LETTER ONE
[New York Weekly Mirror—July 4, 1846.]
Not from the Boston Atlas.
PEN AND INK SKETCHES
LONDON, June 1st.
I had the pleasure of attending a morning soiree at the house of the celebrated Sir Lytton Edward Bulwer, last week, at which I met several literary personages, whose names may be familiar to the American public, and I propose to give you a slight sketch of their persons and peculiarities. Bulwer has acquired considerable reputation in this country by his novels and other works, and as he may be known, by reputation, to some of your readers, I will begin my gallery of daguerreotypes by a slight allusion to him. Returning to my apartments in the Commercial road, after spending a delightful evening with a choice set of spirits, at the house of my friend the Countess of Candelabras, in Rosemary Lane, I found lying upon the centre table of my apartment a pink card, with a gold border, and looking at it rather curiously through my eye-glass, by the uncertain light of an expiring candle, which I had borrowed of my landlady, my surprise may be judged of, when I inform you that I discovered the name of Sir Lytton Edward Bulwer in German text. I had no previous acquaintance with Sir Lytton, excepting having met him once as he came out of the shop of my eminent friend, the great publisher in Conduit street, whose son, I hear, is at present in New York. On that occasion I dogged the steps of Sir Lytton, until I saw him enter the Atheneum Club room, on the border of Oxford street and Picadilly; and although I waited in the rain more than an hour, hoping to renew my acquaintance with him when he came out, I was unfortunately compelled to 'move on,' by the peremptory order of a policeman, and consequently missed an opportunity of ranking one of the most celebrated men of the day among my intimate friends; and probably wishing to be presented to the generous-hearted and most credulous people or your great country, has left his card for me, hoping to get into one of my letters. It was under these most favorable auspices that I jumped into a cab on the night of the 1st day of April, a night which will ever be memorable in my history and hastily ordering the cab-man to set me down at No. 46 Portland Place, the town residence of my friend, I leaned back in the cab, and tried to compose my mind for the tremendous event, which it was my fate to encounter. I was roused from my deep reverie, by hearing a sharp, double-knock at the hall-door of a stately mansion. Collecting my scattered senses, I sprang from the cab, and rushing with wild impetuosity up the marble stair-way of No. 46, in the first landing encountered the most remarkable vision that ever lighted upon the steps of a fashionable mansion. I need hardly say that this vision was the remarkable author who had kindly invited me to his house. It was in fact Sir Lytton Edward Bulwer. 'O, my covey,' said the Baronet, 'how are you?' Having satisfied him on this head, he immediately overwhelmed me with the most perfectly dazzling scintillations of his genius that can be conceived. I can only remember distinctly that he said he had read my letters in the Atlas, and esteemed it the most fortunate moment of his life when he first became acquainted with me. I was astonished to find him perfectly familiar with my name, and quite au fait in all American affairs. He said he had long contemplated a trip to Boston, and had great admiration for your glorious institutions. He enquired after all the principal literateurs of America, and was very anxious to know something about Prof. Ingraham and the celebrated critic Mr. Poe. Sir Lytton is about thirty-one years old; he is rather stout, slightly pock-marked, and notwithstanding an impediment in his speech talks with considerable fluency. Sir Lytton it is well known is the oldest son of a Shropshire baronet, who lost his life in the battle of Blenheim, under the celebrated F. M. the Duke of Wellington. Taking me by the arm he ushered me into the drawing-room, where the greater part of the guests, whom he had invited to meet me, were already assembled. Here a scene of great brilliancy presented itself to my view, and I am only sorry that all my Boston friends were not there to enjoy it. Step for a moment into this richly draperied room, while l sip a glass of lemonade, with my celebrated host, and take a few notes of the distinguished company assembled. You see that elderly gentleman, with long white hair, a rather flushed countenance, and a turquoise ring with the initials S. R. cut upon the stone, on his forefinger, dancing the cellarius polka, with a young lady wearing a crimson spencer, and a sea-green robe; see how she leans her cheek upon his shoulder, while he, on hospitable thoughts intent, smiles graciously upon her. Well, that gentleman is my friend, the celebrated poet Sam Rogers, author of the Pleasures of Hope; the young lady is my intimate acquaintance Miss Joanna Bailie, the daughter of a celebrated Scotch physician, and the authoress of several agreeable poems. The little man in a brown coat, who is whispering in the ear of a lady, wearing a sky-blue mantilla, is the celebrated Thomas Moore, author of a volume called Moore's Melodies; the lady is the Hon. Mrs. Norton, a distant relative, I believe, of the excellent Governor Norton of Massachusetts. I had made these few notes, and was just preparing a sketch of the Countess of Blessington, who I perceived was waltzing with my friend Leigh Hunt, when a gentleman approached me, and giving my shoulder a most terrific slap, said: 'O, my boy, how are you?' Looking up, I discovered it was the celebrated William Wordsworth. He wore a light blue—But the postman calls, and I must close.
Yours ever, FERDINAND MENDEZ PINTO
LETTER TWO
[New York Weekly Mirror—August 29, 1846.]
Unparalleled Enterprise!!! By Lightning
Express!!!
LONDON CORRESPONDENCE.
No. 18, ST. JOHN'S GATE,
Devonshire Terrace, August 4, 1846.
DEAR F.—I find that your Mirror answers exactly the purpose which Burns sighed for, namely, it affords an opportunity for men to see themselves as other see them. This is the highest and best office of a Mirror. If some of your great men do not see themselves very accurately reflected, it is because they do not look into your paper. If I were a great man and an American, and you know I am neither, I am sure I would never look into your Mirror for fear of seeing myself reflected there. Just turn the surface of your reflector in an easterly direction, and if the smoke of this great city is not too thick, you shall catch some likenesses en buste of some of our celebrities. 'So, steady,' as the mate of the —— used to say to the man at the wheel; 'Keep her so.' Now, what do you see? A neat little cottage, did you say? Very well. It is a very neat little cottage. Observe, it is neither white-washed nor painted; the old grey stones of which it is built are partly covered with moss and partly with ivy; it has a little porch, and square hooded windows with diamond panes. Where is it? It is on the Edgeware road, and the spire which you see beyond is St. Cuthbert's-in-the-fields, where the occupant of this little rustic gem, hight Douglas Jerrold, was christened and wedded. He loves the old cottage, although he was not born in it, and the old church, and these are the only old things, saving his venerable mother, that he does love. You need not enter the cottage to catch a glimpse of the company within, because the window is swung wide open, and the perfume of these stock flowers and geraniums is much pleasanter than the fumes of cigars which the happy looking company are smoking. How many are there? Five. Who are they? Wait, and you shall know. That rather stout gentleman with a loose cravat and turn-over collar, with a satin vest, and a glass in his hand, looking as though he were sitting for a portrait of the hermit of Bellyfull, is a gentleman whom you know already, although you see him now for the first time: it is Gilbert Abbot a Beckett. Enough said? Of course. Sitting at his right is a small ill-natured person, at least ill-natured in his looks, with greyish hair, a restless black eye, and closed lips, who rejoices in the name of Douglas Jerrold. He is smoking a pipe, and the liquid in the silver tankard before him is Barclay & Perkins' entire; the laughing youth in the sporting coat and satin stock is Horace Mayhew: you may have heard of him before, or you may not. But whether or no, you will hear a good deal of him hereafter. He is a rising genius. The rather coarse-looking person, with chestnut curls and a blue coat, at the foot of the table, if I may so call any part of a round one, is Mark Lemon. You don't say so? I do say so. Look at him again as he turns round: now you see his face; should you think so good-looking a person could have written so many ill-natured squibs? It is true, however. He is about forty-five years old, and one of the pleasantest companions you could meet with. There are some remaining traces in his broad face of his former calling. You remember he was a publican. I have eaten many a chop at his house in Oxford street. His thick snub nose, plethoric lips, heavy eyebrows, and paunchy front, certainly indicate more of the publican than of the wit. But looks are often deceptive, and they never were more so than in this case. As he shakes his head and tosses the heavy ringlets from his brow, you see in his forehead the causes of his power, and why is it that from being an indifferent publican, he has risen to be one of the most influential editors in England—for Punch wields more authority than the Times. Who is the other one? That's I, and I shall say no more about I.
