ENGLISH TRAITS
                     by Ralph Waldo Emerson

 
 
 
        Chapter I _First Visit to England_

        I have been twice in England.  In 1833, on my return from a
short tour in Sicily, Italy, and France, I crossed from Boulogne, and
landed in London at the Tower stairs.  It was a dark Sunday morning;
there were few people in the streets; and I remember the pleasure of
that first walk on English ground, with my companion, an American
artist, from the Tower up through Cheapside and the Strand, to a
house in Russell Square, whither we had been recommended to good
chambers.  For the first time for many months we were forced to check
the saucy habit of travellers' criticism, as we could no longer speak
aloud in the streets without being understood.  The shop-signs spoke
our language; our country names were on the door-plates; and the
public and private buildings wore a more native and wonted front.

        Like most young men at that time, I was much indebted to the
men of Edinburgh, and of the Edinburgh Review, -- to Jeffrey,
Mackintosh, Hallam, and to Scott, Playfair, and De Quincey; and my
narrow and desultory reading had inspired the wish to see the faces
of three or four writers, -- Coleridge, Wordsworth, Landor, De
Quincey, and the latest and strongest contributor to the critical
journals, Carlyle; and I suppose if I had sifted the reasons that led
me to Europe, when I was ill and was advised to travel, it was mainly
the attraction of these persons.  If Goethe had been still living, I
might have wandered into Germany also.  Besides those I have named,
(for Scott was dead,) there was not in Britain the man living whom I
cared to behold, unless it were the Duke of Wellington, whom I
afterwards saw at Westminster Abbey, at the funeral of Wilberforce.
The young scholar fancies it happiness enough to live with people who
can give an inside to the world; without reflecting that they are
prisoners, too, of their own thought, and cannot apply themselves to
yours.  The conditions of literary success are almost destructive of
the best social power, as they do not leave that frolic liberty which
only can encounter a companion on the best terms.  It is probable you
left some obscure comrade at a tavern, or in the farms, with right
mother-wit, and equality to life, when you crossed sea and land to
play bo-peep with celebrated scribes.  I have, however, found writers
superior to their books, and I cling to my first belief, that a
strong head will dispose fast enough of these impediments, and give
one the satisfaction of reality, the sense of having been met, and a
larger horizon.

        On looking over the diary of my journey in 1833, I find nothing
to publish in my memoranda of visits to places.  But I have copied
the few notes I made of visits to persons, as they respect parties
quite too good and too transparent to the whole world to make it
needful to affect any prudery of suppression about a few hints of
those bright personalities.

        At Florence, chief among artists I found Horatio Greenough, the
American sculptor.  His face was so handsome, and his person so well
formed, that he might be pardoned, if, as was alleged, the face of
his Medora, and the figure of a colossal Achilles in clay, were
idealizations of his own.  Greenough was a superior man, ardent and
eloquent, and all his opinions had elevation and magnanimity.  He
believed that the Greeks had wrought in schools or fraternities, --
the genius of the master imparting his design to his friends, and
inflaming them with it, and when his strength was spent, a new hand,
with equal heat, continued the work; and so by relays, until it was
finished in every part with equal fire.  This was necessary in so
refractory a material as stone; and he thought art would never
prosper until we left our shy jealous ways, and worked in society as
they.  All his thoughts breathed the same generosity.  He was an
accurate and a deep man.  He was a votary of the Greeks, and
impatient of Gothic art.  His paper on Architecture, published in
1843, announced in advance the leading thoughts of Mr. Ruskin on the
_morality_ in architecture, notwithstanding the antagonism in their
views of the history of art.  I have a private letter from him, --
later, but respecting the same period, -- in which he roughly
sketches his own theory.  "Here is my theory of structure: A
scientific arrangement of spaces and forms to functions and to site;
an emphasis of features proportioned to their _gradated_ importance
in function; color and ornament to be decided and arranged and varied
by strictly organic laws, having a distinct reason for each decision;
the entire and immediate banishment of all make-shift and
make-believe."

        Greenough brought me, through a common friend, an invitation
from Mr. Landor, who lived at San Domenica di Fiesole.  On the 15th
May I dined with Mr. Landor.  I found him noble and courteous, living
in a cloud of pictures at his Villa Gherardesca, a fine house
commanding a beautiful landscape.  I had inferred from his books, or
magnified from some anecdotes, an impression of Achillean wrath, --
an untamable petulance.  I do not know whether the imputation were
just or not, but certainly on this May day his courtesy veiled that
haughty mind, and he was the most patient and gentle of hosts.  He
praised the beautiful cyclamen which grows all about Florence; he
admired Washington; talked of Wordsworth, Byron, Massinger, Beaumont
and Fletcher.  To be sure, he is decided in his opinions, likes to
surprise, and is well content to impress, if possible, his English
whim upon the immutable past.  No great man ever had a great son, if
Philip and Alexander be not an exception; and Philip he calls the
greater man.  In art, he loves the Greeks, and in sculpture, them
only.  He prefers the Venus to every thing else, and, after that, the
head of Alexander, in the gallery here.  He prefers John of Bologna
to Michael Angelo; in painting, Raffaelle; and shares the growing
taste for Perugino and the early masters.  The Greek histories he
thought the only good; and after them, Voltaire's.  I could not make
him praise Mackintosh, nor my more recent friends; Montaigne very
cordially, -- and Charron also, which seemed undiscriminating.  He
thought Degerando indebted to "Lucas on Happiness" and "Lucas on
Holiness"!  He pestered me with Southey; but who is Southey?

        He invited me to breakfast on Friday.  On Friday I did not fail
to go, and this time with Greenough.  He entertained us at once with
reciting half a dozen hexameter lines of Julius Caesar's! -- from
Donatus, he said.  He glorified Lord Chesterfield more than was
necessary, and undervalued Burke, and undervalued Socrates;
designated as three of the greatest of men, Washington, Phocion, and
Timoleon; much as our pomologists, in their lists, select the three
or the six best pears "for a small orchard;" and did not even omit to
remark the similar termination of their names.  "A great man," he
said, "should make great sacrifices, and kill his hundred oxen,
without knowing whether they would be consumed by gods and heroes, or
whether the flies would eat them." I had visited Professor Amici, who
had shown me his microscopes, magnifying (it was said) two thousand
diameters; and I spoke of the uses to which they were applied.
Landor despised entomology, yet, in the same breath, said, "the
sublime was in a grain of dust." I suppose I teased him about recent
writers, but he professed never to have heard of Herschel, _not even
by name._ One room was full of pictures, which he likes to show,
especially one piece, standing before which, he said "he would give
fifty guineas to the man that would swear it was a Domenichino."  I
was more curious to see his library, but Mr. H----, one of the
guests, told me that Mr. Landor gives away his books, and has never
more than a dozen at a time in his house.

        Mr. Landor carries to its height the love of freak which the
English delight to indulge, as if to signalize their commanding
freedom.  He has a wonderful brain, despotic, violent, and
inexhaustible, meant for a soldier, by what chance converted to
letters, in which there is not a style nor a tint not known to him,
yet with an English appetite for action and heroes.  The thing done
avails, and not what is said about it.  An original sentence, a step
forward, is worth more than all the censures.  Landor is strangely
undervalued in England; usually ignored; and sometimes savagely
attacked in the Reviews.  The criticism may be right, or wrong, and
is quickly forgotten; but year after year the scholar must still go
back to Landor for a multitude of elegant sentences -- for wisdom,
wit, and indignation that are unforgetable.

        From London, on the 5th August, I went to Highgate, and wrote a
note to Mr. Coleridge, requesting leave to pay my respects to him.
It was near noon.  Mr. Coleridge sent a verbal message, that he was
in bed, but if I would call after one o'clock, he would see me.  I
returned at one, and he appeared, a short, thick old man, with bright
blue eyes and fine clear complexion, leaning on his cane.  He took
snuff freely, which presently soiled his cravat and neat black suit.
He asked whether I knew Allston, and spoke warmly of his merits and
doings when he knew him in Rome; what a master of the Titianesque he
was, &c., &c.  He spoke of Dr. Channing.  It was an unspeakable
misfortune that he should have turned out a Unitarian after all.  On
this, he burst into a declamation on the folly and ignorance of
Unitarianism, -- its high unreasonableness; and taking up Bishop
Waterland's book, which lay on the table, he read with vehemence two
or three pages written by himself in the fly-leaves, -- passages,
too, which, I believe, are printed in the "Aids to Reflection." When
he stopped to take breath, I interposed, that, "whilst I highly
valued all his explanations, I was bound to tell him that I was born
and bred a Unitarian." "Yes," he said, "I supposed so;" and continued
as before.  `It was a wonder, that after so many ages of
unquestioning acquiescence in the doctrine of St. Paul, -- the
doctrine of the Trinity, which was also, according to Philo Judaeus,
the doctrine of the Jews before Christ, -- this handful of
Priestleians should take on themselves to deny it, &c., &c.  He was
very sorry that Dr. Channing, -- a man to whom he looked up, -- no,
to say that he looked _up_ to him would be to speak falsely; but a
man whom he looked _at_ with so much interest, -- should embrace such
views.  When he saw Dr. Channing, he had hinted to him that he was
afraid he loved Christianity for what was lovely and excellent, -- he
loved the good in it, and not the true; and I tell you, sir, that I
have known ten persons who loved the good, for one person who loved
the true; but it is a far greater virtue to lovethe true for itself
alone, than to love the good for itself alone.  He (Coleridge) knew
all about Unitarianism perfectly well, because he had once been a
Unitarian, and knew what quackery it was.  He had been called "the
rising star of Unitarianism."' He went on defining, or rather
refining: `The Trinitarian doctrine was realism; the idea of God was
not essential, but superessential;' talked of _trinism_ and
_tetrakism_, and much more, of which I only caught this, `that the
will was that by which a person is a person; because, if one should
push me in the street, and so I should force the man next me into the
kennel, I should at once exclaim, "I did not do it, sir," meaning it
was not my will.' And this also, `that if you should insist on your
faith here in England, and I on mine, mine would be the hotter side
of the fagot.'

        I took advantage of a pause to say, that he had many readers of
all religious opinions in America, and I proceeded to inquire if the
"extract" from the Independent's pamphlet, in the third volume of the
Friend, were a veritable quotation.  He replied, that it was really
taken from a pamphlet in his possession, entitled "A Protest of one
of the Independents," or something to that effect.  I told him how
excellent I thought it, and how much I wished to see the entire work.
"Yes," he said, "the man was a chaos of truths, but lacked the
knowledge that God was a God of order.  Yet the passage would no
doubt strike you more in the quotation than in the original, for I
have filtered it."

        When I rose to go, he said, "I do not know whether you care
about poetry, but I will repeat some verses I lately made on my
baptismal anniversary," and he recited with strong emphasis,
standing, ten or twelve lines, beginning,

        "Born unto God in Christ ----"

        He inquired where I had been travelling; and on learning that I
had been in Malta and Sicily, he compared one island with the other,
`repeating what he had said to the Bishop of London when he returned
from that country, that Sicily was an excellent school of political
economy; for, in any town there, it only needed to ask what the
government enacted, and reverse that to know what ought to be done;
it was the most felicitously opposite legislation to any thing good
and wise.  There were only three things which the government had
brought into that garden of delights, namely, itch, pox, and famine.
Whereas, in Malta, the force of law and mind was seen, in making that
barren rock of semi-Saracen inhabitants the seat of population and
plenty.' Going out, he showed me in the next apartment a picture of
Allston's, and told me `that Montague, a picture-dealer, once came to
see him, and, glancing towards this, said, "Well, you have got a
picture!" thinking it the work of an old master; afterwards,
Montague, still talking with his back to the canvas, put up his hand
and touched it, and exclaimed, "By Heaven! this picture is not ten
years old:" -- so delicate and skilful was that man's touch.'

        I was in his company for about an hour, but find it impossible
to recall the largest part of his discourse, which was often like so
many printed paragraphs in his book, -- perhaps the same, -- so
readily did he fall into certain commonplaces.  As I might have
foreseen, the visit was rather a spectacle than a conversation, of no
use beyond the satisfaction of my curiosity.  He was old and
preoccupied, and could not bend to a new companion and think with
him.

        From Edinburgh I went to the Highlands.  On my return, I came
from Glasgow to Dumfries, and being intent on delivering a letter
which I had brought from Rome, inquired for Craigenputtock.  It was a
farm in Nithsdale, in the parish of Dunscore, sixteen miles distant.
No public coach passed near it, so I took a private carriage from the
inn.  I found the house amid desolate heathery hills, where the
lonely scholar nourished his mighty heart.  Carlyle was a man from
his youth, an author who did not need to hide from his readers, and
as absolute a man of the world, unknown and exiled on that hill-farm,
as if holding on his own terms what is best in London.  He was tall
and gaunt, with a cliff-like brow, self-possessed, and holding his
extraordinary powers of conversation in easy command; clinging to his
northern accent with evident relish; full of lively anecdote, and
with a streaming humor, which floated every thing he looked upon.
His talk playfully exalting the familiar objects, put the companion
at once into an acquaintance with his Lars and Lemurs, and it was
very pleasant to learn what was predestined to be a pretty mythology.
Few were the objects and lonely the man, "not a person to speak to
within sixteen miles except the minister of Dunscore;" so that books
inevitably made his topics.

