inquiry. Any complaint that is made against them,
by the boarders, or by any one else, is fully investigated; and if good
ground of complaint be shown to exist against them, they are removed, and
their occupation is handed over to some more deserving person. There are
a few children employed in these factories, but not many. The laws of
the State forbid their working more than nine months in the year, and
require that they be educated during the other three. For this purpose
there are schools in Lowell; and there are churches and chapels of
various persuasions, in which the young women may observe that form of
worship in which they have been educated.
At some distance from the factories, and on the highest and pleasantest
ground in the neighbourhood, stands their hospital, or boarding-house for
the sick: it is the best house in those parts, and was built by an
eminent merchant for his own residence. Like that institution at Boston,
which I have before described, it is not parcelled out into wards, but is
divided into convenient chambers, each of which has all the comforts of a
very comfortable home. The principal medical attendant resides under the
same roof; and were the patients members of his own family, they could
not be better cared for, or attended with greater gentleness and
consideration. The weekly charge in this establishment for each female
patient is three dollars, or twelve shillings English; but no girl
employed by any of the corporations is ever excluded for want of the
means of payment. That they do not very often want the means, may be
gathered from the fact, that in July, 1841, no fewer than nine hundred
and seventy-eight of these girls were depositors in the Lowell Savings
Bank: the amount of whose joint savings was estimated at one hundred
thousand dollars, or twenty thousand English pounds.
I am now going to state three facts, which will startle a large class of
readers on this side of the Atlantic, very much.
Firstly, there is a joint-stock piano in a great many of the
boarding-houses. Secondly, nearly all these young ladies subscribe to
circulating libraries. Thirdly, they have got up among themselves a
periodical called THE LOWELL OFFERING, ‘A repository of original
articles, written exclusively by females actively employed in the
mills,’—which is duly printed, published, and sold; and whereof I brought
away from Lowell four hundred good solid pages, which I have read from
beginning to end.
The large class of readers, startled by these facts, will exclaim, with
one voice, ‘How very preposterous!’ On my deferentially inquiring why,
they will answer, ‘These things are above their station.’ In reply to
that objection, I would beg to ask what their station is.
It is their station to work. And they _do_ work. They labour in these
mills, upon an average, twelve hours a day, which is unquestionably work,
and pretty tight work too. Perhaps it is above their station to indulge
in such amusements, on any terms. Are we quite sure that we in England
have not formed our ideas of the ‘station’ of working people, from
accustoming ourselves to the contemplation of that class as they are, and
not as they might be? I think that if we examine our own feelings, we
shall find that the pianos, and the circulating libraries, and even the
Lowell Offering, startle us by their novelty, and not by their bearing
upon any abstract question of right or wrong.
For myself, I know no station in which, the occupation of to-day
cheerfully done and the occupation of to-morrow cheerfully looked to, any
one of these pursuits is not most humanising and laudable. I know no
station which is rendered more endurable to the person in it, or more
safe to the person out of it, by having ignorance for its associate. I
know no station which has a right to monopolise the means of mutual
instruction, improvement, and rational entertainment; or which has ever
continued to be a station very long, after seeking to do so.
Of the merits of the Lowell Offering as a literary production, I will
only observe, putting entirely out of sight the fact of the articles
having been written by these girls after the arduous labours of the day,
that it will compare advantageously with a great many English Annuals.
It is pleasant to find that many of its Tales are of the Mills and of
those who work in them; that they inculcate habits of self-denial and
contentment, and teach good doctrines of enlarged benevolence. A strong
feeling for the beauties of nature, as displayed in the solitudes the
writers have left at home, breathes through its pages like wholesome
village air; and though a circulating library is a favourable school for
the study of such topics, it has very scant allusion to fine clothes,
fine marriages, fine houses, or fine life. Some persons might object to
the papers being signed occasionally with rather fine names, but this is
an American fashion. One of the provinces of the state legislature of
Massachusetts is to alter ugly names into pretty ones, as the children
improve upon the tastes of their parents. These changes costing little
or nothing, scores of Mary Annes are solemnly converted into Bevelinas
every session.