If I had not already taken a place in the steamer for Antwerp to-morrow, I would not venture to imitate your former partner, so far as to write a public letter about a private party; for these wags read the Mirror as regular as though it were printed in Cheapside, and I would not like to brave their wrath for exposing them. But before I return, they will forget all about it, and welcome me as heartily as ever. It is Sunday afternoon, always a holiday with the slaves of the press, and we have been dining on a haunch of South Down mutton, which was sent to Jerrold by a Sussex squire, as a token of his admiration for the author of Clover-nook. It was an appropriate present, and I can testify to the richness of its flavor. Our host is in particularly good humor, for his weekly newspaper has met with a tremendous sale. He is one of the most fortunate literary men in England, whatever he puts his name to succeeds, and the secret of his success is his sympathy with the middle classes, and his fearlessness in uttering his opinions. You call yourselves free, in America, and you are so, compared with some nations, but the freedom of our press would not be tolerated in New York. Jerrold's Magazine is alread a good paying property, and the contributors to it are handsomely remunerated. In some instances, I have known twenty guineas to be paid for a short article. Nothing need be said about Punch; its profits are enormous. Bradbury and Evans are capital fellows, and they treat their writers like princes. I had the good fortune to be present at a dinner given by Mr. Evans, at his villa in Kent, a few weeks since, when I met the whole corps of artists, engravers and authors engaged on Punch, Jerrold's Magazine, and the Almanack of the month.
Tom Duncombe and Macready were present, but otherwise it was a strictly professional party. Some of the gents, knowing I had been in America, chose to call me a Yankee, and I was quizzed unmercifully, but I stood the fire manfully, and made a speech in favor of repudiation and slavery. Jerrold toasted his friend, the author of Puffer Hopkins, whose writings he reviewed in the Illustrated Magazine, whereupon I was called out to say something about American literature. The greatest man present, physically at least, was the incomparable Michael Angelo Titmarsh, the best fellow in the whole world; he told me that he intended visiting the United States the next winter, but that he meant to go incog. If he should visit you, he would give such a work about America, as the old world needs. I was told by a gentleman present that Titmarsh, whose real name is Thackeray, as you know, realized an income of about fifteen hundred pounds for his writings. Bradbury & Evans pay him well for his contributions to Punch, the best of which was Jeames' Diary. He illustrates his own writings, and is, of course, doubly valuable on that account. Albert Smith was also of the company; he is a gentlemanly man in his manners, but his writings are extremely gross and sketchy. Mrs. Jerrold was there—the original of Mrs. Caudle. She is a sister of the celebrated Anna Thillon, the famous violinist. By the by, I must not forget to mention that Jerrold told me that he wanted to engage a New York correspondent for his weekly newspaper; there is a chance for some of the unemployed wits who saunter up and down Broadway. He said nothing about terms, but being an author himself, he of course has a fellow-feeling for the brethren of the press, and will pay liberally.—There is nothing new in literature, but I hear that a young American has just received an appointment as sub-librarian at the British Museum.
Yours, F. M. PINTO.
N.B.—But I forget the news, which is in fact that there is nothing new. The Cobden memorial has not yet reached the hundred thousand mark, but it will in the end. There is a growing demand among the common people for Indian meal, and I hear that slap-jacks and hoe cakes are seen every morning on the breakfast table at Buckingham palace. Cotton remains about the same, and the money market is tight in some quarters, and in others, St. James' st., for instance, rather loose. The new Premier finds favor in all quarters, and the news from the continent is peaceful, and affairs wear a pacific aspect, even Palmerston is said to be strongly averse to anything like a manifestation of a war spirit. Our manufacture and warehousemen are anxiously looking for news of Sir Robert Walker's tariff. The Queen is not as usual, but we are momently expecting an interesting announcement in the Morning Post.
LETTER THREE
[New York Weekly Mirror—September 12, 1846.]
From our London Correspondent.
No. 8, HAGLEY CRESCENT,
City Road, Aug. 20
MY DEAR F.—Your present of hominy and corn meal came safely to hand by the St. James; Captain M. is a great favorite at the Custom house, and so he contrived to smuggle it in free of duty. The receipts for cooking, which were furnished by the professor, were luckily found in the box, for it so happens that during my short stay in America, I never once saw a dish composed of Indian-meal, and I was, therefore quite at a loss how to prepare my trans-Atlantic delicacies. Living as I do in bachelor's apartments, I could not make up a little party to partake of my luxuries, so I sent the box and the professor's recipes to my friend Mrs. S. C. Hall, who invited a few friends to an Indian-corn feast at her delightful cottage in the Oval, Puddleford common. We had a merry-time, you may be sure. The guests were few, but choice. To impart an American flavor to the re-union, Charlotte Cushman and her sister Susan were invited, and they, happily, aided our accomplished hostess in serving up the meal. A card was sent to Macready, but he was prevented from coming by the illness of his youngest child. When I arrived at the cottage, I found Mrs. Hall, tete a tete with a pleasant-looking lady of middle age, dressed rather gaily for an Englishwoman, but withal having a quiet stateliness of manner, which at first seemed like pride, although after a few minutes conversation you could discover that it was only the remains of an early habit of restraint. This was Mary Howitt; her husband, whom I had not then seen, was absent in Lincolnshire, with his brother James. Mrs. Howitt, I was gratified to find, knew me very well, by report, and we were soon conversing with as much freedom as though we had been reared together. She was wonderfully curious about America, and asked me a thousand questions about the L's and D's, which I was unable to answer. In fact, I found that she knew more about America than I did, and in the space of five minutes, she uttered more American names, than I had heard in a month; it was quite delightful to hear her. She talks very rapidly, and pronounces her opinions without the least hesitation, and sometimes says things that would sound ill-natured from a less amiable person. In a short time after my arrival, the Cushmans came in a cab; directly on their heels followed Mrs. Gore, accompanied by R.H. Horne. These were the only literary people present; when Mr. Hall came home, he brought with him, in his carriage, Maclise, the Irish artist, George Cruikshank and Edwin Landseer. Maclise and Hall are inseparable friends, which will account for the extravagant praises which the Art-Union, of which Mr. Hall is editor and proprietor, bestows upon this popular artist. I was disappointed in not seeing Leslie, but I understood from Mrs. Hall that he and her husband had not spoken together since the Art-Union contained a rather severe criticism on his fresco painting in the Queen's summer-house, Buckingham gardens.
Mrs. Hall's cottage is unique in the interior. It is literally crusted with ornaments of the finest workmanship, the choicest specimens of the manufactories of Sevres, Dresden, Sheffield and Paris. Every nook and corner is crammed and jammed with vases, bronzes, scroll-work, medals, pictures, engravings and statuettes. These are mostly gifts from the manufacturers; the book-shelves and tables are loaded with the costliest editions of the most sumptuous books that have been issued in Europe during the present century; and gift-books from nearly every living author, of any reputation. Among them I was happy to see a gorgeously bound copy of Puffer Hopkins.
But let us leave all these perishable gim-cracks, and return to the immortal minds in whose society we find ourselves. Maclise is a serious Irish-man; if it were not for a slight brogue you could never imagine that he was a native of Cork. He has large black eyes, and a prodigious development of his perceptive faculties, which imparts a very marked expression to his countenance. He talked but little, and seemed to take great delight in listening to Susan Cushman, who was as full of prattle as a young child. Her sister was very quiet and gloomy; she wore a bright red sash and a scarlet mantle, which made her look exceedingly like Meg Merriles, in which character I saw her a few nights since. Her acting is melo-dramatic and showy, but she has not impressed me with so high an opinion of her genius as she has done others. Mrs. Gore is simply an elegant woman, fashionably dressed and easy in her manners; she talked but little, although she asked me a great many questions about New York, and I fancy got material enough to write an American novel. She is a smart woman, as you would say, but I cannot look upon her as a woman of genius. She appeared to entertain a higher opinion of Mrs. Child, than of any other of our authoresses. Miss Sedgwick she quite sneered at, but she was enthusiastic in her praise of Mary Clavers. In fact there is considerable resemblance in the manner of the two ladies, but I consider the American greatly the superior of the two. Horne enquired after Mr. Poe, and said that he had received from him a review of 'Orion,' in some wishy-washy Magazine—the name of which he had forgotten. I asked what he thought of Poe as a critic? He replied, 'He is a very good critic for a lady's magazine.' Cruikshank and Landseer were as full of fun as boys just from school.
I find that I have already written more than I intended to do, and I shall have to say more about our pleasant company in my next. I forgot to say that Horne was very particular in his enquiries about Tuckerman, and expressed great admiration of that gentleman's thoughts on the Poets, a copy of which he had in his pocket, and read to the company the paper on Shelley, which was highly praised by Mary Howitt.
But what has become of the Indian meal?—Why here it is, smoking hot on the table; and the merry company are looking at the dish with watery mouths. How do they like it? O, don't ask. Either the professor made some mistake in transcribing the recipe, or Mrs. Hall gave her cook wrong directions, for the mess was voted intolerable by all present but Charlotte Cushman, who vowed with a grand air, which could become Lady Macbeth, that as it came from America, she would eat it if it were the deviled tail of an alligator. And eat it she did. But the rest of us finished with a pudding a la reine, after a receipt sent to Mrs. Hall by Mons. Soyer, of the Reform Club.