        He had names of his own for all the matters familiar to his
discourse.  "Blackwood's" was the "sand magazine;" "Fraser's" nearer
approach to possibility of life was the "mud magazine;" a piece of
road near by that marked some failed enterprise was the "grave of the
last sixpence." When too much praise of any genius annoyed him, he
professed hugely to admire the talent shown by his pig.  He had spent
much time and contrivance in confining the poor beast to one
enclosure in his pen, but pig, by great strokes of judgment, had
found out how to let a board down, and had foiled him.  For all that,
he still thought man the most plastic little fellow in the planet,
and he liked Nero's death, _"Qualis artifex pereo!"_ better than most
history.  He worships a man that will manifest any truth to him.  At
one time he had inquired and read a good deal about America.
Landor's principle was mere rebellion, and _that_ he feared was the
American principle.  The best thing he knew of that country was, that
in it a man can have meat for his labor.  He had read in Stewart's
book, that when he inquired in a New York hotel for the Boots, he had
been shown across the street and had found Mungo in his own house
dining on roast turkey.

        We talked of books.  Plato he does not read, and he disparaged
Socrates; and, when pressed, persisted in making Mirabeau a hero.
Gibbon he called the splendid bridge from the old world to the new.
His own reading had been multifarious.  Tristram Shandy was one of
his first books after Robinson Crusoe, and Robertson's America an
early favorite.  Rousseau's Confessions had discovered to him that he
was not a dunce; and it was now ten years since he had learned
German, by the advice of a man who told him he would find in that
language what he wanted.

        He took despairing or satirical views of literature at this
moment; recounted the incredible sums paid in one year by the great
booksellers for puffing.  Hence it comes that no newspaper is trusted
now, no books are bought, and the booksellers are on the eve of
bankruptcy.

        He still returned to English pauperism, the crowded country,
the selfish abdication by public men of all that public persons
should perform.  `Government should direct poor men what to do.  Poor
Irish folk come wandering over these moors.  My dame makes it a rule
to give to every son of Adam bread to eat, and supplies his wants to
the next house.  But here are thousands of acres which might give
them all meat, and nobody to bid these poor Irish go to the moor and
till it.  They burned the stacks, and so found a way to force the
rich people to attend to them.'

        We went out to walk over long hills, and looked at Criffel then
without his cap, and down into Wordsworth's country.  There we sat
down, and talked of the immortality of the soul.  It was not
Carlyle's fault that we talked on that topic, for he had the natural
disinclination of every nimble spirit to bruise itself against walls,
and did not like to place himself where no step can be taken.  But he
was honest and true, and cognizant of the subtile links that bind
ages together, and saw how every event affects all the future.
`Christ died on the tree: that built Dunscore kirk yonder: that
brought you and me together.  Time has only a relative existence.'

        He was already turning his eyes towards London with a scholar's
appreciation.  London is the heart of the world, he said, wonderful
only from the mass of human beings.  He liked the huge machine.  Each
keeps its own round.  The baker's boy brings muffins to the window at
a fixed hour every day, and that is all the Londoner knows or wishes
to know on the subject.  But it turned out good men.  He named
certain individuals, especially one man of letters, his friend, the
best mind he knew, whom London had well served.

        On the 28th August, I went to Rydal Mount, to pay my respects
to Mr. Wordsworth.  His daughters called in their father, a plain,
elderly, white-haired man, not prepossessing, and disfigured by green
goggles.  He sat down, and talked with great simplicity.  He had just
returned from a journey.  His health was good, but he had broken a
tooth by a fall, when walking with two lawyers, and had said, that he
was glad it did not happen forty years ago; whereupon they had
praised his philosophy.

        He had much to say of America, the more that it gave occasion
for his favorite topic, -- that society is being enlightened by a
superficial tuition, out of all proportion to its being restrained by
moral culture.  Schools do no good.  Tuition is not education.  He
thinks more of the education of circumstances than of tuition.  'Tis
not question whether there are offences of which the law takes
cognizance, but whether there are offences of which the law does not
take cognizance.  Sin is what he fears, and how society is to escape
without gravest mischiefs from this source -- ?  He has even said,
what seemed a paradox, that they needed a civil war in America, to
teach the necessity of knitting the social ties stronger.  `There may
be,' he said, `in America some vulgarity in manner, but that's not
important.  That comes of the pioneer state of things.  But I fear
they are too much given to the making of money; and secondly, to
politics; that they make political distinction the end, and not the
means.  And I fear they lack a class of men of leisure, -- in short,
of gentlemen, -- to give a tone of honor to the community.  I am told
that things are boasted of in the second class of society there,
which, in England, -- God knows, are done in England every day, --
but would never be spoken of.  In America I wish to know not how many
churches or schools, but what newspapers?  My friend, Colonel
Hamilton, at the foot of the hill, who was a year in America, assures
me that the newspapers are atrocious, and accuse members of Congress
of stealing spoons!' He was against taking off the tax on newspapers
in England, which the reformers represent as a tax upon knowledge,
for this reason, that they would be inundated with base prints.  He
said, he talked on political aspects, for he wished to impress on me
and all good Americans to cultivate the moral, the conservative, &c.,
&c., and never to call into action the physical strength of the
people, as had just now been done in England in the Reform Bill, -- a
thing prophesied by Delolme.  He alluded once or twice to his
conversation with Dr. Channing, who had recently visited him, (laying
his hand on a particular chair in which the Doctor had sat.)

        The conversation turned on books.  Lucretius he esteems a far
higher poet than Virgil: not in his system, which is nothing, but in
his power of illustration.  Faith is necessary to explain any thing,
and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil.  Of
Cousin, (whose lectures we had all been reading in Boston,) he knew
only the name.

        I inquired if he had read Carlyle's critical articles and
translations.  He said, he thought him sometimes insane.  He
proceeded to abuse Goethe's Wilhelm Meister heartily.  It was full of
all manner of fornication.  It was like the crossing of flies in the
air.  He had never gone farther than the first part; so disgusted was
he that he threw the book across the room.  I deprecated this wrath,
and said what I could for the better parts of the book; and he
courteously promised to look at it again.  Carlyle, he said, wrote
most obscurely.  He was clever and deep, but he defied the sympathies
of every body.  Even Mr. Coleridge wrote more clearly, though he had
always wished Coleridge would write more to be understood.  He led me
out into his garden, and showed me the gravel walk in which thousands
of his lines were composed.  His eyes are much inflamed.  This is no
loss, except for reading, because he never writes prose, and of
poetry he carries even hundreds of lines in his head before writing
them.  He had just returned from a visit to Staffa, and within three
days had made three sonnets on Fingal's Cave, and was composing a
fourth, when he was called in to see me.  He said, "If you are
interested in my verses, perhaps you will like to hear these lines."
I gladly assented; and he recollected himself for a few moments, and
then stood forth and repeated, one after the other, the three entire
sonnets with great animation.  I fancied the second and third more
beautiful than his poems are wont to be.  The third is addressed to
the flowers, which, he said, especially the oxeye daisy, are very
abundant on the top of the rock.  The second alludes to the name of
the cave, which is "Cave of Music;" the first to the circumstance of
its being visited by the promiscuous company of the steamboat.

        This recitation was so unlooked for and surprising, -- he, the
old Wordsworth, standing apart, and reciting to me in a garden-walk,
like a schoolboy declaiming, -- that I at first was near to laugh;
but recollecting myself, that I had come thus far to see a poet, and
he was chanting poems to me, I saw that he was right and I was wrong,
and gladly gave myself up to hear.  I told him how much the few
printed extracts had quickened the desire to possess his unpublished
poems.  He replied, he never was in haste to publish; partly, because
he corrected a good deal, and every alteration is ungraciously
received after printing; but what he had written would be printed,
whether he lived or died.  I said, "Tintern Abbey" appeared to be the
favorite poem with the public, but more contemplative readers
preferred the first books of the "Excursion," and the Sonnets.  He
said, "Yes, they are better." He preferred such of his poems as
touched the affections, to any others; for whatever is didactic, --
what theories of society, and so on, -- might perish quickly; but
whatever combined a truth with an affection was {ktema es aei}, good
to-day and good forever.  He cited the sonnet "On the feelings of a
high-minded Spaniard," which he preferred to any other, (I so
understood him,) and the "Two Voices;" and quoted, with evident
pleasure, the verses addressed "To the Skylark." In this connection,
he said of the Newtonian theory, that it might yet be superseded and
forgotten; and Dalton's atomic theory.

        When I prepared to depart, he said he wished to show me what a
common person in England could do, and he led me into the enclosure
of his clerk, a young man, to whom he had given this slip of ground,
which was laid out, or its natural capabilities shown, with much
taste.  He then said he would show me a better way towards the inn;
and he walked a good part of a mile, talking, and ever and anon
stopping short to impress the word or the verse, and finally parted
from me with great kindness, and returned across the fields.

        Wordsworth honored himself by his simple adherence to truth,
and was very willing not to shine; but he surprised by the hard
limits of his thought.  To judge from a single conversation, he made
the impression of a narrow and very English mind; of one who paid for
his rare elevation by general tameness and conformity.  Off his own
beat, his opinions were of no value.  It is not very rare to find
persons loving sympathy and ease, who expiate their departure from
the common, in one direction, by their conformity in every other.

 
 
 
        Chapter II _Voyage to England_

        The occasion of my second visit to England was an invitation
from some Mechanics' Institutes in Lancashire and Yorkshire, which
separately are organized much in the same way as our New England
Lyceums, but, in 1847, had been linked into a "Union," which embraced
twenty or thirty towns and cities, and presently extended into the
middle counties, and northward into Scotland.  I was invited, on
liberal terms, to read a series of lectures in them all.  The request
was urged with every kind suggestion, and every assurance of aid and
comfort, by friendliest parties in Manchester, who, in the sequel,
amply redeemed their word.  The remuneration was equivalent to the
fees at that time paid in this country for the like services.  At all
events, it was sufficient to cover any travelling expenses, and the
proposal offered an excellent opportunity of seeing the interior of
England and Scotland, by means of a home, and a committee of
intelligent friends, awaiting me in every town.

        I did not go very willingly.  I am not a good traveller, nor
have I found that long journeys yield a fair share of reasonable
hours.  But the invitation was repeated and pressed at a moment of
more leisure, and when I was a little spent by some unusual studies.
I wanted a change and a tonic, and England was proposed to me.
Besides, there were, at least, the dread attraction and salutary
influences of the sea.  So I took my berth in the packet-ship
Washington Irving, and sailed from Boston on Tuesday, 5th October,
1847.

        On Friday at noon, we had only made one hundred and thirty-four
miles.  A nimble Indian would have swum as far; but the captain
affirmed that the ship would show us in time all her paces, and we
crept along through the floating drift of boards, logs, and chips,
which the rivers of Maine and New Brunswick pour into the sea after a
freshet.

        At last, on Sunday night, after doing one day's work in four,
the storm came, the winds blew, and we flew before a north-wester,
which strained every rope and sail.  The good ship darts through the
water all day, all night, like a fish, quivering with speed, gliding
through liquid leagues, sliding from horizon to horizon.  She has
passed Cape Sable; she has reached the Banks; the land-birds are
left; gulls, haglets, ducks, petrels, swim, dive, and hover around;
no fishermen; she has passed the Banks; left five sail behind her,
far on the edge of the west at sundown, which were far east of us at
morn, -- though they say at sea a stern chase is a long race, -- and
still we fly for our lives.  The shortest sea-line from Boston to
Liverpool is 2850 miles.  This a steamer keeps, and saves 150 miles.
A sailing ship can never go in a shorter line than 3000, and usually
it is much longer.  Our good master keeps his kites up to the last
moment, studding-sails alow and aloft, and, by incessant straight
steering, never loses a rod of way.  Watchfulness is the law of the
ship, -- watch on watch, for advantage and for life.  Since the ship
was built, it seems, the master never slept but in his day-clothes
whilst on board.  "There are many advantages," says Saadi, "in
sea-voyaging, but security is not one of them." Yet in hurrying over
these abysses, whatever dangers we are running into, we are certainly
running out of the risks of hundreds of miles every day, which have
their own chances of squall, collision, sea-stroke, piracy, cold, and
thunder.  Hour for hour, the risk on a steamboat is greater; but the
speed is safety, or, twelve days of danger, instead of twenty-four.

        Our ship was registered 750 tons, and weighed perhaps, with all
her freight, 1500 tons.  The mainmast, from the deck to the
top-button, measured 115 feet; the length of the deck, from stem to
stern, 155.  It is impossible not to personify a ship; every body
does, in every thing they say: -- she behaves well; she minds her
rudder; she swims like a duck; she runs her nose into the water; she
looks into a port.  Then that wonderful _esprit du corps_, by which
we adopt into our self-love every thing we touch, makes us all
champions of her sailing qualities.

        The conscious ship hears all the praise.  In one week she has
made 1467 miles, and now, at night, seems to hear the steamer behind
her, which left Boston to-day at two, has mended her speed, and is
flying before the gray south wind eleven and a half knots the hour.
The sea-fire shines in her wake, and far around wherever a wave
breaks.  I read the hour, 9h.  45', on my watch by this light.  Near
the equator, you can read small print by it; and the mate describes
the phosphoric insects, when taken up in a pail, as shaped like a
Carolina potato.