It is said that on the occasion of a visit from General Jackson or
General Harrison to this town (I forget which, but it is not to the
purpose), he walked through three miles and a half of these young ladies
all dressed out with parasols and silk stockings. But as I am not aware
that any worse consequence ensued, than a sudden looking-up of all the
parasols and silk stockings in the market; and perhaps the bankruptcy of
some speculative New Englander who bought them all up at any price, in
expectation of a demand that never came; I set no great store by the
circumstance.
In this brief account of Lowell, and inadequate expression of the
gratification it yielded me, and cannot fail to afford to any foreigner
to whom the condition of such people at home is a subject of interest and
anxious speculation, I have carefully abstained from drawing a comparison
between these factories and those of our own land. Many of the
circumstances whose strong influence has been at work for years in our
manufacturing towns have not arisen here; and there is no manufacturing
population in Lowell, so to speak: for these girls (often the daughters
of small farmers) come from other States, remain a few years in the
mills, and then go home for good.
The contrast would be a strong one, for it would be between the Good and
Evil, the living light and deepest shadow. I abstain from it, because I
deem it just to do so. But I only the more earnestly adjure all those
whose eyes may rest on these pages, to pause and reflect upon the
difference between this town and those great haunts of desperate misery:
to call to mind, if they can in the midst of party strife and squabble,
the efforts that must be made to purge them of their suffering and
danger: and last, and foremost, to remember how the precious Time is
rushing by.
I returned at night by the same railroad and in the same kind of car.
One of the passengers being exceedingly anxious to expound at great
length to my companion (not to me, of course) the true principles on
which books of travel in America should be written by Englishmen, I
feigned to fall asleep. But glancing all the way out at window from the
corners of my eyes, I found abundance of entertainment for the rest of
the ride in watching the effects of the wood fire, which had been
invisible in the morning but were now brought out in full relief by the
darkness: for we were travelling in a whirlwind of bright sparks, which
showered about us like a storm of fiery snow.
CHAPTER V
WORCESTER. THE CONNECTICUT RIVER. HARTFORD. NEW HAVEN. TO NEW YORK
LEAVING Boston on the afternoon of Saturday the fifth of February, we
proceeded by another railroad to Worcester: a pretty New England town,
where we had arranged to remain under the hospitable roof of the Governor
of the State, until Monday morning.
These towns and cities of New England (many of which would be villages in
Old England), are as favourable specimens of rural America, as their
people are of rural Americans. The well-trimmed lawns and green meadows
of home are not there; and the grass, compared with our ornamental plots
and pastures, is rank, and rough, and wild: but delicate slopes of land,
gently-swelling hills, wooded valleys, and slender streams, abound.
Every little colony of houses has its church and school-house peeping
from among the white roofs and shady trees; every house is the whitest of
the white; every Venetian blind the greenest of the green; every fine
day’s sky the bluest of the blue. A sharp dry wind and a slight frost
had so hardened the roads when we alighted at Worcester, that their
furrowed tracks were like ridges of granite. There was the usual aspect
of newness on every object, of course. All the buildings looked as if
they had been built and painted that morning, and could be taken down on
Monday with very little trouble. In the keen evening air, every sharp
outline looked a hundred times sharper than ever. The clean cardboard
colonnades had no more perspective than a Chinese bridge on a tea-cup,
and appeared equally well calculated for use. The razor-like edges of
the detached cottages seemed to cut the very wind as it whistled against
them, and to send it smarting on its way with a shriller cry than before.
Those slightly-built wooden dwellings behind which the sun was setting
with a brilliant lustre, could be so looked through and through, that the
idea of any inhabitant being able to hide himself from the public gaze,
or to have any secrets from the public eye, was not entertainable for a
moment. Even where a blazing fire shone through the uncurtained windows
of some distant house, it had the air of being newly lighted, and of
lacking warmth; and instead of awakening thoughts of a snug chamber,
bright with faces that first saw the light round that same hearth, and
ruddy with warm hangings, it came upon one suggestive of the smell of new
mortar and damp walls.