I did intend to give you a description of the latest fashions, a synopsis of continental news, some reflections on banking and the state of trade, a little private scandal, and some stale literary news, which has already reached you in the magazines, after the manner of other London correspondents, but I have filled up my sheet, and have only room to subscribe myself, unalterably and truthfully yours,
F. M. PINTO
LETTER FOUR
[New York Weekly Mirror—October 10, 1846.]
From our Correspondent.
BRIERLY HALL, England.
September 15th, 1846.
MY DEAR F.—We have had quite an addition to the guests at Brierly, since my last. The most important arrival was that of Macaulay, last evening. Lord John Russell was here for a couple of hours, yesterday, but I was unluckily out with Michel Chevalier, pheasant shooting, and did not see him. Michel is a first rate shot, as you would say in America. We bagged no less than fifty-four brace of pheasants, besides smaller game. The reporter of 'Bell's Life' was in the neighborhood, and he has sent an account of our performances to that sporting paper; so that I have had the honor of seeing my name in a place where I little dreamed of ever encountering it. Michel has the same Joe Manton with him which he took to America, and says he values it the more highly for its having been his companion in that magnifique country. I find that he has a more intelligent admiration of the United States. than I had supposed him capable of, from reading his work on your country. If it were not for the fear of giving offence to certain families in New York, I should be happy to give you an account of his remarks on certain social parties which he attended here. Perhaps I may, in some future letter, for lack of more important matter. Michel is a prodigious dandy, and he wears, on all occasions, and probably in his robe de chambre, the cross of the legion of honor. But dandyism is very pardonable in a man of wit and genius. Who ever thought the less of D'Israeli, Bulwer or D'Orsay, for their fine clothes, or the more of Macaulay, Carlyle and Tennyson, for their carelessness in dress. Perhaps you would like to hear something of Macaulay, but I have never been infected with the lues Boswellionæ, and am but an indifferent hand at retailing other people's sayings. In fact, I hate gossipers, and the recklessness of some of the letter-writers, who have come on here from America, in betraying the privacy of social life, has very nearly closed the doors of every desirable house in Great Britain to American authors. Being aware of this fact, I furnished Miss F. with letters to Moore, my friend the Duke of Devonshire, Lord Francis Egerton, and a few others, that she might not suffer from the indiscretions of her countrymen. However, I will say a word or two about Macaulay, because he was very anxious in his enquiries about New York. He was quite surprised to hear of the popularity of his reviews there, but he did not seem to attach much importance to them. He said that he wrote in the Edinburgh for money only, having no thought that his essays would be collected into a volume. I asked him what he thought of the North American, he replied that he really had never thought anything at all about it: he had read one number only, and had an impression that it was rather a faint shadow of the Quarterly. He asked me what compensation your writers receive for their contributions to reviews. I told him that I believed they depended mainly upon posterity for a recompense. To which he merely ejaculated, 'Fools!' He said that he received fifty pounds for the first article which he contributed to the Edinburgh Review (that on Milton) and one hundred and fifty for the last, which was a review of Lyell's travels. He said he had read one of two numbers of the American Review, and liked it much better than the editor's Life and Times of Henry Clay, which had been sent to him by the publishers.
His admiration of Webster is unbounded; he said that Webster and De Berryer are the two greatest forensic orators in the world, and that Webster excels De Berryer as much as the French advocate excels other men. His opinion of the great American as a philosophical statesman, however, is rather small. But, confound statesmen, said he, suddenly, do you know anything of my friend Inman? When I told him of the artist's death he appeared greatly shocked, and said that he had never made any pretensions as a critic of art, but he considered Inman as the greatest portrait painter who had ever visited England. Notwithstanding his immense erudition, he showed a marvellous ignorance of American affairs. He knew that Mr. Polk was the President of the Union, but he said he was a good deal puzzled to find out what office Col. Polk held in the nation. He also asked me if General Morris had distinguished himself in the Mexican war, and whether or not Col. Webb had left his editorial chair to join his regiment. He remembered seeing him once at the house of a friend, and thought him a fine specimen of a soldier. But the most amusing thing in the world is to hear Sir Charles, our hospitable host, talk on American affairs. As he was an old Pittite, and never misses the annual dinner of the Club, and always sings the 'Pilot that weathered the storm,' when he is called upon for a song, which is generally every day after dinner, he feels himself privileged to talk down all opposition in political debates; but as he has not read a newspaper, nor been in Parliament since the death of his great patron, he is, as you may conceive, ludicrously ignorant. He thinks that Mr. Madison it still President, and when I talk of Polk or Clay, says sneeringly, 'who the —— are they?' He has some recollection of the battle of New Orleans, and says if Packenham had marched his army direct from New Orleans to Washington, the union jack would now be flying from the top of the Capitol. When Morpeth or Chevalier attempts to correct his blunders, he turns upon them and says it is a fine time to be sure, if youngsters like them pretend to tell him any thing about America. Wasn't he in Parliament before they were born?
Last night there was a ball at which most of the gentry in the neighborhood were present. I danced with the dowager Countess of Coalpit, who invited me to Coalpit Hall, to meet some literary friends she expected from London the next week; as Mrs. Norton was among them I shall not fail to go.
Elihu Burritt the learned blacksmith, is here distributing receipts for cooking Indian meal. I have not seen him, but learn that he passed through this country last week with a knapsack on his back, on foot. Great curiosity is manifested to see him.
Adieu until the next time,
F.M. PINTO.
LETTER FIVE
[New York Weekly Mirror—October 10, 1846.]
(From our irregular Correspondent.)
TRAVELLER'S CLUB, LONDON, Sept. 20, 1846.
DEAR F.—Although there's not a soul in London one cares to associate with, I have run up here to spend a few days, and attend to some pressing business. The country houses are all crowded with guests, and the moors are filled with Peers and members of Parliament, shooting grouse. To-morrow I shall leave for the north, having promised to visit the representative of McCullum More at Inverary. You shall hear from me in the Highlands. My friend, the Earl of Eglintoun, will accompany me in my northern tour.
I had the pleasure of attending a grand banquet, given by the bankers of London to the editors of the 'Times,' at the London Tavern. Mr. Joshua Bates, the father-in-law of M. Van de Weyer, introduced me to Sir Thomas Bering, with whom I went to the grand banquet. The Lord Mayor presided at the dinner, and Mr. Walter sat on his right hand. If you have ever dined at the London tavern, there will be no need of describing the banquet. The highest idea of a Cockney heaven is a dinner at this famous tavern. On this occasion, the dinner was of unprecedented elegance. As I cast my eye down the table, I was gratified to observe an Indian dumpling on a gold dish opposite to Mr. Bates, who must have thought of the old colony, as he looked upon it. I had the honor of sitting between Baron Rothschild and Mr. Fonblanque, of the Examiner; the latter gentleman having read my letter in the Mirror, asked me some questions about the American press, upon which the Baron turned round, and asked me if I had ever been in New York, and if I knew his agent there, Mr. Belmont. I was sorry that I did not, for the great banker's sake. However, he took a liking to me, and invited me to dine at his villa. Mr. Fonblanque, out of compliment to me, gave as a toast—the New York Mirror and the American Press. I replied in a short speech, giving a few hints on the ability, independence, high moral character, energy, tact, enterprise, liberality, and so forth, for which the New York press and the Mirror in particular is distinguished, and concluded by proposing the press of London and the 'Examiner.' This brought Fonblanque to his feet, and in a truly eloquent speech he alluded to the press of New York, as being an honor to the age and to the nation; and to the Mirror he gave the praise of being the raciest and pleasantest daily in the world. Sir George Larpent and some other gentleman present, were very desirous to become subscribers. I referred them to my friend, Mr. Putnam, who will forward their names to you. After the dinner was over, Mr. Walter, Fonblanque, and myself went to Fumigo's divan in St. James st., to enjoy a cigar and talk politics. Fonblanque and Walter are better informed on American affairs than you could conceive possible. They understand all the points of difference between the old hunkers and barnburners, and Greeley-Whigs and Express-Whigs.
Walter said, 'You Yankees may go on conquering province after province, and talk of extending the area of freedom, but we English will reap all the benefit.'
'Yes,' said Fonblanque, 'and for that reason we shall not disturb you in your course of empire.'
'If you had been content,' said Walter, 'with your original territory and had liberated your slaves, England would have been shorn of half her greatness, for she has existed by the folly of your people. You are spending a hundred millions to open a market for British manufactures in Mexico and California. You are educating the half-civilized inhabitants of those countries, that they may read English books and newspapers. We are grateful for it. As for your retaining possession of all your acquired territory, it is impossible. The boundaries of empire are limited by natural laws, which neither your Col. Polk nor your General Taylor can overcome. When your Yankees go to Mexico they will become Mexicans, just as our English become good democrats when they emigrate to America.'