        I find the sea-life an acquired taste, like that for tomatoes
and olives.  The confinement, cold, motion, noise, and odor are not
to be dispensed with.  The floor of your room is sloped at an angle
of twenty or thirty degrees, and I waked every morning with the
belief that some one was tipping up my berth.  Nobody likes to be
treated ignominiously, upset, shoved against the side of the house,
rolled over, suffocated with bilge, mephitis, and stewing oil.  We
get used to these annoyances at last, but the dread of the sea
remains longer.  The sea is masculine, the type of active strength.
Look, what egg-shells are drifting all over it, each one, like ours,
filled with men in ecstasies of terror, alternating with cockney
conceit, as the sea is rough or smooth.  Is this sad-colored circle
an eternal cemetery?  In our graveyards we scoop a pit, but this
aggressive water opens mile-wide pits and chasms, and makes a
mouthful of a fleet.  To the geologist, the sea is the only
firmament; the land is in perpetual flux and change, now blown up
like a tumor, now sunk in a chasm, and the registered observations of
a few hundred years find it in a perpetual tilt, rising and falling.
The sea keeps its old level; and 'tis no wonder that the history of
our race is so recent, if the roar of the ocean is silencing our
traditions.  A rising of the sea, such as has been observed, say an
inch in a century, from east to west on the land, will bury all the
towns, monuments, bones, and knowledge of mankind, steadily and
insensibly.  If it is capable of these great and secular mischiefs,
it is quite as ready at private and local damage; and of this no
landsman seems so fearful as the seaman.  Such discomfort and such
danger as the narratives of the captain and mate disclose are bad
enough as the costly fee we pay for entrance to Europe; but the
wonder is always new that any sane man can be a sailor.  And here, on
the second day of our voyage, stepped out a little boy in his
shirt-sleeves, who had hid himself, whilst the ship was in port, in
the bread-closet, having no money, and wishing to go to England.  The
sailors have dressed him in Guernsey frock, with a knife in his belt,
and he is climbing nimbly about after them, "likes the work
first-rate, and, if the captain will take him, means now to come back
again in the ship." The mate avers that this is the history of all
sailors; nine out of ten are runaway boys; and adds, that all of them
are sick of the sea, but stay in it out of pride.  Jack has a life of
risks, incessant abuse, and the worst pay.  It is a little better
with the mate, and not very much better with the captain.  A hundred
dollars a month is reckoned high pay.  If sailors were contented, if
they had not resolved again and again not to go to sea any more, I
should respect them.

        Of course, the inconveniences and terrors of the sea are not of
any account to those whose minds are preoccupied.  The water-laws,
arctic frost, the mountain, the mine, only shatter cockneyism; every
noble activity makes room for itself.  A great mind is a good sailor,
as a great heart is.  And the sea is not slow in disclosing
inestimable secrets to a good naturalist.

        'Tis a good rule in every journey to provide some piece of
liberal study to rescue the hours which bad weather, bad company, and
taverns steal from the best economist.  Classics which at home are
drowsily read have a strange charm in a country inn, or in the
transom of a merchant brig.  I remember that some of the happiest and
most valuable hours I have owed to books, passed, many years ago, on
shipboard.  The worst impediment I have found at sea is the want of
light in the cabin.

        We found on board the usual cabin library; Basil Hall, Dumas,
Dickens, Bulwer, Balzac, and Sand were our sea-gods.  Among the
passengers, there was some variety of talent and profession; we
exchanged our experiences, and all learned something.  The busiest
talk with leisure and convenience at sea, and sometimes a memorable
fact turns up, which you have long had a vacant niche for, and seize
with the joy of a collector.  But, under the best conditions, a
voyage is one of the severest tests to try a man.  A college
examination is nothing to it.  Sea-days are long, -- these
lack-lustre, joyless days which whistled over us; but they were few,
-- only fifteen, as the captain counted, sixteen according to me.
Reckoned from the time when we left soundings, our speed was such
that the captain drew the line of his course in red ink on his chart,
for the encouragement or envy of future navigators.

 
        It has been said that the King of England would consult his
dignity by giving audience to foreign ambassadors in the cabin of a
man-of-war.  And I think the white path of an Atlantic ship the right
avenue to the palace front of this sea-faring people, who for
hundreds of years claimed the strict sovereignty of the sea, and
exacted toll and the striking sail from the ships of all other
peoples.  When their privilege was disputed by the Dutch and other
junior marines, on the plea that you could never anchor on the same
wave, or hold property in what was always flowing, the English did
not stick to claim the channel, or bottom of all the main.  "As if,"
said they, "we contended for the drops of the sea, and not for its
situation, or the bed of those waters.  The sea is bounded by his
majesty's empire."

        As we neared the land, its genius was felt.  This was
inevitably the British side.  In every man's thought arises now a new
system, English sentiments, English loves and fears, English history
and social modes.  Yesterday, every passenger had measured the speed
of the ship by watching the bubbles over the ship's bulwarks.
To-day, instead of bubbles, we measure by Kinsale, Cork, Waterford,
and Ardmore.  There lay the green shore of Ireland, like some coast
of plenty.  We could see towns, towers, churches, harvests; but the
curse of eight hundred years we could not discern.

 
 
 
        Chapter III _Land_

        Alfieri thought Italy and England the only countries worth
living in; the former, because there nature vindicates her rights,
and triumphs over the evils inflicted by the governments; the latter,
because art conquers nature, and transforms a rude, ungenial land
into a paradise of comfort and plenty.  England is a garden.  Under
an ash-colored sky, the fields have been combed and rolled till they
appear to have been finished with a pencil instead of a plough.  The
solidity of the structures that compose the towns speaks the industry
of ages.  Nothing is left as it was made.  Rivers, hills, valleys,
the sea itself feel the hand of a master.  The long habitation of a
powerful and ingenious race has turned every rood of land to its best
use, has found all the capabilities, the arable soil, the quarriable
rock, the highways, the byways, the fords, the navigable waters; and
the new arts of intercourse meet you every where; so that England is
a huge phalanstery, where all that man wants is provided within the
precinct.  Cushioned and comforted in every manner, the traveller
rides as on a cannon-ball, high and low, over rivers and towns,
through mountains, in tunnels of three or four miles, at near twice
the speed of our trains; and reads quietly the Times newspaper,
which, by its immense correspondence and reporting, seems to have
machinized the rest of the world for his occasion.

        The problem of the traveller landing at Liverpool is, Why
England is England?  What are the elements of that power which the
English hold over other nations?  If there be one test of national
genius universally accepted, it is success; and if there be one
successful country in the universe for the last millennium, that
country is England.

        A wise traveller will naturally choose to visit the best of
actual nations; and an American has more reasons than another to draw
him to Britain.  In all that is done or begun by the Americans
towards right thinking or practice, we are met by a civilization
already settled and overpowering.  The culture of the day, the
thoughts and aims of men, are English thoughts and aims.  A nation
considerable for a thousand years since Egbert, it has, in the last
centuries, obtained the ascendant, and stamped the knowledge,
activity, and power of mankind with its impress.  Those who resist it
do not feel it or obey it less.  The Russian in his snows is aiming
to be English.  The Turk and Chinese also are making awkward efforts
to be English.  The practical common-sense of modern society, the
utilitarian direction which labor, laws, opinion, religion take, is
the natural genius of the British mind.  The influence of France is a
constituent of modern civility, but not enough opposed to the English
for the most wholesome effect.  The American is only the continuation
of the English genius into new conditions, more or less propitious.

        See what books fill our libraries.  Every book we read, every
biography, play, romance, in whatever form, is still English history
and manners.  So that a sensible Englishman once said to me, "As long
as you do not grant us copyright, we shall have the teaching of you."

        But we have the same difficulty in making a social or moral
estimate of England, as the sheriff finds in drawing a jury to try
some cause which has agitated the whole community, and on which every
body finds himself an interested party.  Officers, jurors, judges
have all taken sides.  England has inoculated all nations with her
civilization, intelligence, and tastes; and, to resist the tyranny
and prepossession of the British element, a serious man must aid
himself, by comparing with it the civilizations of the farthest east
and west, the old Greek, the Oriental, and, much more, the ideal
standard, if only by means of the very impatience which English forms
are sure to awaken in independent minds.

        Besides, if we will visit London, the present time is the best
time, as some signs portend that it has reached its highest point.
It is observed that the English interest us a little less within a
few years; and hence the impression that the British power has
culminated, is in solstice, or already declining.

        As soon as you enter England, which, with Wales, is no larger
than the State of Georgia, (*) this little land stretches by an
illusion to the dimensions of an empire.  The innumerable details,
the crowded succession of towns, cities, cathedrals, castles, and
great and decorated estates, the number and power of the trades and
guilds, the military strength and splendor, the multitudes of rich
and of remarkable people, the servants and equipages, -- all these
catching the eye, and never allowing it to pause, hide all
boundaries, by the impression of magnificence and endless wealth.

        (*) Add South Carolina, and you have more than an equivalent
for the area of Scotland.

        I reply to all the urgencies that refer me to this and that
object indispensably to be seen, -- Yes, to see England well needs a
hundred years; for, what they told me was the merit of Sir John
Soane's Museum, in London, -- that it was well packed and well saved,
-- is the merit of England; -- it is stuffed full, in all corners and
crevices, with towns, towers, churches, villas, palaces, hospitals,
and charity-houses.  In the history of art, it is a long way from a
cromlech to York minster; yet all the intermediate steps may still be
traced in this all-preserving island.

        The territory has a singular perfection.  The climate is warmer
by many degrees than it is entitled to by latitude.  Neither hot nor
cold, there is no hour in the whole year when one cannot work.  Here
is no winter, but such days as we have in Massachusetts in November,
a temperature which makes no exhausting demand on human strength, but
allows the attainment of the largest stature.  Charles the Second
said, "it invited men abroad more days in the year and more hours in
the day than another country." Then England has all the materials of
a working country except wood.  The constant rain, -- a rain with
every tide, in some parts of the island, -- keeps its multitude of
rivers full, and brings agricultural production up to the highest
point.  It has plenty of water, of stone, of potter's clay, of coal,
of salt, and of iron.  The land naturally abounds with game, immense
heaths and downs are paved with quails, grouse, and woodcock, and the
shores are animated by water birds.  The rivers and the surrounding
sea spawn with fish; there are salmon for the rich, and sprats and
herrings for the poor.  In the northern lochs, the herring are in
innumerable shoals; at one season, the country people say, the lakes
contain one part water and two parts fish.

        The only drawback on this industrial conveniency, is the
darkness of its sky.  The night and day are too nearly of a color.
It strains the eyes to read and to write.  Add the coal smoke.  In
the manufacturing towns, the fine soot or _blacks_ darken the day,
give white sheep the color of black sheep, discolor the human saliva,
contaminate the air, poison many plants, and corrode the monuments
and buildings.

        The London fog aggravates the distempers of the sky, and
sometimes justifies the epigram on the climate by an English wit, "in
a fine day, looking up a chimney; in a foul day, looking down one." A
gentleman in Liverpool told me that he found he could do without a
fire in his parlor about one day in the year.  It is however
pretended, that the enormous consumption of coal in the island is
also felt in modifying the general climate.

        Factitious climate, factitious position.  England resembles a ship in
its shape, and, if it were one, its best admiral could not have worked it, or
anchored it in a more judicious or effective position.  Sir John Herschel
said, "London was the centre of the terrene globe." The shopkeeping nation,
to use a shop word, has a _good stand._ The old Venetians pleased themselves
with the flattery, that Venice was in 45 degrees, midway between the poles
and the line; as if that were an imperial centrality.  Long of old, the
Greeks fancied Delphi the navel of the earth, in their favorite mode of
fabling the earth to be an animal.  The Jews believed Jerusalem to be the
centre.  I have seen a kratometric chart designed to show that the city of
Philadelphia was in the same thermic belt, and, by inference, in the same
belt of empire, as the cities of Athens, Rome, and London.  It was drawn by a
patriotic Philadelphian, and was examined with pleasure, under his showing,
by the inhabitants of Chestnut Street.  But, when carried to Charleston, to
New Orleans, and to Boston, it somehow failed to convince the ingenious
scholars of all those capitals.

        But England is anchored at the side of Europe, and right in the
heart of the modern world.  The sea, which, according to Virgil's
famous line, divided the poor Britons utterly from the world, proved
to be the ring of marriage with all nations.  It is not down in the
books, -- it is written only in the geologic strata, -- that
fortunate day when a wave of the German Ocean burst the old isthmus
which joined Kent and Cornwall to France, and gave to this fragment
of Europe its impregnable sea wall, cutting off an island of eight
hundred miles in length, with an irregular breadth reaching to three
hundred miles; a territory large enough for independence enriched
with every seed of national power, so near, that it can see the
harvests of the continent; and so far, that who would cross the
strait must be an expert mariner, ready for tempests.  As America,
Europe, and Asia lie, these Britons have precisely the best
commercial position in the whole planet, and are sure of a market for
all the goods they can manufacture.  And to make these advantages
avail, the River Thames must dig its spacious outlet to the sea from
the heart of the kingdom, giving road and landing to innumerable
ships, and all the conveniency to trade, that a people so skilful and
sufficient in economizing water-front by docks, warehouses, and
lighters required.  When James the First declared his purpose of
punishing London by removing his Court, the Lord Mayor replied,
"that, in removing his royal presence from his lieges, they hoped he
would leave them the Thames."

        In the variety of surface, Britain is a miniature of Europe,
having plain, forest, marsh, river, sea-shore; mines in Cornwall;
caves in Matlock and Derbyshire; delicious landscape in Dovedale,
delicious sea-view at Tor Bay, Highlands in Scotland, Snowdon in
Wales; and, in Westmoreland and Cumberland, a pocket Switzerland, in
which the lakes and mountains are on a sufficient scale to fill the
eye and touch the imagination.  It is a nation conveniently small.
Fontenelle thought, that nature had sometimes a little affectation;
and there is such an artificial completeness in this nation of
artificers, as if there were a design from the beginning to elaborate
a bigger Birmingham.  Nature held counsel with herself, and said, `My
Romans are gone.  To build my new empire, I will choose a rude race,
all masculine, with brutish strength.  I will not grudge a
competition of the roughest males.  Let buffalo gore buffalo, and the
pasture to the strongest!  For I have work that requires the best
will and sinew.  Sharp and temperate northern breezes shall blow, to
keep that will alive and alert.  The sea shall disjoin the people
from others, and knit them to a fierce nationality.  It shall give
them markets on every side.  Long time I will keep them on their
feet, by poverty, border-wars, seafaring, sea-risks, and the stimulus
of gain.  An island, -- but not so large, the people not so many as
to glut the great markets and depress one another, but proportioned
to the size of Europe and the continents.'