So I thought, at least, that evening. Next morning when the sun was
shining brightly, and the clear church bells were ringing, and sedate
people in their best clothes enlivened the pathway near at hand and
dotted the distant thread of road, there was a pleasant Sabbath
peacefulness on everything, which it was good to feel. It would have
been the better for an old church; better still for some old graves; but
as it was, a wholesome repose and tranquillity pervaded the scene, which
after the restless ocean and the hurried city, had a doubly grateful
influence on the spirits.
We went on next morning, still by railroad, to Springfield. From that
place to Hartford, whither we were bound, is a distance of only
five-and-twenty miles, but at that time of the year the roads were so bad
that the journey would probably have occupied ten or twelve hours.
Fortunately, however, the winter having been unusually mild, the
Connecticut River was ‘open,’ or, in other words, not frozen. The
captain of a small steamboat was going to make his first trip for the
season that day (the second February trip, I believe, within the memory
of man), and only waited for us to go on board. Accordingly, we went on
board, with as little delay as might be. He was as good as his word, and
started directly.
It certainly was not called a small steamboat without reason. I omitted
to ask the question, but I should think it must have been of about half a
pony power. Mr. Paap, the celebrated Dwarf, might have lived and died
happily in the cabin, which was fitted with common sash-windows like an
ordinary dwelling-house. These windows had bright-red curtains, too,
hung on slack strings across the lower panes; so that it looked like the
parlour of a Lilliputian public-house, which had got afloat in a flood or
some other water accident, and was drifting nobody knew where. But even
in this chamber there was a rocking-chair. It would be impossible to get
on anywhere, in America, without a rocking-chair. I am afraid to tell
how many feet short this vessel was, or how many feet narrow: to apply
the words length and width to such measurement would be a contradiction
in terms. But I may state that we all kept the middle of the deck, lest
the boat should unexpectedly tip over; and that the machinery, by some
surprising process of condensation, worked between it and the keel: the
whole forming a warm sandwich, about three feet thick.
It rained all day as I once thought it never did rain anywhere, but in
the Highlands of Scotland. The river was full of floating blocks of ice,
which were constantly crunching and cracking under us; and the depth of
water, in the course we took to avoid the larger masses, carried down the
middle of the river by the current, did not exceed a few inches.
Nevertheless, we moved onward, dexterously; and being well wrapped up,
bade defiance to the weather, and enjoyed the journey. The Connecticut
River is a fine stream; and the banks in summer-time are, I have no
doubt, beautiful; at all events, I was told so by a young lady in the
cabin; and she should be a judge of beauty, if the possession of a
quality include the appreciation of it, for a more beautiful creature I
never looked upon.
After two hours and a half of this odd travelling (including a stoppage
at a small town, where we were saluted by a gun considerably bigger than
our own chimney), we reached Hartford, and straightway repaired to an
extremely comfortable hotel: except, as usual, in the article of
bedrooms, which, in almost every place we visited, were very conducive to
early rising.
We tarried here, four days. The town is beautifully situated in a basin
of green hills; the soil is rich, well-wooded, and carefully improved.
It is the seat of the local legislature of Connecticut, which sage body
enacted, in bygone times, the renowned code of ‘Blue Laws,’ in virtue
whereof, among other enlightened provisions, any citizen who could be
proved to have kissed his wife on Sunday, was punishable, I believe, with
the stocks. Too much of the old Puritan spirit exists in these parts to
the present hour; but its influence has not tended, that I know, to make
the people less hard in their bargains, or more equal in their dealings.
As I never heard of its working that effect anywhere else, I infer that
it never will, here. Indeed, I am accustomed, with reference to great
professions and severe faces, to judge of the goods of the other world
pretty much as I judge of the goods of this; and whenever I see a dealer
in such commodities with too great a display of them in his window, I
doubt the quality of the article within.
In Hartford stands the famous oak in which the charter of King Charles
was hidden. It is now inclosed in a gentleman’s garden. In the State
House is the charter itself. I found the courts of law here, just the
same as at Boston; the public institutions almost as good. The Insane
Asylum is admirably conducted, and so is the Institution for the Deaf and
Dumb.