'Perhaps so,' I replied, as I lighted my third cigar.
'And then will come the dismemberment of your States, inevitable from your form of government.'
'That's a fact.' said Fonblanque.
'But that matters nothing to us.' continued Walter; 'while you are employing the energies and wealth of your country in your ridiculous way, we will be manufacturing your broadcloths and sheetings, and writing your novels and poems.'
'Yes,' said Fonblanque, 'and I will be enlarging my editions of the Examiner to supply your market with political essays.'
By this time I had finished my cigar, and throwing the stump into the grate, I replied—'That all sounds very plausibly, but you forget that America advances in wisdom more rapidly than England; that she has long been in bondage to you from the prejudices of education, but that now she has got an indigenous population who have learned to trust in themselves. Talk of reading your books! I perceive that you have no knowledge of American authors. Who do you think read the works of our Lester, our Ingraham, and our Poe? As to your political essays, what are they to the leaders in the Tribune? and have we not, too, a journal which calls itself the Times at America, and another that calls itself the American Punch? Then, sir, we have an American Scott and an American George Paul Rainsford James, besides our Father Matthews of the copyright club.'
These gentlemen, finding that I was getting the best of the argument, pretended to be in a great hurry to get home, and went off, leaving me alone with my cigar. But I will write a letter to the editor of the Times, in which I shall expose his fallacies.
LETTER SIX
[New York Weekly Mirror—October 31, 1846.]
From our Travelling Correspondent.
RED LION INN.
Tamworth, Oct. 10, 1846.
MR DEAR F.—On going to my lodgings from the Club, last evening, I found upon my dressing table an invitation from Sir Robert Peel to come down to Drayton Manor, and spend the shooting season in Staffordshire. This placed me, as you Yankees say, in a fix, for I had already sent my travelling baggage on board the Leith smack, Sovereign, intending to embark the next day for Inverary. But plain Sir Robert Peel is of more consequence than any Duke whatsoever, so I resolved, after a moment, to cut Argyle, and devote myself to the great minister. As ill-luck would have it, this was an unfortunate resolution, but I have the consciousness of reflecting that I acted for the best, and had no other object in view than to secure my own happiness, which should be the aim of every reasonable being.
I have no wish to injure Sir Robert, or his accomplished lady, in the estimation of my countrymen, but truth has ever been my polar star, and I am resolved never to compromise my integrity, by suppressing a fact. No! men may call me wayward, fickle, sarcastic or mercenary, neither of which I am, thank Heaven! but my word shall not be impeached. On that I stake my hopes of renown.
Before going to bed, I dispatched my valet for my portmanteau, and the next morning took my departure for Tamworth. It was quite dark when I reached the elegant mansion of my illustrious friend, but as I was expected, I found the great hall at Drayton lined with servants in splendid livery, and I was ushered to my room between a row of lusty fellows, who seemed to have made it the study of their lives to preserve their good looks, and I could not help saying, with Sir Andrew Aguecheek in the play, as I looked at the flunkey who preceded me, to my room, with two wax candles, 'I would give a crown and I had the fool's leg.'
However, I have generally observed that men with ill-developed heads, are blessed with very fine calves. There is some comfort in that, for a man might lose his legs, and still depend upon his head, while the loss of one's head would leave his legs of very little consequence, let them be ever so fine.
After making my toilet, I descended to the drawing-room, where I found a foreign-looking gentleman with whom I was quite charmed. It happened that Sir Robert and Lady Peel had gone to an agricultural dinner, and were not expected back until after supper. So I talked an hour or two with the foreign gentleman, and thought him the most entertaining person I had ever encountered. I found that he knew everything, and could talk me blind; he wore the cross of the Legion of Honor, from which I inferred, rather than from his tongue, that he was a Frenchman. Perhaps it is Thiers or Guizot, I thought. But he was much too good looking to be either of those statesmen. I asked the butler if he knew him. But he only knew that he was 'one of the big nobs from France.' Big nobs were so common at Drayton Manor, that the servants never troubled themselves to remember their names. It might be Count Mole, and the Duc de Fitzjames, or M. Berryer. I could not discover from his conversation who or what he was. He was very good looking, full of life and humor, and rather showily dressed. His jewelry I thought rather profuse. We supped together, and then I retired to rest, before the return of Sir Robert. The famous chapeau de paille of Rubens, for which Sir Robert paid $15,000, hung in my room. It is a good painting; the flesh tints are unsurpassable but take it as a whole, I assure you that your countryman Page has painted better pictures. But this famous painting lost all attraction in my eyes, when I discovered hanging by the side of my bed a portrait of General Jackson, and a copy of the Declaration of Independence. These had been hung there out of compliment to me, by Lady Peel. I slept very sound that night, dreaming of freedom and my country.
At breakfast I experienced another proof of the delicate hospitality of my distinguished hostess; she had served up for me a dish of hominy, and a plate of Indian slap-jacks. The cook, it appears, had followed a recipe sent to Sir Robert by Elihu Burritt, for cooking Indian meal, and dreadful work he made of it. The truth is I could never endure corn-meal in any shape, but I tried hard to swallow these abominable preparations, for fear of being thought ungrateful. The English think that Americans can eat nothing but hominy and slap-jacks. But my hostess attempted to make me swallow something more unpalatable than this. At dinner I met the agreeable foreigner with whose conversation I had been so completely charmed the night before. 'Allow me,' said Sir Robert, as the graceful stranger entered, 'to introduce you to Alexander Dumas.' 'To whom?' I exclaimed, rising from the table, and assuming an air of proud dignity. 'To my distinguished friend, Alexander Dumas,' repeated Sir Robert, with his bland smile.
'Excuse me, Sir Robert,' I replied, striving to speak with a calm dignity. 'Is not your friend the descendant of the Marquis de Pailleteir? Sir, I am an American, a citizen of that free and happy country, and I cannot consent to degrade myself by sitting at the same table with an African.'
As I uttered these words, this insolent descendent of an African slave smiled scornfully, and seated himself at the table. Remembering what was due to myself and my country, I withdrew from the dining-room, followed by Lady Peel, who begged that I would return. 'Consider,' she said, 'it is not Dumas, but Sir Robert, that you offend by refusing to sit at table with one of his friends.'
But this was a point which I could not and would not concede. No, my country, I love your glorious institutions too well! I wished by my conduct to convince Europe and Sir Robert Peel, that our National feelings are not to be tampered with. I accordingly immediately left Drayton, and took lodgings at the Red Lion Inn, where I am writing this letter. Sir Robert will be cautioned by this never again to insult an American.
I shall start in the morning for London—having just received a letter from my friends, Bradbury & Evans, who wish to consult me as to the most feasible means of putting down the American Punch. There has been the most tremendous excitement among the Punch writers since they heard of this American rival. Mark Leman, John Leech, and Goodwyn Barmby are frightened out of their wits, and think their day is gone by. All the talk in May fair and among the news venders is about Yankee Doodle. I shall write to you again from Inverary.
Faithfully and truthfully yours,
F. M. PINTO.
LETTER SEVEN
[New York Weekly Mirror—November 14, 1846.]
From our Travelling Correspondent.
LATER THAN THE STEAMER.
INVERARY, Scotland,
Oct. 25, 1846.
DEAR F.—My last letter was dated at the Red Lion, Tamworth, which I left the next morning after I wrote, and came directly to this place, having met my friend, the Earl of Eglintoun, at Leith. Before leaving Tamworth, I was waited upon by the Mayor of the town and some of the civic authorities, who wished to entertain me at a public dinner. But, good heaven! think of your friend stuck up at a country dinner, among a set of beer-drinking, beef-fed Staffordshire farmers, and replying to their touts in a set speech about Indian corn, for these honest fellows had no other object in view than to hear something upon that subject. But although they had amazed me by their request, I was determined not to a-maize them in a speech, so I thanked them for their hospitality, pleading a prior engagement with my friend Argyle, and left them. As they had set their thoughts upon a dinner, I have no doubt that they called next upon Sir Robert's friend, Dumas, who probably would feel flattered by such a compliment, and accept their invitation.
I suppose that you are perfectly familiar with the Highlands and know all about Inverary. If not I have no intention of enlightening you upon the subject, for you have only to step into any cheap book-store, and procure more information for a shilling, than I could write you in a week. McCullum More, as I call his Grace, the Duke, has a fine estate, a fine castle, and a fine family, and is, himself, a fine fellow; added to these things he has some fine company at the castle just now, of whom more anon, and you may conceive without any very great effort, that I am having a real fine time of it, and, as you say, no mistake. The first fortnight after my arrival I spent every day shooting red deer and black cock, of which the forests belonging to his Grace are full. The weather is getting cool, or rather it is cold, for I believe it never was warm in the Highlands, but the air is clear as a bell; the nights are long, blustering and dark; the black rain-clouds settle down upon the towers of the castle after sunset and envelope us in vapor, which the closed casements and large fires hardly dissipate. We are literally children of the mist. But there is a zest to mere animal life here which I never experienced before, and time passes away with too great rapidity.