        With its fruits, and wares, and money, must its civil influence
radiate.  It is a singular coincidence to this geographic centrality,
the spiritual centrality, which Emanuel Swedenborg ascribes to the
people.  "For the English nation, the best of them are in the centre
of all Christians, because they have interior intellectual light.
This appears conspicuously in the spiritual world.  This light they
derive from the liberty of speaking and writing, and thereby of
thinking."

 
 
 
        Chapter IV _Race_

        An ingenious anatomist has written a book (*) to prove that
races are imperishable, but nations are pliant political
constructions, easily changed or destroyed.  But this writer did not
found his assumed races on any necessary law, disclosing their ideal
or metaphysical necessity; nor did he, on the other hand, count with
precision the existing races, and settle the true bounds; a point of
nicety, and the popular test of the theory.  The individuals at the
extremes of divergence in one race of men are as unlike as the wolf
to the lapdog.  Yet each variety shades down imperceptibly into the
next, and you cannot draw the line where a race begins or ends.
Hence every writer makes a different count.  Blumenbach reckons five
races; Humboldt three; and Mr. Pickering, who lately, in our
Exploring Expedition, thinks he saw all the kinds of men that can be
on the planet, makes eleven.

        (*) The Races, a Fragment.  By Robert Knox.  London: 1850.

        The British Empire is reckoned to contain 222,000,000 souls, --
perhaps a fifth of the population of the globe; and to comprise a
territory of 5,000,000 square miles.  So far have British people
predominated.  Perhaps forty of these millions are of British stock.
Add the United States of America, which reckon, exclusive of slaves,
20,000,000 of people, on a territory of 3,000,000 square miles, and
in which the foreign element, however considerable, is rapidly
assimilated, and you have a population of English descent and
language, of 60,000,000, and governing a population of 245,000,000
souls.

        The British census proper reckons twenty-seven and a half
millions in the home countries.  What makes this census important is
the quality of the units that compose it.  They are free forcible
men, in a country where life is safe, and has reached the greatest
value.  They give the bias to the current age; and that, not by
chance or by mass, but by their character, and by the number of
individuals among them of personal ability.  It has been denied that
the English have genius.  Be it as it may, men of vast intellect have
been born on their soil, and they have made or applied the principal
inventions.  They have sound bodies, and supreme endurance in war and
in labor.  The spawning force of the race has sufficed to the
colonization of great parts of the world; yet it remains to be seen
whether they can make good the exodus of millions from Great Britain,
amounting, in 1852, to more than a thousand a day.  They have
assimilating force, since they are imitated by their foreign
subjects; and they are still aggressive and propagandist, enlarging
the dominion of their arts and liberty.  Their laws are hospitable,
and slavery does not exist under them.  What oppression exists is
incidental and temporary; their success is not sudden or fortunate,
but they have maintained constancy and self-equality for many ages.

        Is this power due to their race, or to some other cause?  Men
hear gladly of the power of blood or race.  Every body likes to know
that his advantages cannot be attributed to air, soil, sea, or to
local wealth, as mines and quarries, nor to laws and traditions, nor
to fortune, but to superior brain, as it makes the praise more
personal to him.

        We anticipate in the doctrine of race something like that law
of physiology, that, whatever bone, muscle, or essential organ is
found in one healthy individual, the same part or organ may be found
in or near the same place in its congener; and we look to find in the
son every mental and moral property that existed in the ancestor.  In
race, it is not the broad shoulders, or litheness, or stature that
give advantage, but a symmetry that reaches as far as to the wit.
Then the miracle and renown begin.  Then first we care to examine the
pedigree, and copy heedfully the training, -- what food they ate,
what nursing, school, and exercises they had, which resulted in this
mother-wit, delicacy of thought, and robust wisdom.  How came such
men as King Alfred, and Roger Bacon, William of Wykeham, Walter
Raleigh, Philip Sidney, Isaac Newton, William Shakspeare, George
Chapman, Francis Bacon, George Herbert, Henry Vane, to exist here?
What made these delicate natures? was it the air? was it the sea? was
it the parentage?  For it is certain that these men are samples of
their contemporaries.  The hearing ear is always found close to the
speaking tongue; and no genius can long or often utter any thing
which is not invited and gladly entertained by men around him.

        It is race, is it not? that puts the hundred millions of India
under the dominion of a remote island in the north of Europe.  Race
avails much, if that be true, which is alleged, that all Celts are
Catholics, and all Saxons are Protestants; that Celts love unity of
power, and Saxons the representative principle.  Race is a
controlling influence in the Jew, who, for two millenniums, under
every climate, has preserved the same character and employments.
Race in the negro is of appalling importance.  The French in Canada,
cut off from all intercourse with the parent people, have held their
national traits.  I chanced to read Tacitus "on the Manners of the
Germans," not long since, in Missouri, and the heart of Illinois, and
I found abundant points of resemblance between the Germans of the
Hercynian forest, and our _Hoosiers_, _Suckers_, and _Badgers_ of the
American woods.

        But whilst race works immortally to keep its own, it is
resisted by other forces.  Civilization is a re-agent, and eats away
the old traits.  The Arabs of to-day are the Arabs of Pharaoh; but
the Briton of to-day is a very different person from Cassibelaunus or
Ossian.  Each religious sect has its physiognomy.  The Methodists
have acquired a face; the Quakers, a face; the nuns, a face.  An
Englishman will pick out a dissenter by his manners.  Trades and
professions carve their own lines on face and form.  Certain
circumstances of English life are not less effective; as, personal
liberty; plenty of food; good ale and mutton; open market, or good
wages for every kind of labor; high bribes to talent and skill; the
island life, or the million opportunities and outlets for expanding
and misplaced talent; readiness of combination among themselves for
politics or for business; strikes; and sense of superiority founded
on habit of victory in labor and in war; and the appetite for
superiority grows by feeding.

        It is easy to add to the counteracting forces to race.
Credence is a main element.  'Tis said, that the views of nature held
by any people determine all their institutions.  Whatever influences
add to mental or moral faculty, take men out of nationality, as out
of other conditions, and make the national life a culpable
compromise.

 
        These limitations of the formidable doctrine of race suggest
others which threaten to undermine it, as not sufficiently based.
The fixity or inconvertibleness of races as we see them, is a weak
argument for the eternity of these frail boundaries, since all our
historical period is a point to the duration in which nature has
wrought.  Any the least and solitariest fact in our natural history,
such as the melioration of fruits and of animal stocks, has the worth
of a _power_ in the opportunity of geologic periods.  Moreover,
though we flatter the self-love of men and nations by the legend of
pure races, all our experience is of the gradation and resolution of
races, and strange resemblances meet us every where.  It need not
puzzle us that Malay and Papuan, Celt and Roman, Saxon and Tartar
should mix, when we see the rudiments of tiger and baboon in our
human form, and know that the barriers of races are not so firm, but
that some spray sprinkles us from the antediluvian seas.

        The low organizations are simplest; a mere mouth, a jelly, or a
straight worm.  As the scale mounts, the organizations become
complex.  We are piqued with pure descent, but nature loves
inoculation.  A child blends in his face the faces of both parents,
and some feature from every ancestor whose face hangs on the wall.
The best nations are those most widely related; and navigation, as
effecting a world-wide mixture, is the most potent advancer of
nations.

        The English composite character betrays a mixed origin.  Every
thing English is a fusion of distant and antagonistic elements.  The
language is mixed; the names of men are of different nations, --
three languages, three or four nations; -- the currents of thought
are counter: contemplation and practical skill; active intellect and
dead conservatism; world-wide enterprise, and devoted use and wont;
aggressive freedom and hospitable law, with bitter class-legislation;
a people scattered by their wars and affairs over the face of the
whole earth, and homesick to a man; a country of extremes, -- dukes
and chartists, Bishops of Durham and naked heathen colliers; --
nothing can be praised in it without damning exceptions, and nothing
denounced without salvos of cordial praise.

        Neither do this people appear to be of one stem; but
collectively a better race than any from which they are derived.  Nor
is it easy to trace it home to its original seats.  Who can call by
right names what races are in Britain?  Who can trace them
historically?  Who can discriminate them anatomically, or
metaphysically?

        In the impossibility of arriving at satisfaction on the
historical question of race, and, -- come of whatever disputable
ancestry, -- the indisputable Englishman before me, himself very well
marked, and nowhere else to be found, -- I fancied I could leave
quite aside the choice of a tribe as his lineal progenitors.  Defoe
said in his wrath, "the Englishman was the mud of all races." I
incline to the belief, that, as water, lime, and sand make mortar, so
certain temperaments marry well, and, by well-managed contrarieties,
develop as drastic a character as the English.  On the whole, it is
not so much a history of one or of certain tribes of Saxons, Jutes,
or Frisians, coming from one place, and genetically identical, as it
is an anthology of temperaments out of them all.  Certain
temperaments suit the sky and soil of England, say eight or ten or
twenty varieties, as, out of a hundred pear-trees, eight or ten suit
the soil of an orchard, and thrive, whilst all the unadapted
temperaments die out.

        The English derive their pedigree from such a range of
nationalities, that there needs sea-room and land-room to unfold the
varieties of talent and character.  Perhaps the ocean serves as a
galvanic battery to distribute acids at one pole, and alkalies at the
other.  So England tends to accumulate her liberals in America, and
her conservatives at London.  The Scandinavians in her race still
hear in every age the murmurs of their mother, the ocean; the Briton
in the blood hugs the homestead still.

        Again, as if to intensate the influences that are not of race,
what we think of when we talk of English traits really narrows itself
to a small district.  It excludes Ireland, and Scotland, and Wales,
and reduces itself at last to London, that is, to those who come and
go thither.  The portraits that hang on the walls in the Academy
Exhibition at London, the figures in Punch's drawings of the public
men, or of the club-houses, the prints in the shop-windows, are
distinctive English, and not American, no, nor Scotch, nor Irish: but
'tis a very restricted nationality.  As you go north into the
manufacturing and agricultural districts, and to the population that
never travels, as you go into Yorkshire, as you enter Scotland, the
world's Englishman is no longer found.  In Scotland, there is a rapid
loss of all grandeur of mien and manners; a provincial eagerness and
acuteness appear; the poverty of the country makes itself remarked,
and a coarseness of manners; and, among the intellectual, is the
insanity of dialectics.  In Ireland, are the same climate and soil as
in England, but less food, no right relation to the land, political
dependence, small tenantry, and an inferior or misplaced race.

        These queries concerning ancestry and blood may be well
allowed, for there is no prosperity that seems more to depend on the
kind of man than British prosperity.  Only a hardy and wise people
could have made this small territory great.  We say, in a regatta or
yacht-race, that if the boats are anywhere nearly matched, it is the
man that wins.  Put the best sailing master into either boat, and he
will win.

        Yet it is fine for us to speculate in face of unbroken
traditions, though vague, and losing themselves in fable.  The
traditions have got footing, and refuse to be disturbed.  The
kitchen-clock is more convenient than sidereal time.  We must use the
popular category, as we do by the Linnaean classification, for
convenience, and not as exact and final.  Otherwise, we are presently
confounded, when the best settled traits of one race are claimed by
some new ethnologist as precisely characteristic of the rival tribe.

        I found plenty of well-marked English types, the ruddy
complexion fair and plump, robust men, with faces cut like a die, and
a strong island speech and accent; a Norman type, with the
complacency that belongs to that constitution.  Others, who might be
Americans, for any thing that appeared in their complexion or form:
and their speech was much less marked, and their thought much less
bound.  We will call them Saxons.  Then the Roman has implanted his
dark complexion in the trinity or quaternity of bloods.

        1. The sources from which tradition derives their stock are
mainly three.  And, first, they are of the oldest blood of the world,
-- the Celtic.  Some peoples are deciduous or transitory.  Where are
the Greeks? where the Etrurians? where the Romans?  But the Celts or
Sidonides are an old family, of whose beginning there is no memory,
and their end is likely to be still more remote in the future; for
they have endurance and productiveness.  They planted Britain, and
gave to the seas and mountains names which are poems, and imitate the
pure voices of nature.  They are favorably remembered in the oldest
records of Europe.  They had no violent feudal tenure, but the
husbandman owned the land.  They had an alphabet, astronomy, priestly
culture, and a sublime creed.  They have a hidden and precarious
genius.  They made the best popular literature of the middle ages in
the songs of Merlin, and the tender and delicious mythology of
Arthur.

        2. The English come mainly from the Germans, whom the Romans
found hard to conquer in two hundred and ten years, -- say,
impossible to conquer, -- when one remembers the long sequel; a
people about whom, in the old empire, the rumor ran, there was never
any that meddled with them that repented it not.