I very much questioned within myself, as I walked through the Insane
Asylum, whether I should have known the attendants from the patients, but
for the few words which passed between the former, and the Doctor, in
reference to the persons under their charge. Of course I limit this
remark merely to their looks; for the conversation of the mad people was
mad enough.
There was one little, prim old lady, of very smiling and good-humoured
appearance, who came sidling up to me from the end of a long passage, and
with a curtsey of inexpressible condescension, propounded this
unaccountable inquiry:
‘Does Pontefract still flourish, sir, upon the soil of England?’
‘He does, ma’am,’ I rejoined.
‘When you last saw him, sir, he was—’
‘Well, ma’am,’ said I, ‘extremely well. He begged me to present his
compliments. I never saw him looking better.’
At this, the old lady was very much delighted. After glancing at me for
a moment, as if to be quite sure that I was serious in my respectful air,
she sidled back some paces; sidled forward again; made a sudden skip (at
which I precipitately retreated a step or two); and said:
‘_I_ am an antediluvian, sir.’
I thought the best thing to say was, that I had suspected as much from
the first. Therefore I said so.
‘It is an extremely proud and pleasant thing, sir, to be an
antediluvian,’ said the old lady.
‘I should think it was, ma’am,’ I rejoined.
The old lady kissed her hand, gave another skip, smirked and sidled down
the gallery in a most extraordinary manner, and ambled gracefully into
her own bed-chamber.
In another part of the building, there was a male patient in bed; very
much flushed and heated.
‘Well,’ said he, starting up, and pulling off his night-cap: ‘It’s all
settled at last. I have arranged it with Queen Victoria.’
‘Arranged what?’ asked the Doctor.
‘Why, that business,’ passing his hand wearily across his forehead,
‘about the siege of New York.’
‘Oh!’ said I, like a man suddenly enlightened. For he looked at me for
an answer.
‘Yes. Every house without a signal will be fired upon by the British
troops. No harm will be done to the others. No harm at all. Those that
want to be safe, must hoist flags. That’s all they’ll have to do. They
must hoist flags.’
Even while he was speaking he seemed, I thought, to have some faint idea
that his talk was incoherent. Directly he had said these words, he lay
down again; gave a kind of a groan; and covered his hot head with the
blankets.
There was another: a young man, whose madness was love and music. After
playing on the accordion a march he had composed, he was very anxious
that I should walk into his chamber, which I immediately did.
By way of being very knowing, and humouring him to the top of his bent, I
went to the window, which commanded a beautiful prospect, and remarked,
with an address upon which I greatly plumed myself:
‘What a delicious country you have about these lodgings of yours!’
‘Poh!’ said he, moving his fingers carelessly over the notes of his
instrument: ‘_Well enough for such an Institution as this_!’
I don’t think I was ever so taken aback in all my life.
‘I come here just for a whim,’ he said coolly. ‘That’s all.’
‘Oh! That’s all!’ said I.
‘Yes. That’s all. The Doctor’s a smart man. He quite enters into it.
It’s a joke of mine. I like it for a time. You needn’t mention it, but
I think I shall go out next Tuesday!’
I assured him that I would consider our interview perfectly confidential;
and rejoined the Doctor. As we were passing through a gallery on our way
out, a well-dressed lady, of quiet and composed manners, came up, and
proffering a slip of paper and a pen, begged that I would oblige her with
an autograph, I complied, and we parted.
‘I think I remember having had a few interviews like that, with ladies
out of doors. I hope _she_ is not mad?’
‘Yes.’
‘On what subject? Autographs?’
‘No. She hears voices in the air.’
‘Well!’ thought I, ‘it would be well if we could shut up a few false
prophets of these later times, who have professed to do the same; and I
should like to try the experiment on a Mormonist or two to begin with.’
In this place, there is the best jail for untried offenders in the world.