The Duke himself, although he has the finest game preserves in Scotland, never fires a gun. He is a man of great humanity and kind feeling, and takes more delight in rendering his tenants happy than in killing grouse. Kit North has been here the past ten days; Jeffrey took his departure yesterday. Among the uninvited guests who have strayed into the enclosures of the castle, who should appear yesterday but the Miss F. and her two friends whom I met at the Howitt's in London. They had a little boy with them who said he wanted to see the man that Walter Scott put into his novels. The Duke good-naturedly patted the child on the head, and laughed heartily at the joke. But thinking that his precociousness was rather too marvellous, I said, "My little fellow, who told you to say so?" "Mamma." he replied. I begged his Grace not to think hard of my country on account of the niasiries of any of the sight-seers, who called themselves Americans, and added, all is not gold that glitters. To which his Grace replied, "I have seen nothing yet from that quarter which I should be likely to mistake for gold." Now this was more than I had bargained for, and I didn't like it; but it won't do to quarrel with a Duke, particularly when one is eating his game and drinking his wine, so I merely bowed, and resolved to have my revenge when I publish my "Scraps from Scotland." The Duke asked Miss F. and her friend to spend the night at the castle—I believe on purpose to mortify me, and they accepted his invitation. There happened to be more company than usual at the castle, so dinner was served in the banqueting hall, a room of majestic proportions, and grandly ornamented with a multitude of family trophies, consisting of banners, helmet, swords, armor and lances, interspersed with family portraits; the display of plate was regal, and the spectacle of pine apples and oranges on the side tables reminded me of the stage banquets in Macbeth. But the fruit at McCullum More's was genuine, rich and juicy. It was all raised in the conservatory at Inverary; every pine-apple must have cost a small fortune. The guests at the dinner exceeded two hundred, and at the back of each chair stood a highlander, in the original costume of the clan, while two grey-headed pipers, paraded up and down the hall, in full dress, during the repast. Some of these highland servants were models of manly beauty; Miss F. fastened her eyes on a lithe young Gael at my back, and seemed to be quite enamored of his beauty. After dinner, we retired to the library, and I soon discovered Miss F. in earnest conversation with Kit North, who had drank two or three bottles of claret, and was as full of mischief as in the palmiest times of the Noctes.
I trembled for my countrywoman, but she appeared to be quite unconscious of her danger, and I discovered, to my dismay, that she had opened upon his criticisms on Goethe.
Old Kit's eyes were full of fun and fire; they emitted a laughing light out of their corners which penetrated to one's heart, and seemed to warm it; his iron grey locks hung over his broad shoulders, and his cravatless neck and overturned collar gave a strangely wild aspect to his countenance. I was not near enough to hear what Miss F. was saying to him, but I was amused in watching the varied expression of his countenance as he listened to her. At first he opened his eyes wide, and held back his head in unaffected astonishment, then he smiled, and at last burst into a roar of laughter which would have startled the deer in Lochabar, if the wind had not been so high at the time.
I took advantage of the confusion to leave the Marquis of Breadalbane, who held me by the button, and contrived to slip into close neighborhood with the two great critics.
"Then that is your opinion of me?" said old Kit.
"It is," replied Miss F.; "I have long thought so. I have discovered a unity of feeling, a profound depth of design in your articles, which seem to soar upward to the aloofish position of my own, like two birds mating in the air."
"Ah!" said Kit, "Ah!
"And when that beautiful prattler, Tennyson, whom I introduced to my countrymen, called you crusty Christopher, I said no, he is trusty Christopher."
"Very well, very well," said Kit; "but pray tell me in what particular things you have discovered this agreement, for I have never suspected myself of being an ass; but Donald alone knows what I have done after my mutchkin of whiskey."
"Your sentiments on Lowell, the poet, fully coincide with my own." said Miss F.
"Ah! and are we the only critics who agree in our opinion of that, youngster," said old Kit.
"We are." said Miss F.
"No!" I exclaimed, for I thought it time to interfere, "there is one other person in the world who has spoken ill of that true poet; namely, the author of Puffer Hopkins, and a precious trio you are."
"True, very true," said Miss F., "there are three of us; my friend, the author of poems on man, and other humorous writings, makes up the third."
Unfortunately, the Pipers were introduced just at that moment, and the company began to caper and dance strathspeys. Old Christopher leaped into the floor and caught Miss F. by the hand, and swore she should dance a Highland fling with him. The Pipers struck up their wild music, and these distinguished critics began to cut the most extraordinary capers that ever were witnessed in the Highlands. They danced so wildly, and with so little regard to the feelings of the spectators, that the Duke was at last compelled to stop the pipers to put an end to their extravagances.
What happened after this I will put in my next letter.
Yours, with much love,
F. M. PINTO.
LETTER EIGHT
[New York Weekly Mirror—November 28, 1846.]
From our Travelling Correspondent.
TRAVELLER'S CLUB,
London, November 1, 1848.
MY DEAR F.—You will he surprised to see my letter dated in London, of course; when I wrote last, I was at Inverary, where I intended to remain at least a fortnight longer. But I was compelled to quit that ducal retreat for a similar cause to that which drove me from Tamworth. My object in coming to England, you very well know, was neither to eat corn bread, nor be bored by my own country people. But a different impression appears to exist in the minds of all my friends. At the very first dinner party to which I was invited, after my arrival in London, at Devonshire House, I was horrified at the sight of an Indian dumpling, placed directly under my nose, and which I ate because it was meant as a compliment. Then a friend in the city, Mr. Wigglesworth, must take me to see the great American dwarf, and another insisted upon carrying me to see Charlotte Cushman the American actress. I left my card with the American minister, of course, and there hoped that the matter might end. But England is completely Americanized as well as amaized; and Yankees may adopt for a motto,—cælum, non animum, mutant qui trans mare current, when they visit this country, as the English do when they visit ours. Wherever I went during the summer I could hear of nothing but the Hutchinson family; or the American blacksmith, who could speak fifty-two languages and was on a mission of peace scattering 'olive leaves' and receipts for making Indian corn bread; in all the towns were placards announcing the Virginia melodists and the great American singer Mr. Henry Smith. I called upon Jerdan, of the Literary Gazette, and found him trying to read 'Poems on Man, by Cornelius Matthews,' which he said he had just received from that distinguished author; on visiting the Howitts I met the new American celebrity, Miss F., whom I also encountered in Scotland, where I thought myself secure from interruption by any of my wandering countrymen.
But the very day after writing my last letter, on returning from a hard day's sport with Eglintoun and half a dozen German princes who had but recently arrived at the castle, I met the Duke's valet in the hall, and asked what arrivals there had been, in our absence. He told me that one of the Douglasses, from America, a very famous gentleman, was then in the library with his master. Well, said I to myself, as I dressed for dinner, a Douglas has a right here to be sure, if he is an American. I couldn't call to mind any celebrity of that name, but had a glimmering recollection of rich family of Douglasses on Long Island, and made up my mind to have a regular agricultural lecture on Indian corn. I knew that the Duke took a lively interest in the subject, although it is not possible to introduce the culture of it in the Highlands. However, I like to appear well before my countrymen, so I took unusual pains with my dress, and being a little longer than I should have been, I did not get down into the library until the guests had all been seated at dinner. I took my seat at the foot of the table, so far removed from the head, where the stranger sat, by the side of the Duke, that I could not clearly distinguish his features, for you know that I am near sighted, and I said to a jolly-looking Scotch Doctor of Divinity who sat near me, 'Pray, who is this Douglas that I hear has just arrived from America?'
'I do not preceesely know who he is,' replied his reverence, 'but he is dark enough to be a relation of the family, and a lineal descendant from the black Douglas himself.'
'Indeed,' I replied, 'doubtless he is a relative of his Grace. I remember his family very well;' for I saw from the attention paid him that he was a person of consequence, whom it might be desirable to know on my return. A relation of the Douglas family was not to be slighted, if he was an American, and I meant to know him.
'Well, sir,' said the divine, 'he is no better than a Phillistine, he has made a division in our Chaarch, and he is trying to make us send back the money. But we have got hold of the siller, and mean to keep it.'
'Of course, of course,' I said, not understanding the drift of the venerable old file's speech; and to prevent his discovering my ignorance, I turned the subject, and began to talk about red deer.
When he joined the ladies in the drawing room the duke approached me and said, 'Mr. Pinto, I am proud to have the privilege of introducing you to your distinguished countryman, Mr. Douglas.'