        3. Charlemagne, halting one day in a town of Narbonnese Gaul,
looked out of a window, and saw a fleet of Northmen cruising in the
Mediterranean.  They even entered the port of the town where he was,
causing no small alarm and sudden manning and arming of his galleys.
As they put out to sea again, the emperor gazed long after them, his
eyes bathed in tears.  "I am tormented with sorrow," he said, "when I
foresee the evils they will bring on my posterity." There was reason
for these Xerxes' tears.  The men who have built a ship and invented
the rig, -- cordage, sail, compass, and pump, -- the working in and
out of port, have acquired much more than a ship.  Now arm them, and
every shore is at their mercy.  For, if they have not numerical
superiority where they anchor, they have only to sail a mile or two
to find it.  Bonaparte's art of war, namely of concentrating force on
the point of attack, must always be theirs who have the choice of the
battle-ground.  Of course they come into the fight from a higher
ground of power than the land-nations; and can engage them on shore
with a victorious advantage in the retreat.  As soon as the shores
are sufficiently peopled to make piracy a losing business, the same
skill and courage are ready for the service of trade.

        The _Heimskringla_, or Sagas of the Kings of Norway, collected
by Snorro Sturleson, is the Iliad and Odyssey of English history.
Its portraits, like Homer's, are strongly individualized.  The Sagas
describe a monarchical republic like Sparta.  The government
disappears before the importance of citizens.  In Norway, no Persian
masses fight and perish to aggrandize a king, but the actors are
bonders or landholders, every one of whom is named and personally and
patronymically described, as the king's friend and companion.  A
sparse population gives this high worth to every man.  Individuals
are often noticed as very handsome persons, which trait only brings
the story nearer to the English race.  Then the solid material
interest predominates, so dear to English understanding, wherein the
association is logical, between merit and land.  The heroes of the
Sagas are not the knights of South Europe.  No vaporing of France and
Spain has corrupted them.  They are substantial farmers, whom the
rough times have forced to defend their properties.  They have
weapons which they use in a determined manner, by no means for
chivalry, but for their acres.  They are people considerably advanced
in rural arts, living amphibiously on a rough coast, and drawing half
their food from the sea, and half from the land.  They have herds of
cows, and malt, wheat, bacon, butter, and cheese.  They fish in the
fiord, and hunt the deer.  A king among these farmers has a varying
power, sometimes not exceeding the authority of a sheriff.  A king
was maintained much as, in some of our country districts, a
winter-schoolmaster is quartered, a week here, a week there, and a
fortnight on the next farm, -- on all the farmers in rotation.  This
the king calls going into guest-quarters; and it was the only way in
which, in a poor country, a poor king, with many retainers, could be
kept alive, when he leaves his own farm to collect his dues through
the kingdom.

        These Norsemen are excellent persons in the main, with good
sense, steadiness, wise speech, and prompt action.  But they have a
singular turn for homicide; their chief end of man is to murder, or
to be murdered; oars, scythes, harpoons, crowbars, peatknives, and
hayforks, are tools valued by them all the more for their charming
aptitude for assassinations.  A pair of kings, after dinner, will
divert themselves by thrusting each his sword through the other's
body, as did Yngve and Alf.  Another pair ride out on a morning for a
frolic, and, finding no weapon near, will take the bits out of their
horses' mouths, and crush each other's heads with them, as did Alric
and Eric.  The sight of a tent-cord or a cloak-string puts them on
hanging somebody, a wife, or a husband, or, best of all, a king.  If
a farmer has so much as a hayfork, he sticks it into a King Dag.
King Ingiald finds it vastly amusing to burn up half a dozen kings in
a hall, after getting them drunk.  Never was poor gentleman so
surfeited with life, so furious to be rid of it, as the Northman.  If
he cannot pick any other quarrel, he will get himself comfortably
gored by a bull's horns, like Egil, or slain by a land-slide, like
the agricultural King Onund.  Odin died in his bed, in Sweden; but it
was a proverb of ill condition, to die the death of old age.  King
Hake of Sweden cuts and slashes in battle, as long as he can stand,
then orders his war-ship, loaded with his dead men and their weapons,
to be taken out to sea, the tiller shipped, and the sails spread;
being left alone, he sets fire to some tar-wood, and lies down
contented on deck.  The wind blew off the land, the ship flew burning
in clear flame, out between the islets into the ocean, and there was
the right end of King Hake.

        The early Sagas are sanguinary and piratical; the later are of
a noble strain.  History rarely yields us better passages than the
conversation between King Sigurd the Crusader, and King Eystein, his
brother, on their respective merits, -- one, the soldier, and the
other, a lover of the arts of peace.

        But the reader of the Norman history must steel himself by
holding fast the remote compensations which result from animal vigor.
As the old fossil world shows that the first steps of reducing the
chaos were confided to saurians and other huge and horrible animals,
so the foundations of the new civility were to be laid by the most
savage men.

        The Normans came out of France into England worse men than they
went into it, one hundred and sixty years before.  They had lost
their own language, and learned the Romance or barbarous Latin of the
Gauls; and had acquired, with the language, all the vices it had
names for.  The conquest has obtained in the chronicles, the name of
the "memory of sorrow." Twenty thousand thieves landed at Hastings.
These founders of the House of Lords were greedy and ferocious
dragoons, sons of greedy and ferocious pirates.  They were all alike,
they took every thing they could carry, they burned, harried,
violated, tortured, and killed, until every thing English was brought
to the verge of ruin.  Such, however, is the illusion of antiquity
and wealth, that decent and dignified men now existing boast their
descent from these filthy thieves, who showed a far juster conviction
of their own merits, by assuming for their types the swine, goat,
jackal, leopard, wolf, and snake, which they severally resembled.

        England yielded to the Danes and Northmen in the tenth and
eleventh centuries, and was the receptacle into which all the mettle
of that strenuous population was poured.  The continued draught of
the best men in Norway, Sweden, and Denmark, to these piratical
expeditions, exhausted those countries, like a tree which bears much
fruit when young, and these have been second-rate powers ever since.
The power of the race migrated, and left Norway void.  King Olaf
said, "When King Harold, my father, went westward to England, the
chosen men in Norway followed him: but Norway was so emptied then,
that such men have not since been to find in the country, nor
especially such a leader as King Harold was for wisdom and bravery."

        It was a tardy recoil of these invasions, when, in 1801, the
British government sent Nelson to bombard the Danish forts in the
Sound; and, in 1807, Lord Cathcart, at Copenhagen, took the entire
Danish fleet, as it lay in the basins, and all the equipments from
the Arsenal, and carried them to England.  Konghelle, the town where
the kings of Norway, Sweden, and Denmark were wont to meet, is now
rented to a private English gentleman for a hunting ground.

        It took many generations to trim, and comb, and perfume the
first boat-load of Norse pirates into royal highnesses and most noble
Knights of the Garter: but every sparkle of ornament dates back to
the Norse boat.  There will be time enough to mellow this strength
into civility and religion.  It is a medical fact, that the children
of the blind see; the children of felons have a healthy conscience.
Many a mean, dastardly boy is, at the age of puberty, transformed
into a serious and generous youth.

        The mildness of the following ages has not quite effaced these
traits of Odin; as the rudiment of a structure matured in the tiger
is said to be still found unabsorbed in the Caucasian man.  The
nation has a tough, acrid, animal nature, which centuries of
churching and civilizing have not been able to sweeten.  Alfieri
said, "the crimes of Italy were the proof of the superiority of the
stock;" and one may say of England, that this watch moves on a
splinter of adamant.  The English uncultured are a brutal nation.
The crimes recorded in their calendars leave nothing to be desired in
the way of cold malignity.  Dear to the English heart is a fair
stand-up fight.  The brutality of the manners in the lower class
appears in the boxing, bear-baiting, cock-fighting, love of
executions, and in the readiness for a set-to in the streets,
delightful to the English of all classes.  The costermongers of
London streets hold cowardice in loathing: -- "we must work our fists
well; we are all handy with our fists." The public schools are
charged with being bear-gardens of brutal strength, and are liked by
the people for that cause.  The fagging is a trait of the same
quality.  Medwin, in the Life of Shelley, relates, that, at a
military school, they rolled up a young man in a snowball, and left
him so in his room, while the other cadets went to church; -- and
crippled him for life.  They have retained impressment,
deck-flogging, army-flogging, and school-flogging.  Such is the
ferocity of the army discipline, that a soldier sentenced to
flogging, sometimes prays that his sentence may be commuted to death.
Flogging banished from the armies of Western Europe, remains here by
the sanction of the Duke of Wellington.  The right of the husband to
sell the wife has been retained down to our times.  The Jews have
been the favorite victims of royal and popular persecution.  Henry
III.  mortgaged all the Jews in the kingdom to his brother, the Earl
of Cornwall, as security for money which he borrowed.  The torture of
criminals, and the rack for extorting evidence, were slowly disused.
Of the criminal statutes, Sir Samuel Romilly said, "I have examined
the codes of all nations, and ours is the worst, and worthy of the
Anthropophagi." In the last session, the House of Commons was
listening to details of flogging and torture practised in the jails.

        As soon as this land, thus geographically posted, got a hardy
people into it, they could not help becoming the sailors and factors
of the globe.  From childhood, they dabbled in water, they swum like
fishes, their playthings were boats.  In the case of the ship-money,
the judges delivered it for law, that "England being an island, the
very midland shires therein are all to be accounted maritime:" and
Fuller adds, "the genius even of landlocked counties driving the
natives with a maritime dexterity." As early as the conquest, it is
remarked in explanation of the wealth of England, that its merchants
trade to all countries.

        The English, at the present day, have great vigor of body and
endurance.  Other countrymen look slight and undersized beside them,
and invalids.  They are bigger men than the Americans.  I suppose a
hundred English taken at random out of the street, would weigh a
fourth more, than so many Americans.  Yet, I am told, the skeleton is
not larger.  They are round, ruddy, and handsome; at least, the whole
bust is well formed; and there is a tendency to stout and powerful
frames.  I remarked the stoutness, on my first landing at Liverpool;
porter, drayman, coachman, guard, -- what substantial, respectable,
grandfatherly figures, with costume and manners to suit.  The
American has arrived at the old mansion-house, and finds himself
among uncles, aunts, and grandsires.  The pictures on the
chimney-tiles of his nursery were pictures of these people.  Here
they are in the identical costumes and air, which so took him.

        It is the fault of their forms that they grow stocky, and the
women have that disadvantage, -- few tall, slender figures of flowing
shape, but stunted and thickset persons.  The French say, that the
Englishwomen have two left hands.  But, in all ages, they are a
handsome race.  The bronze monuments of crusaders lying cross-legged,
in the Temple Church at London, and those in Worcester and in
Salisbury Cathedrals, which are seven hundred years old, are of the
same type as the best youthful heads of men now in England; -- please
by beauty of the same character, an expression blending good-nature,
valor, and refinement, and, mainly, by that uncorrupt youth in the
face of manhood, which is daily seen in the streets of London.

        Both branches of the Scandinavian race are distinguished for
beauty.  The anecdote of the handsome captives which Saint Gregory
found at Rome, A. D. 600, is matched by the testimony of the Norman
chroniclers, five centuries later, who wondered at the beauty and
long flowing hair of the young English captives.  Meantime, the
Heimskringla has frequent occasion to speak of the personal beauty of
its heroes.  When it is considered what humanity, what resources of
mental and moral power, the traits of the blonde race betoken, -- its
accession to empire marks a new and finer epoch, wherein the old
mineral force shall be subjugated at last by humanity, and shall
plough in its furrow henceforward.  It is not a final race, once a
crab always crab, but a race with a future.

        On the English face are combined decision and nerve, with the
fair complexion, blue eyes, and open and florid aspect.  Hence the
love of truth, hence the sensibility, the fine perception, and poetic
construction.  The fair Saxon man, with open front, and honest
meaning, domestic, affectionate, is not the wood out of which
cannibal, or inquisitor, or assassin is made, but he is moulded for
law, lawful trade, civility, marriage, the nurture of children, for
colleges, churches, charities, and colonies.

        They are rather manly than warlike.  When the war is over, the
mask falls from the affectionate and domestic tastes, which make them
women in kindness.  This union of qualities is fabled in their
national legend of _Beauty and the Beast_, or, long before, in the
Greek legend of _Hermaphrodite_.  The two sexes are co-present in the
English mind.  I apply to Britannia, queen of seas and colonies, the
words in which her latest novelist portrays his heroine: "she is as
mild as she is game, and as game as she is mild." The English delight
in the antagonism which combines in one person the extremes of
courage and tenderness.  Nelson, dying at Trafalgar, sends his love
to Lord Collingwood, and, like an innocent schoolboy that goes to
bed, says, "Kiss me, Hardy," and turns to sleep.  Lord Collingwood,
his comrade, was of a nature the most affectionate and domestic.
Admiral Rodney's figure approached to delicacy and effeminacy, and he
declared himself very sensible to fear, which he surmounted only by
considerations of honor and public duty.  Clarendon says, the Duke of
Buckingham was so modest and gentle, that some courtiers attempted to
put affronts on him, until they found that this modesty and
effeminacy was only a mask for the most terrible determination.  And
Sir James Parry said, the other day, of Sir John Franklin, that, "if
he found Wellington Sound open, he explored it; for he was a man who
never turned his back on a danger, yet of that tenderness, that he
would not brush away a mosquito."  Even for their highwaymen the same
virtue is claimed, and Robin Hood comes described to us as
_mitissimus praedonum_, the gentlest thief.  But they know where
their war-dogs lie.  Cromwell, Blake, Marlborough, Chatham, Nelson,
and Wellington, are not to be trifled with, and the brutal strength
which lies at the bottom of society, the animal ferocity of the quays
and cockpits, the bullies of the coster-mongers of Shoreditch, Seven
Dials, and Spitalfields, they know how to wake up.