There is also a very well-ordered State prison, arranged upon the same
plan as that at Boston, except that here, there is always a sentry on the
wall with a loaded gun. It contained at that time about two hundred
prisoners. A spot was shown me in the sleeping ward, where a watchman
was murdered some years since in the dead of night, in a desperate
attempt to escape, made by a prisoner who had broken from his cell. A
woman, too, was pointed out to me, who, for the murder of her husband,
had been a close prisoner for sixteen years.
‘Do you think,’ I asked of my conductor, ‘that after so very long an
imprisonment, she has any thought or hope of ever regaining her liberty?’
‘Oh dear yes,’ he answered. ‘To be sure she has.’
‘She has no chance of obtaining it, I suppose?’
‘Well, I don’t know:’ which, by-the-bye, is a national answer. ‘Her
friends mistrust her.’
‘What have _they_ to do with it?’ I naturally inquired.
‘Well, they won’t petition.’
‘But if they did, they couldn’t get her out, I suppose?’
‘Well, not the first time, perhaps, nor yet the second, but tiring and
wearying for a few years might do it.’
‘Does that ever do it?’
‘Why yes, that’ll do it sometimes. Political friends’ll do it sometimes.
It’s pretty often done, one way or another.’
I shall always entertain a very pleasant and grateful recollection of
Hartford. It is a lovely place, and I had many friends there, whom I can
never remember with indifference. We left it with no little regret on
the evening of Friday the 11th, and travelled that night by railroad to
New Haven. Upon the way, the guard and I were formally introduced to
each other (as we usually were on such occasions), and exchanged a
variety of small-talk. We reached New Haven at about eight o’clock,
after a journey of three hours, and put up for the night at the best inn.
New Haven, known also as the City of Elms, is a fine town. Many of its
streets (as its _alias_ sufficiently imports) are planted with rows of
grand old elm-trees; and the same natural ornaments surround Yale
College, an establishment of considerable eminence and reputation. The
various departments of this Institution are erected in a kind of park or
common in the middle of the town, where they are dimly visible among the
shadowing trees. The effect is very like that of an old cathedral yard
in England; and when their branches are in full leaf, must be extremely
picturesque. Even in the winter time, these groups of well-grown trees,
clustering among the busy streets and houses of a thriving city, have a
very quaint appearance: seeming to bring about a kind of compromise
between town and country; as if each had met the other half-way, and
shaken hands upon it; which is at once novel and pleasant.
After a night’s rest, we rose early, and in good time went down to the
wharf, and on board the packet New York _for_ New York. This was the
first American steamboat of any size that I had seen; and certainly to an
English eye it was infinitely less like a steamboat than a huge floating
bath. I could hardly persuade myself, indeed, but that the bathing
establishment off Westminster Bridge, which I left a baby, had suddenly
grown to an enormous size; run away from home; and set up in foreign
parts as a steamer. Being in America, too, which our vagabonds do so
particularly favour, it seemed the more probable.
The great difference in appearance between these packets and ours, is,
that there is so much of them out of the water: the main-deck being
enclosed on all sides, and filled with casks and goods, like any second
or third floor in a stack of warehouses; and the promenade or
hurricane-deck being a-top of that again. A part of the machinery is
always above this deck; where the connecting-rod, in a strong and lofty
frame, is seen working away like an iron top-sawyer. There is seldom any
mast or tackle: nothing aloft but two tall black chimneys. The man at
the helm is shut up in a little house in the fore part of the boat (the
wheel being connected with the rudder by iron chains, working the whole
length of the deck); and the passengers, unless the weather be very fine
indeed, usually congregate below. Directly you have left the wharf, all
the life, and stir, and bustle of a packet cease. You wonder for a long
time how she goes on, for there seems to be nobody in charge of her; and
when another of these dull machines comes splashing by, you feel quite
indignant with it, as a sullen cumbrous, ungraceful, unshiplike
leviathan: quite forgetting that the vessel you are on board of, is its
very counterpart.