'It gives me great pleasure,' I replied, 'to meet an American Douglas in the halls of his ancestors.'
Judge of my surprise and indignation, when I reached out my hand to my distinguished countryman, to find him a dark mulatto. In two words, it was no other than the notorious runaway slave, Frederick Douglas, who has had the assurance to deliver lectures here against the institutions of his own country; and who drove several venerable Doctors of Divinity out of Convent Garden Theatre by his harrangues, when they had come all the way from America to attend some World's Convention about something or other. My blood was at boiling heat, in a moment, and drawing myself up at my full length, I said with a proud air to his Grace, before all his noble guests; 'Sir, as the representative of a free and enlightened country—as a republican—I resent this insult. I find that the days of exclusiveness and gentility are gone, and in their place those of reformers and abolitionists and amalgamations have come. The glory of Europe has departed. I will return to my own country.' This cut them to the quick, and to disguise their feelings they set up a loud laugh. But I was determined to mortify them still more, and immediately walked grandly out of the castle, with the intention of going directly to the inn. I took nothing with me but my hat, and stalked proudly across the lawn towards the road which leads into the village. The night was dark and cold, and soon a thick fog set in, and I lost my way. But I scorned to cry for assistance, and walked straight on, and presently found myself nearly up to my middle in a bog. With great difficulty I got upon firm land again, and being completely bewildered, and enveloped in mist, I sat down on the wet grass, and tried to see some Ossianic forms sweep by, it being a very suitable night for them, but without success. Then remembering the cause of freedom, for which I had deserted a lordly castle, I chaunted Smollet's ode:
Thy spirit Independence let me share,
Lord of the lion heart and eagle eye,
I'll brave the tempest, with my breast all bare,
Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky.
It was very appropriate to my situation, and gave me considerable comfort, but still I was wet, and cold and sleepy. In similar exercises I spent the whole night, and reached the 'Duke's Arms,' the name of the inn at Inverness, in time for breakfast.
The next morning, I sent for my portmanteau, and started immediately for London, where I arrived in safety, a wiser and better, but not a sadder man.
Yours, &c. F. M. PINTO.
N.B. I have not yet decided where to spend the Christmas holidays. I have a dozen or two of invitations, and shall wait until they all come in, before I make a decision.
LETTER NINE
[New York Weekly Mirror—November 28, 1846.]
By the Last Steamer
(From our Travelling Correspondent.)
HOCKLEY PARSONAGE,
Kent, Nov. 4. 1846.
My dear F.—I am spending a week or two at the parsonage of my bachelor friend, W——, for the sake of retirement and quiet. Here I find nothing more disturbing than a few volumes of old sermons—which, by the way, disturb nobody, for nobody disturbs them—a cup of tea and a slice of toast in the morning, a boiled fowl and a glass of port for dinner, and a cup of tea and a muffin at night. W—— is so much engaged in his parochial duties, his incumbency being but six months old, that I am left to follow my own inclinations, which are by no means violent. I walk a little, talk a little, write a little, and sleep a good deal. So wags the world with me at present.
A few days before leaving London I called at Wiley & Putnam's, which I have found a very pleasant lounge since I have been here—Putnam being a capital good talker, as well as a good fellow every other way—and there I found a note lying for me. I did not recognize the hand writing at the first glance, but upon opening it found it to be from an old friend. As such letters are not received every day by every body, I will copy it for your benefit:—
'25, CURZON ST.
'Dear Pinto,—I am going to be married, privately, to-morrow morning. Don't say a word about it. A few friends will be present, and you must come and see me off. The ceremony will take place at Finsbury chapel, at 10 o'clock; and there will be a little collection at my lodgings afterwards: no stuffing, though—but a few bells and pomegranates.
Yours, R. BROWNING.'
'Browning married!' said I, in amazement—'what can it mean?' There was nothing unusual in a gentleman of five and thirty getting married, but I had never heard that my friend had any flame in his thoughts, and I was of course all anxiety to know who was to be the poet's wife, or where a man of his fastidious fancy had found a Pippa to match his 'passes.' So I was on the ground at the appointed hour, you may be sure. It was one of those dismal dripping November mornings, when all London is hid in a dense yellow fog, and sentries are posted to guard every convenient place for hanging one's self. As I got out of my cab I discovered several other cabs at the door of the chapel, and quite an assemblage of dripping umbrellas. The chapel was so dark that the gas burners had been lighted, and the place looked as dismal as though preparations had been made for a funeral. How English poets can ever have the audacity to introduce such bright immortals as Cupid and Hymen into their epithalamiums is a puzzle to me. Their absurd practice of performing the marriage rites in some mouldy old chapel ought to be the death of poetry. However here was a poet's marriage; but it looked prosy enough. There was quite a crowd of people around the chancel, whose faces I did not take the trouble to inspect very closely, not expecting to recognise an acquaintance among them—for although 'Toris and I' had long been friends, I knew nothing of his family. Presently the unhappy gentleman whose appointed hour had come, walked up the aisle with a lady leaning on his arm who was so closely wrapped up that I could not distinguish her features. 'Poor fellow!' I said to myself as I heard him say, in a faltering voice, 'I, Robert, take thee, Elizabeth.' &c. &c. It was soon all over with him, and as I rushed up to congratulate him and take a glance at his bride, judge of my surprise in beholding Elizabeth Barrett in the person of his wife! She was pale and agitated, but apparently well pleased. I now perceived that the friends who had come to witness this extraordinary union were all old acquaintances. There was Miss F., to begin with, who made quite a speech—the only part of which I could distinctly hear was something about 'deep significance, aloofishness, union of immortals, woman's rights, &c. &c.' Wordsworth, who had come from Rydal on purpose to be present at the ceremony, and who said to me in a whisper that he hoped Bob and Lizzy understood each other better than the world understood them—Hunt, Horne, Proctor, Tennyson, Goodwyn Barmby, and the everlasting Howitts. Besides these, Mr. Rogers, and Bancroft, our new minister, arrived just as the ceremony was ended.
We all hurried out of the chapel as quick as possible and drove to the bridegroom's lodgings, in Curzon street. Horne, having come afoot, took a seat in my cab, and told me the particulars of the courtship. The bride, you probably know, has been an invalid from her youth, and during the greater part of her life has been shut up in a dark room, with a few choice old gallants named Æschylus, Homer, and Euripides. These she was sufficiently partial to, but having a wish to see something of living men, she took a ramble last summer through Wales, and stopping one night at the little village of Gwddrr, she found Browning with a Welsh rabbit before him, making the outlines of a soul's tragedy, on the table cloth. What followed was simply the old story of nature and art. They fell in love with each other, and at last are married, in spite of their friends, who have done all they could to prevent it. She has the advantage of him in point of years, to a considerable extent, exactly how far, I do not know, and therefore refrain from stating, as I wish to be exact in all the facts which I put into my letters.
We found a pleasant apartment and a showy table set out, with plenty of water and flowers, and some seed cakes. It would not be generous to give a description of a poet's wedding feast, and I am averse to entering people's houses to detail their modes of living to the world.
We had a good deal of quiet merriment, and a great many quotations, and I suppose that it was the nearest approach to the flow of reason and the feast of soul that has ever been witnessed on this earth. Not being a poet myself, I am not ashamed to acknowledge that I would have been very glad to exchange some of the scraps of poetry, which were so freely handed round, for a mutton chop, or a broiled herring.
After we had sat at the table some minutes, Mr. Rogers filled his tumbler with water, and proposed the health of our 'distinguished visitor, the American Ambassador.' All eyes were immediately turned towards the distinguished historian, when, to our amazement, up jumped Miss F., and said she thanked the gentleman for his good intentions; her health had been pretty well, excepting a cold, which she caught while spending the night on the top of Ben Lomond; she was rather surprised at the notice which had been paid her, because from her aloofish position she could not hope to attract the attention of common minds. In returning the compliment, she begged leave to propose the health of her friend, the author of "Puffer Hopkins."
Mr. Bancroft immediately left the table, muttering something about asking Mr. Polk to be recalled, and the morning being far advanced, we all left, in a flurry. The happy couple leave for Italy, to-morrow.
Your's truly, F. M. PINTO.
P.S. I begged the autograph of Mrs. Browning, for L.G., which you will find enclosed.
LETTER TEN
[New York Weekly Mirror—December 26, 1846.]
From our Travelling Correspondent.
MYTTON HALL, DORSET,
December 5th, 1846.