        They have a vigorous health, and last well into middle and old
age.  The old men are as red as roses, and still handsome.  A clear
skin, a peach-bloom complexion, and good teeth, are found all over
the island.  They use a plentiful and nutritious diet.  The operative
cannot subsist on watercresses.  Beef, mutton, wheatbread, and
malt-liquors, are universal among the first-class laborers.  Good
feeding is a chief point of national pride among the vulgar, and, in
their caricatures, they represent the Frenchman as a poor, starved
body.  It is curious that Tacitus found the English beer already in
use among the Germans: "they make from barley or wheat a drink
corrupted into some resemblance to wine." Lord Chief Justice
Fortescue in Henry VI.'s time, says, "The inhabitants of England
drink no water, unless at certain times, on a religious score, and by
way of penance." The extremes of poverty and ascetic penance, it
would seem, never reach cold water in England.  Wood, the antiquary,
in describing the poverty and maceration of Father Lacey, an English
Jesuit, does not deny him beer.  He says, "his bed was under a
thatching, and the way to it up a ladder; his fare was coarse; his
drink, of a penny a gawn, or gallon."

 
        They have more constitutional energy than any other people.
They think, with Henri Quatre, that manly exercises are the
foundation of that elevation of mind which gives one nature ascendant
over another; or, with the Arabs, that the days spent in the chase
are not counted in the length of life.  They box, run, shoot, ride,
row, and sail from pole to pole.  They eat, and drink, and live jolly
in the open air, putting a bar of solid sleep between day and day.
They walk and ride as fast as they can, their head bent forward, as
if urged on some pressing affair.  The French say, that Englishmen in
the street always walk straight before them like mad dogs.  Men and
women walk with infatuation.  As soon as he can handle a gun, hunting
is the fine art of every Englishman of condition.  They are the most
voracious people of prey that ever existed.  Every season turns out
the aristocracy into the country, to shoot and fish.  The more
vigorous run out of the island to Europe, to America, to Asia, to
Africa, and Australia, to hunt with fury by gun, by trap, by harpoon,
by lasso, with dog, with horse, with elephant, or with dromedary, all
the game that is in nature.  These men have written the game-books of
all countries, as Hawker, Scrope, Murray, Herbert, Maxwell, Cumming,
and a host of travellers.  The people at home are addicted to boxing,
running, leaping, and rowing matches.

        I suppose, the dogs and horses must be thanked for the fact,
that the men have muscles almost as tough and supple as their own.
If in every efficient man, there is first a fine animal, in the
English race it is of the best breed, a wealthy, juicy, broad-chested
creature, steeped in ale and good cheer, and a little overloaded by
his flesh.  Men of animal nature rely, like animals, on their
instincts.  The Englishman associates well with dogs and horses.  His
attachment to the horse arises from the courage and address required
to manage it.  The horse finds out who is afraid of it, and does not
disguise its opinion.  Their young boiling clerks and lusty
collegians like the company of horses better than the company of
professors.  I suppose, the horses are better company for them.  The
horse has more uses than Buffon noted.  If you go into the streets,
every driver in bus or dray is a bully, and, if I wanted a good troop
of soldiers, I should recruit among the stables.  Add a certain
degree of refinement to the vivacity of these riders, and you obtain
the precise quality which makes the men and women of polite society
formidable.

        They come honestly by their horsemanship, with _Hengst_ and
_Horsa_ for their Saxon founders.  The other branch of their race had
been Tartar nomads.  The horse was all their wealth.  The children
were fed on mares' milk.  The pastures of Tartary were still
remembered by the tenacious practice of the Norsemen to eat
horseflesh at religious feasts.  In the Danish invasions, the
marauders seized upon horses where they landed, and were at once
converted into a body of expert cavalry.

        At one time, this skill seems to have declined.  Two centuries
ago, the English horse never performed any eminent service beyond the
seas; and the reason assigned, was, that the genius of the English
hath always more inclined them to foot-service, as pure and proper
manhood, without any mixture; whilst, in a victory on horseback, the
credit ought to be divided betwixt the man and his horse.  But in two
hundred years, a change has taken place.  Now, they boast that they
understand horses better than any other people in the world, and that
their horses are become their second selves.

        "William the Conqueror being," says Camden, "better affected to
beasts than to men, imposed heavy fines and punishments on those that
should meddle with his game." The Saxon Chronicle says, "he loved the
tall deer as if he were their father." And rich Englishmen have
followed his example, according to their ability, ever since, in
encroaching on the tillage and commons with their game-preserves.  It
is a proverb in England, that it is safer to shoot a man, than a
hare.  The severity of the game-laws certainly indicates an
extravagant sympathy of the nation with horses and hunters.  The
gentlemen are always on horseback, and have brought horses to an
ideal perfection, -- the English racer is a factitious breed.  A
score or two of mounted gentlemen may frequently be seen running like
centaurs down a hill nearly as steep as the roof of a house.  Every
inn-room is lined with pictures of races; telegraphs communicate,
every hour, tidings of the heats from Newmarket and Ascot: and the
House of Commons adjourns over the `Derby Day.'

 
 
        Chapter V _Ability_

        The saxon and the Northman are both Scandinavians.  History
does not allow us to fix the limits of the application of these names
with any accuracy; but from the residence of a portion of these
people in France, and from some effect of that powerful soil on their
blood and manners, the Norman has come popularly to represent in
England the aristocratic, -- and the Saxon the democratic principle.
And though, I doubt not, the nobles are of both tribes, and the
workers of both, yet we are forced to use the names a little
mythically, one to represent the worker, and the other the enjoyer.

        The island was a prize for the best race.  Each of the dominant
races tried its fortune in turn.  The Ph;oenician, the Celt, and the
Goth, had already got in.  The Roman came, but in the very day when
his fortune culminated.  He looked in the eyes of a new people that
was to supplant his own.  He disembarked his legions, erected his
camps and towers, -- presently he heard bad news from Italy, and
worse and worse, every year; at last, he made a handsome compliment
of roads and walls, and departed.  But the Saxon seriously settled in
the land, builded, tilled, fished, and traded, with German truth and
adhesiveness.  The Dane came, and divided with him.  Last of all, the
Norman, or French-Dane, arrived, and formally conquered, harried and
ruled the kingdom.  A century later, it came out, that the Saxon had
the most bottom and longevity, had managed to make the victor speak
the language and accept the law and usage of the victim; forced the
baron to dictate Saxon terms to Norman kings; and, step by step, got
all the essential securities of civil liberty invented and confirmed.
The genius of the race and the genius of the place conspired to this
effect.  The island is lucrative to free labor, but not worth
possession on other terms.  The race was so intellectual, that a
feudal or military tenure could not last longer than the war.  The
power of the Saxon-Danes, so thoroughly beaten in the war, that the
name of English and villein were synonymous, yet so vivacious as to
extort charters from the kings, stood on the strong personality of
these people.  Sense and economy must rule in a world which is made
of sense and economy, and the banker, with his seven _per cent_,
drives the earl out of his castle.  A nobility of soldiers cannot
keep down a commonalty of shrewd scientific persons.  What signifies
a pedigree of a hundred links, against a cotton-spinner with steam in
his mill; or, against a company of broad-shouldered Liverpool
merchants, for whom Stephenson and Brunel are contriving locomotives
and a tubular bridge?

        These Saxons are the hands of mankind.  They have the taste for
toil, a distaste for pleasure or repose, and the telescopic
appreciation of distant gain.  They are the wealth-makers, -- and by
dint of mental faculty, which has its own conditions.  The Saxon
works after liking, or, only for himself; and to set him at work, and
to begin to draw his monstrous values out of barren Britain, all
dishonor, fret, and barrier must be removed, and then his energies
begin to play.

        The Scandinavian fancied himself surrounded by Trolls, -- a
kind of goblin men, with vast power of work and skilful production,
-- divine stevedores, carpenters, reapers, smiths, and masons, swift
to reward every kindness done them, with gifts of gold and silver.
In all English history, this dream comes to pass.  Certain Trolls or
working brains, under the names of Alfred, Bede, Caxton, Bracton,
Camden, Drake, Selden, Dugdale, Newton, Gibbon, Brindley, Watt,
Wedgwood, dwell in the troll-mounts of Britain, and turn the sweat of
their face to power and renown.

        If the race is good, so is the place.  Nobody landed on this
spellbound island with impunity.  The enchantments of barren shingle
and rough weather, transformed every adventurer into a laborer.  Each
vagabond that arrived bent his neck to the yoke of gain, or found the
air too tense for him.  The strong survived, the weaker went to the
ground.  Even the pleasure-hunters and sots of England are of a
tougher texture.  A hard temperament had been formed by Saxon and
Saxon-Dane, and such of these French or Normans as could reach it,
were naturalized in every sense.

        All the admirable expedients or means hit upon in England must
be looked at as growths or irresistible offshoots of the expanding
mind of the race.  A man of that brain thinks and acts thus; and his
neighbor, being afflicted with the same kind of brain, though he is
rich, and called a baron, or a duke, thinks the same thing, and is
ready to allow the justice of the thought and act in his retainer or
tenant, though sorely against his baronial or ducal will.

        The island was renowned in antiquity for its breed of mastiffs,
so fierce, that, when their teeth were set, you must cut their heads
off to part them.  The man was like his dog.  The people have that
nervous bilious temperament, which is known by medical men to resist
every means employed to make its possessor subservient to the will of
others.  The English game is main force to main force, the planting
of foot to foot, fair play and open field, -- a rough tug without
trick or dodging, till one or both come to pieces.  King Ethelwald
spoke the language of his race, when he planted himself at Wimborne,
and said, `he would do one of two things, or there live, or there
lie.' They hate craft and subtlety.  They neither poison, nor waylay,
nor assassinate; and, when they have pounded each other to a
poultice, they will shake hands and be friends for the remainder of
their lives.

        You shall trace these Gothic touches at school, at country
fairs, at the hustings, and in parliament.  No artifice, no breach of
truth and plain dealing, -- not so much as secret ballot, is suffered
in the island.  In parliament, the tactics of the opposition is to
resist every step of the government, by a pitiless attack: and in a
bargain, no prospect of advantage is so dear to the merchant, as the
thought of being tricked is mortifying.

        Sir Kenelm Digby, a courtier of Charles and James, who won the
sea-fight of Scanderoon, was a model Englishman in his day.  "His
person was handsome and gigantic, he had so graceful elocution and
noble address, that, had he been dropt out of the clouds in any part
of the world, he would have made himself respected: he was skilled in
six tongues, and master of arts and arms." (* 1) Sir Kenelm wrote a
book, "Of Bodies and of Souls," in which he propounds, that
"syllogisms do breed or rather are all the variety of man's life.
They are the steps by which we walk in all our businesses.  Man, as
he is man, doth nothing else but weave such chains.  Whatsoever he
doth, swarving from this work, he doth as deficient from the nature
of man: and, if he do aught beyond this, by breaking out into divers
sorts of exterior actions, he findeth, nevertheless, in this linked
sequel of simple discourses, the art, the cause, the rule, the
bounds, and the model of it." (* 2)

        There spoke the genius of the English people.  There is a
necessity on them to be logical.  They would hardly greet the good
that did not logically fall, -- as if it excluded their own merit, or
shook their understandings.  They are jealous of minds that have much
facility of association, from an instinctive fear that the seeing
many relations to their thought might impair this serial continuity
and lucrative concentration.  They are impatient of genius, or of
minds addicted to contemplation, and cannot conceal their contempt
for sallies of thought, however lawful, whose steps they cannot count
by their wonted rule.  Neither do they reckon better a syllogism that
ends in syllogism.  For they have a supreme eye to facts, and theirs
is a logic that brings salt to soup, hammer to nail, oar to boat, the
logic of cooks, carpenters, and chemists, following the sequence of
nature, and one on which words make no impression.  Their mind is not
dazzled by its own means, but locked and bolted to results.  They
love men, who, like Samuel Johnson, a doctor in the schools, would
jump out of his syllogism the instant his major proposition was in
danger, to save that, at all hazards.  Their practical vision is
spacious, and they can hold many threads without entangling them.
All the steps they orderly take; but with the high logic of never
confounding the minor and major proposition; keeping their eye on
their aim, in all the complicity and delay incident to the several
series of means they employ.  There is room in their minds for this
vand that, -- a science of degrees.  In the courts, the independence
of the judges and the loyalty of the suitors are equally excellent.
In Parliament, they have hit on that capital invention of freedom, a
constitutional opposition.  And when courts and parliament are both
deaf, the plaintiff is not silenced.  Calm, patient, his weapon of
defence from year to year is the obstinate reproduction of the
grievance, with calculations and estimates.  But, meantime, he is
drawing numbers and money to his opinion, resolved that if all remedy
fails, right of revolution is at the bottom of his charter-box.  They
are bound to see their measure carried, and stick to it through ages
of defeat.

        Into this English logic, however, an infusion of justice
enters, not so apparent in other races, -- a belief in the existence
of two sides, and the resolution to see fair play.  There is on every
question, an appeal from the assertion of the parties, to the proof
of what is asserted.  They are impious in their scepticism of a
theory, but kiss the dust before a fact.  Is it a machine, is it a
charter, is it a boxer in the ring, is it a candidate on the
hustings, -- the universe of Englishmen will suspend their judgment,
until the trial can be had.  They are not to be led by a phrase, they
want a working plan, a working machine, a working constitution, and
will sit out the trial, and abide by the issue, and reject all
preconceived theories.  In politics they put blunt questions, which
must be answered; who is to pay the taxes? what will you do for
trade? what for corn? what for the spinner?