There is always a clerk’s office on the lower deck, where you pay your
fare; a ladies’ cabin; baggage and stowage rooms; engineer’s room; and in
short a great variety of perplexities which render the discovery of the
gentlemen’s cabin, a matter of some difficulty. It often occupies the
whole length of the boat (as it did in this case), and has three or four
tiers of berths on each side. When I first descended into the cabin of
the New York, it looked, in my unaccustomed eyes, about as long as the
Burlington Arcade.
The Sound which has to be crossed on this passage, is not always a very
safe or pleasant navigation, and has been the scene of some unfortunate
accidents. It was a wet morning, and very misty, and we soon lost sight
of land. The day was calm, however, and brightened towards noon. After
exhausting (with good help from a friend) the larder, and the stock of
bottled beer, I lay down to sleep; being very much tired with the
fatigues of yesterday. But I woke from my nap in time to hurry up, and
see Hell Gate, the Hog’s Back, the Frying Pan, and other notorious
localities, attractive to all readers of famous Diedrich Knickerbocker’s
History. We were now in a narrow channel, with sloping banks on either
side, besprinkled with pleasant villas, and made refreshing to the sight
by turf and trees. Soon we shot in quick succession, past a light-house;
a madhouse (how the lunatics flung up their caps and roared in sympathy
with the headlong engine and the driving tide!); a jail; and other
buildings: and so emerged into a noble bay, whose waters sparkled in the
now cloudless sunshine like Nature’s eyes turned up to Heaven.
Then there lay stretched out before us, to the right, confused heaps of
buildings, with here and there a spire or steeple, looking down upon the
herd below; and here and there, again, a cloud of lazy smoke; and in the
foreground a forest of ships’ masts, cheery with flapping sails and
waving flags. Crossing from among them to the opposite shore, were steam
ferry-boats laden with people, coaches, horses, waggons, baskets, boxes:
crossed and recrossed by other ferry-boats: all travelling to and fro:
and never idle. Stately among these restless Insects, were two or three
large ships, moving with slow majestic pace, as creatures of a prouder
kind, disdainful of their puny journeys, and making for the broad sea.
Beyond, were shining heights, and islands in the glancing river, and a
distance scarcely less blue and bright than the sky it seemed to meet.
The city’s hum and buzz, the clinking of capstans, the ringing of bells,
the barking of dogs, the clattering of wheels, tingled in the listening
ear. All of which life and stir, coming across the stirring water,
caught new life and animation from its free companionship; and,
sympathising with its buoyant spirits, glistened as it seemed in sport
upon its surface, and hemmed the vessel round, and plashed the water high
about her sides, and, floating her gallantly into the dock, flew off
again to welcome other comers, and speed before them to the busy port.
CHAPTER VI
NEW YORK
THE beautiful metropolis of America is by no means so clean a city as
Boston, but many of its streets have the same characteristics; except
that the houses are not quite so fresh-coloured, the sign-boards are not
quite so gaudy, the gilded letters not quite so golden, the bricks not
quite so red, the stone not quite so white, the blinds and area railings
not quite so green, the knobs and plates upon the street doors not quite
so bright and twinkling. There are many by-streets, almost as neutral in
clean colours, and positive in dirty ones, as by-streets in London; and
there is one quarter, commonly called the Five Points, which, in respect
of filth and wretchedness, may be safely backed against Seven Dials, or
any other part of famed St. Giles’s.
The great promenade and thoroughfare, as most people know, is Broadway; a
wide and bustling street, which, from the Battery Gardens to its opposite
termination in a country road, may be four miles long. Shall we sit down
in an upper floor of the Carlton House Hotel (situated in the best part
of this main artery of New York), and when we are tired of looking down
upon the life below, sally forth arm-in-arm, and mingle with the stream?
Warm weather! The sun strikes upon our heads at this open window, as
though its rays were concentrated through a burning-glass; but the day is
in its zenith, and the season an unusual one. Was there ever such a
sunny street as this Broadway! The pavement stones are polished with the
tread of feet until they shine again; the red bricks of the houses might
be yet in the dry, hot kilns; and the roofs of those omnibuses look as
though, if water were poured on them, they would hiss and smoke, and
smell like half-quenched fires. No stint of omnibuses here!