MY DEAR F.—I informed you in my last that I should leave Birkenhead the next morning on pedestrian tour, with the design of familiarising myself with the habits of the lower order of the people of England. I left my hotel with a small carpet and an umbrella, and made at once for the hedges and cottages. My spirits expanded at every step, and the peasantry of Cheshire appeared to me in very charming condition, as I saw them in the grayish light of a winter morning going to their daily labors. You who are used to the dry, barren look of an American winter, with a keen northwest wind screeching through the leafless trees of the forest, can have no idea of the green and mellow aspect of December in England. What do you think of my gathering a bunch of yellow field flowers in December? You don't believe it, I know. But it is true that I did: and any John Bull of your acquaintance will assure you that I might have done so. Well, I walked, and walked, and walked, my spirits expanding, as I said before, at every step until they had swelled to that degree that in the enlarged state of my mind I grew ambitious, and resolved to write a hook of travels for Wiley & Putnam's American Series, to be called "Peeps by a Pedestrian, or England seen with an Umbrella and a Carpet-bag." But presently I grew hungry, and then I grew tired, and being overtaken by a wagoner, I begged a ride, and found that the wagon was going to Chester, and as the wagoner seemed by his dress to belong to that class known as the people, I thought it would be a good opportunity to study his character while relieving myself by a ride in his vehicle. This individual wore a coarse brown linen blouse, very elaborately stitched with blue thread about the shoulders, corduroy small clothes, grey woolen stockings, and a round drab hat. I asked him if he had ever heard of America—he replied in his uncouth dialect that he had, and wished he could go there himself, as he had understood it was the best part of England, and that every man had a plenty to eat there. To my inquiry whether he suffered from hunger himself often, he replied that he was hungry then, for he had eaten nothing for his breakfast but a quartern loaf and a couple of pounds of cheese, with a mug of ale. The ignorance of this man was frightful. I asked him how he liked the Queen. He said the Queen was a tidy body, but he should like her better if she didn't put so much water in her beer. "Put water in her beer!" I said. "Aye." replied this specimen of the people, "her half-and-half is no better than swipes." "Pray what do you know about the Queen's beer?" I said. "As to that," he replied. "I have drank enough of it—I always sleeps in the Queen's Arms in Chester." The Queen's Arms, you must observe, is the name of the inn at which the man lodged, and the landlady was the only queen he knew anything about. On my asking him his opinion of Prince Albert, he said, "I suppose you mean him that's King of America." It was no use talking to such a loon, so I rode the remainder of the way in silence, and when I alighted at the "Victoria," in Chester, I popped directly upon the Marquis of Westminster, whom I had seen in London, and he insisted upon my going with him to Eaton Hall. Being by this time heartily tired of foot-travelling, and having seen enough of the lower orders, I very gladly accepted his lordship's invitation, and jumped into his brougham with my umbrella and carpet-bag. The hall is but a very short drive from Chester, and we arrived there just as the lamps were lighted. I had but time to dress when dinner was announced, and as I had swallowed nothing since breakfast, I enjoyed my first meal in this Eat-on house with an unusual relish.—It was, in truth, the best dinner I have eaten in England. I do not know the name of the Grosvenor cook, but I am sure that he is superior to Soyer, as an artist.
Eaton Hall is one of the chief shows of this part of the country, and being easily come at from Liverpool, is probably visited by a greater number of Yankees than any other house in England. It is a very large mansion, built of a whitish kind of stone in what is called a Gothic style; and if it were possible for wealth to make amends for the want of taste, it would be a fine building, for it has cost an enormous sum. The captains and mates of the New York packets go out to Chester of a Sunday for the purpose of seeing Eaton Hall, and return thinking they have seen a Gothic castle. But, with all its magnificence, it bears very little more resemblance to a Gothic Castle than any of the chapels in the 5th Avenue do to Gothic churches.
The next day after my arrival at Eaton Hall, Lord Robert Grosvenor, the only son of the Marquis, came down from London, bringing with him a celebrated literary gentleman, whom I had a strong desire to see. Sauntering into the library, after having taken a stroll through the conservatories, I saw a slender gentleman, dressed in a rather jaunty manner, with a light blue coat and silver buttons, with a green shade over his eyes, examining an illuminated copy of Froissart. There was no other person there, and as I entered he looked up from the book and said: "Ah! I presume this is the celebrated Mr. Pinto, from America? "The same," I replied with an honest blush, at hearing myself called "celebrated" by a stranger. "Well," he said, "I am the celebrated Mr. James, the novelist. I am happy to see the countryman of Cooper, Ingraham, and Hopkins."
"What!" I exclaimed, grasping him by the hand, "do I behold the real G.P.R. James, the author of that prolific novel which has appeared under so many different names?"
"The same, sir," he replied, embracing me warmly; "pray, Mr. Pinto, are my works read in America?"
"Your work, I presume you mean," I replied: "why, my dear sir, it is published once a month regularly by one of our great publishers, and always with a new title. The last time I think it was called Morley Ernstein. Can you tell me what it will be called next?"
"I have already chosen the name of Beauchamp," he replied, "don't you think it a good novelesque name?"
"Admirable," said I. "Now let me ask you, Mr. James, where you obtained that brilliant idea of beginning your novel by describing elaborately a horseman and so forth, who might have been seen at the close of an autumnal day? and also allow me to enquire whether or not anything of the sort ever was seen?"
"Oh, I understand," said the great author; "why that is a trick of my confounded amanuensis, who is a shocking mannerist. I observe that your distinguished countryman, Mr. Simms, has copied that, as well as the other little faults of my novels, very faithfully. Do you know that my publisher once accused me of issuing one of my novels under the name of Simms? Fact. Somebody sent him a copy of Guy Rivers, and he swore I wrote it. But, by the way, did you ever seen such a piece of malice as this?—(taking a copy of Yankee Doodle from his pocket.) Some stupid fellow has been trying to injure your country by issuing this thing as an American reality. But the hoax is too transparent. It is Cockney all over. Don't you see how entirely English the whole thing is, and what a palpable fraud it is?"
To hide my morfification and blushes at the sight of the dreadful affair, I pretended to be choking; and very happily Lord Robert came in the next moment, and relieved me by changing the subject.
Yours, F. M. PINTO.
LETTER ELEVEN
[New York Weekly Mirror—January 30, 1847.]
From our Travelling Correspondent.
TRAVELLER'S CLUB,
London, Jan. 5
MY DEAR F.,—After spending my Christmas at Slashford Hall, the family seat of my friend, the Marquis of Bloomsbury, I am again in London, and at my favorite club, the Traveller's, as you will see by the date of my letter, where I find myself quite at home. There was a house full of good company at Slashford, and among them two men whom you would like to meet, Hallam and Lockhart. The first of those gentlemen was rather shy of me at first, on hearing that I was an American, and treated me with a degree of hauteur that I was determined to overcome, and which I finally succeeded in doing, by quoting a passage from his constitutional history. After we had become thoroughly acquainted, he said to me, 'I will frankly confess to you, Mr. Pinto, that I was determined before meeting you, to cut every American that I might encounter.'
'On account of the Pennsylvania bonds, I suppose?' said I.
'Not at all.' said the great historian, 'I have always condemned the disposition of my countrymen to visit the sins of a nation on an individual citizen, and even Sydney Smith and I had a quarrel on this very subject, but a week before his death. No, Sir, the cause of my dislike to your country is more personal. It originated in the reading of an essay entitled 'A few Homeric Nods in Mr. Hallam,' written by a pains-taking, prying countryman of yours, Mr. William A. Jones, whose essays were presented to me by the Bishop of Oxford.'
'But was not Mr. Jones right?' I said.
'Yes.' said Lockhart, who had been listening to the conversation, 'he was; but my friend Hallam is like all authors, and hates those who tell him of his mistakes.'
By the way. Lockhart himself hates every thing American, and since they have begun to use our bread-stuffs so generally, he will eat nothing but Scotch oat meal, lest he should by accident swallow some American bread. One day at dinner there was a dish of remarkably fine pippins on the table, and Lockhart was so delighted with their appearance and flavor, that he ate three of them. Upon enquiring of his noble host if they were raised upon his own estate, the learned reviewer was informed that they were Newtown pippins, which had been ordered from Mr. Pell, of Pelham, in the State of New York. The looks of the poor wretch, who was as much chagrined as though he had been praising the wrong book in his Review by mistake, caused us all to laugh at him; but the next day he had his revenge, by writing an abusive article on the speech of the pure-minded and consistent Daniel Webster, which he published in the Times. Mr. Walter, the editor of the Times, told me that he was unwilling to admit any thing into his paper derogatory to the character of so great a man as Mr. Webster, but he was afraid of offending Mr. Lockhart, by refusing.