        This singular fairness and its results strike the French with
surprise.  Philip de Commines says, "Now, in my opinion, among all
the sovereignties I know in the world, that in which the public good
is best attended to, and the least violence exercised on the people,
is that of England." Life is safe, and personal rights; and what is
freedom, without security? whilst, in France, `fraternity,'
`equality,' and `indivisible unity,' are names for assassination.
Montesquieu said, "England is the freest country in the world.  If a
man in England had as many enemies as hairs on his head, no harm
would happen to him."

        Their self-respect, their faith in causation, and their
realistic logic or coupling of means to ends, have given them the
leadership of the modern world.  Montesquieu said, "No people have
true common sense but those who are born in England." This common
sense is a perception of all the conditions of our earthly existence,
of laws that can be stated, and of laws that cannot be stated, or
that are learned only by practice, in which allowance for friction is
made.  They are impious in their scepticism of theory, and in high
departments they are cramped and sterile.  But the unconditional
surrender to facts, and the choice of means to reach their ends, are
as admirable as with ants and bees.

        The bias of the nation is a passion for utility.  They love the
lever, the screw, and pulley, the Flanders draught-horse, the
waterfall, wind-mills, tide-mills; the sea and the wind to bear their
freight ships.  More than the diamond Koh-i-noor, which glitters
among their crown jewels, they prize that dull pebble which is wiser
than a man, whose poles turn themselves to the poles of the world,
and whose axis is parallel to the axis of the world.  Now, their toys
are steam and galvanism.  They are heavy at the fine arts, but adroit
at the coarse; not good in jewelry or mosaics, but the best
iron-masters, colliers, wool-combers, and tanners, in Europe.  They
apply themselves to agriculture, to draining, to resisting
encroachments of sea, wind, travelling sands, cold and wet sub-soil;
to fishery, to manufacture of indispensable staples, -- salt,
plumbago, leather, wool, glass, pottery, and brick, -- to bees and
silkworms; -- and by their steady combinations they succeed.  A
manufacturer sits down to dinner in a suit of clothes which was wool
on a sheep's back at sunrise.  You dine with a gentleman on venison,
pheasant, quail, pigeons, poultry, mushrooms, and pine-apples, all
the growth of his estate.  They are neat husbands for ordering all
their tools pertaining to house and field.  All are well kept.  There
is no want and no waste.  They study use and fitness in their
building, in the order of their dwellings, and in their dress.  The
Frenchman invented the ruffle, the Englishman added the shirt.  The
Englishman wears a sensible coat buttoned to the chin, of rough but
solid and lasting texture.  If he is a lord, he dresses a little
worse than a commoner.  They have diffused the taste for plain
substantial hats, shoes, and coats through Europe.  They think him
the best dressed man, whose dress is so fit for his use that you
cannot notice or remember to describe it.

        They secure the essentials in their diet, in their arts, and
manufactures.  Every article of cutlery shows, in its shape, thought
and long experience of workmen.  They put the expense in the right
place, as, in their sea-steamers, in the solidity of the machinery
and the strength of the boat.  The admirable equipment of their
arctic ships carries London to the pole.  They build roads,
aqueducts, warm and ventilate houses.  And they have impressed their
directness and practical habit on modern civilization.

        In trade, the Englishman believes that nobody breaks who ought
not to break; and, that, if he do not make trade every thing, it will
make him nothing; and acts on this belief.  The spirit of system,
attention to details, and the subordination of details, or, the not
driving things too finely, (which is charged on the Germans,)
constitute that despatch of business, which makes the mercantile
power of England.

        In war, the Englishman looks to his means.  He is of the
opinion of Civilis, his German ancestor, whom Tacitus reports as
holding "that the gods are on the side of the strongest;"---a
sentence which Bonaparte unconsciously translated, when he said,
"that he had noticed, that Providence always favored the heaviest
battalion." Their military science propounds that if the weight of
the advancing column is greater than that of the resisting, the
latter is destroyed.  Therefore Wellington, when he came to the army
in Spain, had every man weighed, first with accoutrements, and then
without; believing that the force of an army depended on the weight
and power of the individual soldiers, in spite of cannon.  Lord
Palmerston told the House of Commons, that more care is taken of the
health and comfort of English troops than of any other troops in the
world; and that, hence the English can put more men into the rank, on
the day of action, on the field of battle, than any other army.
Before the bombardment of the Danish forts in the Baltic, Nelson
spent day after day, himself in the boats, on the exhausting service
of sounding the channel.  Clerk of Eldin's celebrated man;oeuvre of
breaking the line of sea-battle, and Nelson's feat of _doubling,_ or
stationing his ships one on the outer bow, and another on the outer
quarter of each of the enemy's were only translations into naval
tactics of Bonaparte's rule of concentration.  Lord Collingwood was
accustomed to tell his men, that, if they could fire three
well-directed broadsides in five minutes, no vessel could resist
them; and, from constant practice, they came to do it in three
minutes and a half.

 
        But conscious that no race of better men exists, they rely most
on the simplest means; and do not like ponderous and difficult
tactics, but delight to bring the affair hand to hand, where the
victory lies with the strength, courage, and endurance of the
individual combatants.  They adopt every improvement in rig, in
motor, in weapons, but they fundamentally believe that the best
stratagem in naval war, is to lay your ship close alongside of the
enemy's ship, and bring all your guns to bear on him, until you or he
go to the bottom.  This is the old fashion, which never goes out of
fashion, neither in nor out of England.

        It is not usually a point of honor, nor a religious sentiment,
and never any whim that they will shed their blood for; but usually
property, and right measured by property, that breeds revolution.
They have no Indian taste for a tomahawk-dance, no French taste for a
badge or a proclamation.  The Englishman is peaceably minding his
business, and earning his day's wages.  But if you offer to lay hand
on his day's wages, on his cow, or his right in common, or his shop,
he will fight to the Judgment.  Magna-charta, jury-trial,
_habeas-corpus_, star-chamber, ship-money, Popery, Plymouth-colony,
American Revolution, are all questions involving a yeoman's right to
his dinner, and, except as touching that, would not have lashed the
British nation to rage and revolt.

        Whilst they are thus instinct with a spirit of order, and of
calculation, it must be owned they are capable of larger views; but
the indulgence is expensive to them, costs great crises, or
accumulations of mental power.  In common, the horse works best with
blinders.  Nothing is more in the line of English thought, than our
unvarnished Connecticut question, "Pray, sir, how do you get your
living when you are at home?" The questions of freedom, of taxation,
of privilege, are money questions.  Heavy fellows, steeped in beer
and fleshpots, they are hard of hearing and dim of sight.  Their
drowsy minds need to be flagellated by war and trade and politics and
persecution.  They cannot well read a principle, except by the light
of fagots and of burning towns.

        Tacitus says of the Germans, "powerful only in sudden efforts,
they are impatient of toil and labor." This highly-destined race, if
it had not somewhere added the chamber of patience to its brain,
would not have built London.  I know not from which of the tribes and
temperaments that went to the composition of the people this tenacity
was supplied, but they clinch every nail they drive.  They have no
running for luck, and no immoderate speed.  They spend largely on
their fabric, and await the slow return.  Their leather lies tanning
seven years in the vat.  At Rogers's mills, in Sheffield, where I was
shown the process of making a razor and a penknife, I was told there
is no luck in making good steel; that they make no mistakes, every
blade in the hundred and in the thousand is good.  And that is
characteristic of all their work, -- no more is attempted than is
done.

        When Thor and his companions arrive at Utgard, he is told that
"nobody is permitted to remain here, unless he understand some art,
and excel in it all other men." The same question is still put to the
posterity of Thor.  A nation of laborers, every man is trained to
some one art or detail, and aims at perfection in that; not content
unless he has something in which he thinks he surpasses all other
men.  He would rather not do any thing at all, than not do it well.
I suppose no people have such thoroughness; -- from the highest to
the lowest, every man meaning to be master of his art.

        "To show capacity," a Frenchman described as the end of a
speech in debate: "no," said an Englishman, "but to set your shoulder
at the wheel, -- to advance the business." Sir Samuel Romilly refused
to speak in popular assemblies, confining himself to the House of
Commons, where a measure can be carried by a speech.  The business of
the House of Commons is conducted by a few persons, but these are
hard-worked.  Sir Robert Peel "knew the Blue Books by heart." His
colleagues and rivals carry Hansard in their heads.  The high civil
and legal offices are not beds of ease, but posts which exact
frightful amounts of mental labor.  Many of the great leaders, like
Pitt, Canning, Castlereagh, Romilly, are soon worked to death.  They
are excellent judges England of a good worker, and when they find
one, like Clarendon, Sir Philip Warwick, Sir William Coventry,
Ashley, Burke, Thurlow, Mansfield, Pitt, Eldon, Peel, or Russell,
there is nothing too good or too high for him.

        They have a wonderful heat in the pursuit of a public aim
Private persons exhibit, in scientific and antiquarian researches,
the same pertinacity as the nation showed in the coalitions in which
it yoked Europe against the empire of Bonaparte, one after the other
defeated, and still renewed, until the sixth hurled him from his
seat.

        Sir John Herschel, in completion of the work of his father, who
had made the catalogue of the stars of the northern hemisphere,
expatriated himself for years at the Cape of Good Hope, finished his
inventory of the southern heaven, came home, and redacted it in eight
years more; -- a work whose value does not begin until thirty years
have elapsed, and thenceforward a record to all ages of the highest
import.  The Admiralty sent out the Arctic expeditions year after
year, in search of Sir John Franklin, until, at last, they have
threaded their way through polar pack and Behring's Straits, and
solved the geographical problem.  Lord Elgin, at Athens, saw the
imminent ruin of the Greek remains, set up his scaffoldings, in spite
of epigrams, and, after five years' labor to collect them, got his
marbles on shipboard.  The ship struck a rock, and went to the
bottom.  He had them all fished up, by divers, at a vast expense, and
brought to London; not knowing that Haydon, Fuseli, and Canova, and
all good heads in all the world, were to be his applauders.  In the
same spirit, were the excavation and research by Sir Charles
Fellowes, for the Xanthian monument; and of Layard, for his Nineveh
sculptures.

        The nation sits in the immense city they have builded, a London
extended into every man's mind, though he live in Van Dieman's Land
or Capetown.  Faithful performance of what is undertaken to be
performed, they honor in themselves, and exact in others, as
certificate of equality with themselves.  The modern world is theirs.
They have made and make it day by day.  The commercial relations of
the world are so intimately drawn to London, that every dollar on
earth contributes to the strength of the English government.  And if
all the wealth in the planet should perish by war or deluge, they
know themselves competent to replace it.

        They have approved their Saxon blood, by their sea-going
qualities; their descent from Odin's smiths, by their hereditary
skill in working in iron; their British birth, by husbandry and
immense wheat harvests; and justified their occupancy of the centre
of habitable land, by their supreme ability and cosmopolitan spirit.
They have tilled, builded, forged, spun, and woven.  They have made
the island a thoroughfare; and London a shop, a law-court, a
record-office, and scientific bureau, inviting to strangers; a
sanctuary to refugees of every political and religious opinion; and
such a city, that almost every active man, in any nation, finds
himself, at one time or other, forced to visit it.

        In every path of practical activity, they have gone even with
the best.  There is no secret of war, in which they have not shown
mastery.  The steam-chamber of Watt, the locomotive of Stephenson,
the cotton-mule of Roberts, perform the labor of the world.  There is
no department of literature, of science, or of useful art, in which
they have not produced a first-rate book.  It is England, whose
opinion is waited for on the merit of a new invention, an improved
science.  And in the complications of the trade and politics of their
vast empire, they have been equal to every exigency, with counsel and
with conduct.  Is it their luck, or is it in the chambers of their
brain, -- it is their commercial advantage, that whatever light
appears in better method or happy invention, breaks out _in their
race_.  They are a family to which a destiny attaches, and the
Banshee has sworn that a male heir shall never be wanting.  They have
a wealth of men to fill important posts, and the vigilance of party
criticism insures the selection of a competent person.

        A proof of the energy of the British people, is the highly
artificial construction of the whole fabric.  The climate and
geography, I said, were factitious, as if the hands of man had
arranged the conditions.  The same character pervades the whole
kingdom.  Bacon said, "Rome was a state not subject to paradoxes;"
but England subsists by antagonisms and contradictions.  The
foundations of its greatness are the rolling waves; and, from first
to last, it is a museum of anomalies.  This foggy and rainy country
furnishes the world with astronomical observations.  Its short rivers
do not afford water-power, but the land shakes under the thunder of
the mills.  There is no gold mine of any importance, but there is
more gold in England than in all other countries.  It is too far
north for the culture of the vine, but the wines of all countries are
in its docks.  The French Comte de Lauraguais said, "no fruit ripens
in England but a baked apple"; but oranges and pine-apples are as
cheap in London as in the Mediterranean.  The Mark-Lane Express, or
the Custom House Returns bear out to the letter the vaunt of Pope,

        "Let India boast her palms, nor envy we
        The weeping amber, nor the spicy tree,
        While, by our oaks, those precious loads are borne,
        And realms commanded which those trees adorn."
 
        The native cattle are extinct, but the island is full of
artificial breeds.  The agriculturist Bakewell, created sheep and
cows and horses to order, and breeds in which every thing was omitted
but what is economical.  The cow is sacrificed to her bag, the ox to
his surloin.  Stall-feeding makes sperm-mills of the cattle, and
converts the stable to a chemical factory.  The rivers, lakes and
ponds, too much fished, or obstructed by factories, are artificially
filled with the eggs of salmon, turbot and herring.