Half-a-dozen have gone by within as many minutes. Plenty of hackney cabs
and coaches too; gigs, phaetons, large-wheeled tilburies, and private
carriages—rather of a clumsy make, and not very different from the public
vehicles, but built for the heavy roads beyond the city pavement. Negro
coachmen and white; in straw hats, black hats, white hats, glazed caps,
fur caps; in coats of drab, black, brown, green, blue, nankeen, striped
jean and linen; and there, in that one instance (look while it passes, or
it will be too late), in suits of livery. Some southern republican that,
who puts his blacks in uniform, and swells with Sultan pomp and power.
Yonder, where that phaeton with the well-clipped pair of grays has
stopped—standing at their heads now—is a Yorkshire groom, who has not
been very long in these parts, and looks sorrowfully round for a
companion pair of top-boots, which he may traverse the city half a year
without meeting. Heaven save the ladies, how they dress! We have seen
more colours in these ten minutes, than we should have seen elsewhere, in
as many days. What various parasols! what rainbow silks and satins! what
pinking of thin stockings, and pinching of thin shoes, and fluttering of
ribbons and silk tassels, and display of rich cloaks with gaudy hoods and
linings! The young gentlemen are fond, you see, of turning down their
shirt-collars and cultivating their whiskers, especially under the chin;
but they cannot approach the ladies in their dress or bearing, being, to
say the truth, humanity of quite another sort. Byrons of the desk and
counter, pass on, and let us see what kind of men those are behind ye:
those two labourers in holiday clothes, of whom one carries in his hand a
crumpled scrap of paper from which he tries to spell out a hard name,
while the other looks about for it on all the doors and windows.
Irishmen both! You might know them, if they were masked, by their
long-tailed blue coats and bright buttons, and their drab trousers, which
they wear like men well used to working dresses, who are easy in no
others. It would be hard to keep your model republics going, without the
countrymen and countrywomen of those two labourers. For who else would
dig, and delve, and drudge, and do domestic work, and make canals and
roads, and execute great lines of Internal Improvement! Irishmen both,
and sorely puzzled too, to find out what they seek. Let us go down, and
help them, for the love of home, and that spirit of liberty which admits
of honest service to honest men, and honest work for honest bread, no
matter what it be.
That’s well! We have got at the right address at last, though it is
written in strange characters truly, and might have been scrawled with
the blunt handle of the spade the writer better knows the use of, than a
pen. Their way lies yonder, but what business takes them there? They
carry savings: to hoard up? No. They are brothers, those men. One
crossed the sea alone, and working very hard for one half year, and
living harder, saved funds enough to bring the other out. That done,
they worked together side by side, contentedly sharing hard labour and
hard living for another term, and then their sisters came, and then
another brother, and lastly, their old mother. And what now? Why, the
poor old crone is restless in a strange land, and yearns to lay her
bones, she says, among her people in the old graveyard at home: and so
they go to pay her passage back: and God help her and them, and every
simple heart, and all who turn to the Jerusalem of their younger days,
and have an altar-fire upon the cold hearth of their fathers.
This narrow thoroughfare, baking and blistering in the sun, is Wall
Street: the Stock Exchange and Lombard Street of New York. Many a rapid
fortune has been made in this street, and many a no less rapid ruin.
Some of these very merchants whom you see hanging about here now, have
locked up money in their strong-boxes, like the man in the Arabian
Nights, and opening them again, have found but withered leaves. Below,
here by the water-side, where the bowsprits of ships stretch across the
footway, and almost thrust themselves into the windows, lie the noble
American vessels which have made their Packet Service the finest in the
world. They have brought hither the foreigners who abound in all the
streets: not, perhaps, that there are more here, than in other commercial
cities; but elsewhere, they have particular haunts, and you must find
them out; here, they pervade the town.
We must cross Broadway again; gaining some refreshment from the heat, in
the sight of the great blocks of clean ice which are being carried into
shops and bar-rooms; and the pine-apples and water-melons profusely
displayed for sale. Fine streets of spacious houses here, you see!—Wall
Street has furnished and dismantled many of them very often—and here a
deep green leafy square. Be sure that is a hospitable house with inmates
to be affectionately remembered always, where they have the open door and
pretty show of plants within, and where the child with laughing eyes is
peeping out of window at the little dog below. You wonder what may be
the use of this tall flagstaff in the by-street, with something like
Liberty’s head-dress on its top: so do I. But there is a passion for
tall flagstaffs hereabout, and you may see its twin brother in five
minutes, if you have a mind.
Again across Broadway, and so—passing from the many-coloured crowd and
glittering shops—into another long main street, the Bowery. A railroad
yonder, see, where two stout horses trot along, drawing a score or two of
people and a great wooden ark, with ease. The stores are poorer here;
the passengers less gay. Clothes ready-made, and meat ready-cooked, are
to be bought in these parts; and the lively whirl of carriages is
exchanged for the deep rumble of carts and waggons. These signs which
are so plentiful, in shape like river buoys, or small balloons, hoisted
by cords to poles, and dangling there, announce, as you may see by
looking up, ‘OYSTERS IN EVERY STYLE.’ They tempt the hungry most at
night, for then dull candles glimmering inside, illuminate these dainty
words, and make the mouths of idlers water, as they read and linger.
What is this dismal-fronted pile of bastard Egyptian, like an enchanter’s
palace in a melodrama!—a famous prison, called The Tombs. Shall we go
in?
So. A long, narrow, lofty building, stove-heated as usual, with four
galleries, one above the other, going round it, and communicating by
stairs. Between the two sides of each gallery, and in its centre, a
bridge, for the greater convenience of crossing. On each of these
bridges sits a man: dozing or reading, or talking to an idle companion.
On each tier, are two opposite rows of small iron doors. They look like
furnace-doors, but are cold and black, as though the fires within had all
gone out. Some two or three are open, and women, with drooping heads
bent down, are talking to the inmates. The whole is lighted by a
skylight, but it is fast closed; and from the roof there dangle, limp and
drooping, two useless windsails.
A man with keys appears, to show us round. A good-looking fellow, and,
in his way, civil and obliging.
‘Are those black doors the cells?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are they all full?’
‘Well, they’re pretty nigh full, and that’s a fact, and no two ways about
it.’
‘Those at the bottom are unwholesome, surely?’
‘Why, we _do_ only put coloured people in ’em. That’s the truth.’
‘When do the prisoners take exercise?’
‘Well, they do without it pretty much.’
‘Do they never walk in the yard?’
‘Considerable seldom.’
‘Sometimes, I suppose?’
‘Well, it’s rare they do. They keep pretty bright without it.’
‘But suppose a man were here for a twelvemonth. I know this is only a
prison for criminals who are charged with grave offences, while they are
awaiting their trial, or under remand, but the law here affords criminals
many means of delay. What with motions for new trials, and in arrest of
judgment, and what not, a prisoner might be here for twelve months, I
take it, might he not?’
‘Well, I guess he might.’
‘Do you mean to say that in all that time he would never come out at that
little iron door, for exercise?’
‘He might walk some, perhaps—not much.’
‘Will you open one of the doors?’
‘All, if you like.’
The fastenings jar and rattle, and one of the doors turns slowly on its
hinges. Let us look in. A small bare cell, into which the light enters
through a high chink in the wall. There is a rude means of washing, a
table, and a bedstead. Upon the latter, sits a man of sixty; reading.
He looks up for a moment; gives an impatient dogged shake; and fixes his
eyes upon his book again. As we withdraw our heads, the door closes on
him, and is fastened as before. This man has murdered his wife, and will
probably be hanged.
‘How long has he been here?’
‘A month.’
‘When will he be tried?’
‘Next term.’
‘When is that?’
‘Next month.’
‘In England, if a man be under sentence of death, even he has air and
exercise at certain periods of the day.’
‘Possible?’
With what stupendous and untranslatable coolness he says this, and how
loungingly he leads on to the women’s side
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