        Chat Moss and the fens of Lincolnshire and Cambridgeshire are
unhealthy and too barren to pay rent.  By cylindrical tiles, and
guttapercha tubes, five millions of acres of bad land have been
drained and put on equality with the best, for rape-culture and
grass.  The climate too, which was already believed to have become
milder and drier by the enormous consumption of coal, is so far
reached by this new action, that fogs and storms are said to
disappear.  In due course, all England will be drained, and rise a
second time out of the waters.  The latest step was to call in the
aid of steam to agriculture.  Steam is almost an Englishman.  I do
not know but they will send him to Parliament, next, to make laws.
He weaves, forges, saws, pounds, fans, and now he must pump, grind,
dig, and plough for the farmer.  The markets created by the
manufacturing population have erected agriculture into a great
thriving and spending industry.  The value of the houses in Britain
is equal to the value of the soil.  Artificial aids of all kinds are
cheaper than the natural resources.  No man can afford to walk, when
the parliamentary-train carries him for a penny a mile.  Gas-burners
are cheaper than daylight in numberless floors in the cities.  All
the houses in London buy their water.  The English trade does not
exist for the exportation of native products, but on its
manufactures, or the making well every thing which is ill made
elsewhere.  They make ponchos for the Mexican, bandannas for the
Hindoo, ginseng for the Chinese, beads for the Indian, laces for the
Flemings, telescopes for astronomers, cannons for kings.

        The Board of Trade caused the best models of Greece and Italy
to be placed within the reach of every manufacturing population.
They caused to be translated from foreign languages and illustrated
by elaborate drawings, the most approved works of Munich, Berlin, and
Paris.  They have ransacked Italy to find new forms, to add a grace
to the products of their looms, their potteries, and their foundries.
(* 3)

        The nearer we look, the more artificial is their social system.
Their law is a network of fictions.  Their property, a scrip or
certificate of right to interest on money that no man ever saw.
Their social classes are made by statute.  Their ratios of power and
representation are historical and legal.  The last Reform-bill took
away political power from a mound, a ruin, and a stone-wall, whilst
Birmingham and Manchester, whose mills paid for the wars of Europe,
had no representative.  Purity in the elective Parliament is secured
by the purchase of seats.  (* 4) Foreign power is kept by armed
colonies; power at home, by a standing army of police.  The pauper
lives better than the free laborer; the thief better than the pauper;
and the transported felon better than the one under imprisonment.
The crimes are factitious, as smuggling, poaching, non-conformity,
heresy and treason.  Better, they say in England, kill a man than a
hare.  The sovereignty of the seas is maintained by the impressment
of seamen.  "The impressment of seamen," said Lord Eldon, "is the
life of our navy." Solvency is maintained by means of a national
debt, on the principle, "if you will not lend me the money, how can I
pay you?" For the administration of justice, Sir Samuel Romilly's
expedient for clearing the arrears of business in Chancery, was, the
Chancellor's staying away entirely from his court.  Their system of
education is factitious.  The Universities galvanize dead languages
into a semblance of life.  Their church is artificial.  The manners
and customs of society are artificial; -- made up men with made up
manners; -- and thus the whole is Birminghamized, and we have a
nation whose existence is a work of art; -- a cold, barren, almost
arctic isle, being made the most fruitful, luxurious and imperial
land in the whole earth.

        Man in England submits to be a product of political economy.
On a bleak moor, a mill is built, a banking-house is opened, and men
come in, as water in a sluice-way, and towns and cities rise.  Man is
made as a Birmingham button.  The rapid doubling of the population
dates from Watt's steam-engine.  A landlord, who owns a province,
says, "the tenantry are unprofitable; let me have sheep." He unroofs
the houses, and ships the population to America.  The nation is
accustomed to the instantaneous creation of wealth.  It is the maxim
of their economists, "that the greater part in value of the wealth
now existing in England, has been produced by human hands within the
last twelve months." Meantime, three or four days' rain will reduce
hundreds to starving in London.

        One secret of their power is their mutual good understanding.
Not only good minds are born among them, but all the people have good
minds.  Every nation has yielded some good wit, if, as has chanced to
many tribes, only one.  But the intellectual organization of the
English admits a communicableness of knowledge and ideas among them
all.  An electric touch by any of their national ideas, melts them
into one family, and brings the hoards of power which their
individuality is always hiving, into use and play for all.  Is it the
smallness of the country, or is it the pride and affection of race,
-- they have solidarity, or responsibleness, and trust in each other.

        Their minds, like wool, admit of a dye which is more lasting
than the cloth.  They embrace their cause with more tenacity than
their life.  Though not military, yet every common subject by the
poll is fit to make a soldier of.  These private reserved mute
family-men can adopt a public end with all their heat, and this
strength of affection makes the romance of their heroes.  The
difference of rank does not divide the national heart.  The Danish
poet Ohlenschlager complains, that who writes in Danish, writes to
two hundred readers.  In Germany, there is one speech for the
learned, and another for the masses, to that extent, that, it is
said, no sentiment or phrase from the works of any great German
writer is ever heard among the lower classes.  But in England, the
language of the noble is the language of the poor.  In Parliament, in
pulpits, in theatres, when the speakers rise to thought and passion,
the language becomes idiomatic; the people in the street best
understand the best words.  And their language seems drawn from the
Bible, the common law, and the works of Shakspeare, Bacon, Milton,
Pope, Young, Cowper, Burns, and Scott.  The island has produced two
or three of the greatest men that ever existed, but they were not
solitary in their own time.  Men quickly embodied what Newton found
out, in Greenwich observatories, and practical navigation.  The boys
know all that Hutton knew of strata, or Dalton of atoms, or Harvey of
blood-vessels; and these studies, once dangerous, are in fashion.  So
what is invented or known in agriculture, or in trade, or in war, or
in art, or in literature, and antiquities.  A great ability, not
amassed on a few giants, but poured into the general mind, so that
each of them could at a pinch stand in the shoes of the other; and
they are more bound in character, than differenced in ability or in
rank.  The laborer is a possible lord.  The lord is a possible
basket-maker.  Every man carries the English system in his brain,
knows what is confided to him, and does therein the best he can.  The
chancellor carries England on his mace, the midshipman at the point
of his dirk, the smith on his hammer, the cook in the bowl of his
spoon; the postilion cracks his whip for England, and the sailor
times his oars to "God save the King!" The very felons have their
pride in each other's English stanchness.  In politics and in war,
they hold together as by hooks of steel.  The charm in Nelson's
history, is, the unselfish greatness; the assurance of being
supported to the uttermost by those whom he supports to the
uttermost.  Whilst they are some ages ahead of the rest of the world
in the art of living; whilst in some directions they do not represent
the modern spirit, but constitute it,--this vanguard of civility and
power they coldly hold, marching in phalanx, lockstep, foot after
foot, file after file of heroes, ten thousand deep.

        (* 1) Antony Wood.

        (* 2) Man's Soule, p. 29.

        (* 3) See Memorial of H. Greenough, p. 66, New York, 1853.

        (* 4) Sir S. Romilly, purest of English patriots, decided that
the only independent mode of entering Parliament was to buy a seat,
and he bought Horsham.

 
 
 
        Chapter VI _Manners_

        I find the Englishman to be him of all men who stands firmest
in his shoes.  They have in themselves what they value in their
horses, mettle and bottom.  On the day of my arrival at Liverpool, a
gentleman, in describing to me the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland,
happened to say, "Lord Clarendon has pluck like a cock, and will
fight till he dies;" and, what I heard first I heard last, and the
one thing the English value, is pluck.  The cabmen have it; the
merchants have it; the bishops have it; the women have it; the
journals have it; the Times newspaper, they say, is the pluckiest
thing in England, and Sydney Smith had made it a proverb, that little
Lord John Russell, the minister, would take the command of the
Channel fleet to-morrow.

        They require you to dare to be of your own opinion, and they
hate the practical cowards who cannot in affairs answer directly yes
or no.  They dare to displease, nay, they will let you break all the
commandments, if you do it natively, and with spirit.  You must be
somebody; then you may do this or that, as you will.

        Machinery has been applied to all work, and carried to such
perfection, that little is left for the men but to mind the engines
and feed the furnaces.  But the machines require punctual service,
and, as they never tire, they prove too much for their tenders.
Mines, forges, mills, breweries, railroads, steampump, steamplough,
drill of regiments, drill of police, rule of court, and shop-rule,
have operated to give a mechanical regularity to all the habit and
action of men.  A terrible machine has possessed itself of the
ground, the air, the men and women, and hardly even thought is free.

        The mechanical might and organization requires in the people
constitution and answering spirits: and he who goes among them must
have some weight of metal.  At last, you take your hint from the fury
of life you find, and say, one thing is plain, this is no country for
fainthearted people: don't creep about diffidently; make up your
mind; take your own course, and you shall find respect and
furtherance.

        It requires, men say, a good constitution to travel in Spain.
I say as much of England, for other cause, simply on account of the
vigor and brawn of the people.  Nothing but the most serious
business, could give one any counterweight to these Baresarks, though
they were only to order eggs and muffins for their breakfast.  The
Englishman speaks with all his body.  His elocution is stomachic, --
as the American's is labial.  The Englishman is very petulant and
precise about his accommodation at inns, and on the roads; a quiddle
about his toast and his chop, and every species of convenience, and
loud and pungent in his expressions of impatience at any neglect.
His vivacity betrays itself, at all points, in his manners, in his
respiration, and the inarticulate noises he makes in clearing the
throat; -- all significant of burly strength.  He has stamina; he can
take the initiative in emergencies.  He has that _aplomb_, which
results from a good adjustment of the moral and physical nature, and
the obedience of all the powers to the will; as if the axes of his
eyes were united to his backbone, and only moved with the trunk.

        This vigor appears in the incuriosity, and stony neglect, each
of every other.  Each man walks, eats, drinks, shaves, dresses,
gesticulates, and, in every manner, acts, and suffers without
reference to the bystanders, in his own fashion, only careful not to
interfere with them, or annoy them; not that he is trained to neglect
the eyes of his neighbors, -- he is really occupied with his own
affair, and does not think of them.  Every man in this polished
country consults only his convenience, as much as a solitary pioneer
in Wisconsin.  I know not where any personal eccentricity is so
freely allowed, and no man gives himself any concern with it.  An
Englishman walks in a pouring rain, swinging his closed umbrella like
a walking-stick; wears a wig, or a shawl, or a saddle, or stands on
his head, and no remark is made.  And as he has been doing this for
several generations, it is now in the blood.

        In short, every one of these islanders is an island himself,
safe, tranquil, incommunicable.  In a company of strangers, you would
think him deaf; his eyes never wander from his table and newspaper.
He is never betrayed into any curiosity or unbecoming emotion.  They
have all been trained in one severe school of manners, and never put
off the harness.  He does not give his hand.  He does not let you
meet his eye.  It is almost an affront to look a man in the face,
without being introduced.  In mixed or in select companies they do
not introduce persons; so that a presentation is a circumstance as
valid as a contract.  Introductions are sacraments.  He withholds his
name.  At the hotel, he is hardly willing to whisper it to the clerk
at the book-office.  If he give you his private address on a card, it
is like an avowal of friendship; and his bearing, on being
introduced, is cold, even though he is seeking your acquaintance, and
is studying how he shall serve you.

        It was an odd proof of this impressive energy, that, in my
lectures, I hesitated to read and threw out for its impertinence many
a disparaging phrase, which I had been accustomed to spin, about
poor, thin, unable mortals; -- so much had the fine physique and the
personal vigor of this robust race worked on my imagination.

        I happened to arrive in England, at the moment of a commercial
crisis.  But it was evident, that, let who will fail, England will
not.  These people have sat here a thousand years, and here will
continue to sit.  They will not break up, or arrive at any desperate
revolution, like their neighbors; for they have as much energy, as
much continence of character as they ever had.  The power and
possession which surround them are their own creation, and they exert
the same commanding industry at this moment.

        They are positive, methodical, cleanly, and formal, loving
routine, and conventional ways; loving truth and religion, to be
sure, but inexorable on points of form.  All the world praises the
comfort and private appointments of an English inn, and of English
households.  You are sure of neatness and of personal decorum.  A
Frenchman may possibly be clean; an Englishman is conscientiously
clean.  A certain order and complete propriety is found in his dress
and in his belongings.

        Born in a harsh and wet climate, which keeps him in doors
whenever he is at rest, and being of an affectionate and loyal
temper, he dearly loves his house.  If he is rich, he buys a demesne,
and builds a hall; if he is in middle condition, he spares no expense
on his house.  Without, it is all planted: within, it is wainscoted,
carved, curtained, hung with pictures, and filled with good
furniture.  'Tis a passion which survives all others, to deck and
improve it.  Hither he brings all that is rare and costly, and with
the national tendency to sit fast in the same spot for many
generations, it comes to be, in the course of time, a museum of
heirlooms, gifts, and trophies of the adventures and exploits of the
family.  He is very fond of silver plate, and, though he have no
gallery of portraits of his ancestors, he has of their punch-bowls
and porringers.  Incredible amounts of plate are found in good
houses, and the poorest have some spoon or saucepan, gift of a
godmother, saved out of better times.

        An English family consists of a few persons, who, from youth to
age, are found revolving within a few feet of each other, as if tied
by some invisible ligature, tense as that cartilage which we have
seen attaching the two Siamese.  England produces under favorable
conditions of ease and culture the finest women in the world.  And,
as the men are affectionate and true-hearted, the women inspire and
refine them.  Nothing can be more delicate without being fantastical,
nothing more firm and based in nature and sentiment,