There has been an outburst in indignation in all the literary circles against America that I fear will not very soon subside. When Miss F. visited Stratford-upon-Avon, she spent a night in the house in which Shakspeare was born. The inhabitants were all greatly delighted with the enthusiasm which she displayed for their celebrated townsman, and on being asked if his works were read in America, she told them that all her countrymen, excepting only the cannibals, made it a religious duty to read his works four hours every week-day, and to devote the whole of Sunday to the same object. But they were to have a still further realizing sense of the devotion of America to Shakspeare, for it was discovered after her departure that she had purchased Shakspeare's house of the corporation of Stratford for the purpose of shipping it to America. Workmen are now employed in removing it to Bristol, whence it will be shipped to New York, where it will probably arrive in the spring, and be set up in the Park like the Maison de Lorette. The price paid for this inestimable relic was £1,350 10s. 6d. sterling. The poker which Geoffrey Crayon used was sold with the house, but I have had the good fortune to secure one of the cinders of the fire which he stirred, and you will find it in the box which I send marked 'G.C.'
The English, who profess to have a great admiration for Shakspeare, although nothing can induce them to go and see one of his plays acted, are very much excited about this sale of his house, and very active measures have been taken to prevent its removal. Nothing else has been talked about at the clubs for some time, and the Home Secretary has been appealed to, but he refuses to interfere. I met Forster, of the Examiner, yesterday at a dinner party at Mr. Fonblanque's, who told me that Macready, Payne Collier, Charles Knight, Kenny Meadows, and the whole body of the Shakspeare Society had resolved to follow the house across the Atlantic and share its fate. But when they hear that it is to be inhabited by its purchaser, perhaps they will think better of their rash resolve.
Last night I had the pleasure of meeting my old friend, Dr. Lardner, and his accomplished lady, formerly Mrs. Heaviside; it was at the house of a nobleman of high rank; (the only houses, by the way, at which I visit) and while I was practising my gouty toe in the Polka with the daughter of an unmarried Earl, (I never dance with any girls less than Earls' daughters) that excellent and fashionable prelate, Bishop Luscombe, approached me with Mrs. L. on his arm to introduce her to my partner. I immediately held up my hand to Cellarius, who was leading the band, as a signal for the music to stop while the introduction took place, and as an expression of good feeling on the part of the Bishop, I was presented to Mrs. L., and thus became acquainted with that estimable lady who had the heroism to desert her husband and children for the man she chose to love. Of course no one will misinterpret my readiness to be presented to Mrs. L., who knows my admiration of virtue in the abstract, and how zealously I have always defended the character of women when aspersed by the public.
By the way, speaking of Bishops, Luscombe and I are on the best of terms with each other; we are quite hand-and-glove friends. I met him first in Paris, where he forms the centre of aristocratic and fashionable society (in which I always move, entre nous)—he reminds me very much of my pet Bishop in America, O——, to whom he bears a strong resemblance.
Truly yours, F.M. PINTO.
LETTER TWELVE
[New York Weekly Mirror—February 20, 1847.]
From our Travelling Correspondent.
TRAVELLER'S CLUB,
January 21.
MY DEAR F—The Queen having opened Parliament earlier than usual this season, every body has left the country and come up to town, otherwise I should have remained a few weeks longer at Chesterfield House, where I dated my last letter, and where I enjoyed myself exceedingly with D'Orsay, Maidstone, Dr. Lardner and one or two Earls' daughters, unmarried, of course. They say there is great distress among the people for lack of corn, but I have seen nothing of it. The dinners were never better than now, and as for corn, I should be much distressed if I had to eat it. I dined at the Reform Club yesterday with Tom Duncombe and two or three other fashionable radicals, and I never sat down to a better table, excepting once, and that was at your New York Hotel; entre nous, Monnot may not be able to write so good a book as Soyer has done, but he sends up quite as good a dinner. Soyer, you probably know, is the presiding genius of the Reform Club; although he is only chef de cuisine, he is the chief prop of the concern. By the way, Tom Duncombe intends paying a visit to New York this coming summer, for the express purpose of eating a canvas-back duck, and drinking the Saratoga water. I shall not let him know that canvas backs don't fly in summer, for fear that he should not go over. He is a terrible radical in his politics, but I hardly think he would figure to advantage in Tammany Hall. On going to my lodgings in Harly street a few nights since, I found the following note lying upon my dressing table: 'Lady Morgan's compliments to Mr. Pinto, and will be proud of his company at her house in Baker street to-morrow night, to meet half a dozen distinguished friends.' Although I was already three invitations deep for that very night, and among the rest an invitation to dine with Mr. Bates, at whose house I should have met his charming daughter, Madame Vandever, yet such was my regard for the 'wild Irish girl' that was, the brilliant authoress that is, that I gave up all other engagements for her sake. She has a very pretty, but a rather small house in Baker street, and, as you might expect, from the taste she displayed in her 'Italy' and 'France,' it was furnished to a charm. However, I did not go there for the sake of the upholstery, but for her sake, and to see her distinguished guests. The latter I could have well spared. The first and second lions were our Minister, Mr. Bancroft, and his Secretary, Mr. Broadhead. There were, besides, Mr. Jerdan, the editor of the Literary Gazette; an Irish author of whom I never heard before, named Blaney; a Polish refugee, whose name I could neither speak nor write; an Italian, ditto; two Spaniards; a Unitarian clergyman; Goodwyn Barmby, who writes for Douglass Jerrold, and Mr. Lockhart. There were some ladies whose names I have forgotten, but not their looks. I think that they must have been unmarried daughters of Earls, for they are the kind of girls which one meets most frequently. Lady M. received me with great kindness, and was very particular in her inquiries respecting a young relative of her's living in New York, whom I have not the happiness of knowing. I found that she was quite au fait in American literature, and much better acquainted with some of our authors than I was. She is a subscriber to the Mirror, and thinks that Mr. Willis still edits it. Her ladyship is very chatty and pleasing in her manners, and resembles very nearly in her person, Mrs. Child, except that she is older than that accomplished lady. During the evening Mr. Wickoff came in. I was glad to see him because he was the most recent importation from America that I had seen, excepting a grisly bear which has just been added to the collection of the Zoological Society, in Regent's Park.
Although Jerdan and Lockhart are both Scotchmen, and brother critics by profession, they are not on good terms, and avoided each other the whole evening. Mr. Bancroft and Lockhart were greatly taken with each other, and talked some nonsense or other about history, all the time they were there. Lady M. is a small woman, of most fascinating manners, and just such a free impulsive talker, as you would imagine her to be from reading her works. She has abandoned her pen entirely, which she can well afford to do, after having used it so long and to so good a purpose.
There was a person at Lady M.'s, who was introduced to me as a gentleman of the press, gentlemen at his profession not requiring any particular name in London society. I have frequently met such persons at dinners and soirees, and have never heard them spoken of in any other manner. It is a very convenient plan, which might be still further carried out, a 'gentleman of the bar' a 'mercantile gentleman,' &c., &c., only other professions are not yet sufficiently elevated to enable their members to pass current without some other evidence of their worth than their calling affords. This gentleman of the press had just returned from Arundel Castle, where he had been to make notes on the doings of the Royal party. He assured me that he knew, of his own personal knowledge, that the Countess of Beggartown changed her dress forty-two times in three days, and that the Duke of Starveborough wore lace night-caps, which cost £3 l0s. 4d. each. The Queen, you know, makes visits to the castles of the nobility, who show her all their plate, cut glass, &c. At Arundel Castle, among other curiosities, the Duke engaged the Ethiopian Minstrels to amuse her Majesty, who was graciously pleased by their banjo playing. On her return to town, happening to hear that the Irish were in great want of food, she and Prince Albert generously sent them £2,500, which they could but ill afford from their limited incomes; and considering the great number of poor relations they have to take care of in Germany, I think they were very generous.
Truly yours, F.M. PINTO.
LETTER THIRTEEN
[New York Weekly Mirror—March 6, 1847.]
(From our Travelling Correspondent)
LONDON, Feb. 4.
DEAR F.—The whole of May fair was yesterday thrown into a state of the most profound grief. Every house in Park Lane has a mourner in it. Calling at the Dutchess of C.'s yesterday morning, I was refused admittance to her Grace, and hearing sobs from the boudoir, I supposed that some member of that illustrious family had suddenly died. But such was not the fact; from C—— House I hurried to Gore House, the residence of my friend the Countess of Blessington. Here too, to my great amazement, I found the head of the House in tears, with her ladyship's maid having a supply of dry handkerchiefs on a silver salver which, I observed, was ornamented by some beautiful chasing, evidently the work of that great genius Count D'Orsay. As I entered her ladyship's drawing-room she motioned me to a divan, and raising her hands exclaimed. 'O! Mr. Pinto!—'
You know it is a principle in the best circles of English society never to show any emotion, whatever may be your feelings, (at least I learned as much from reading the letter of your former partner in business, Mr. Willis, although I must that I have never observed any thing of the kind myself,) so I merely said in a careless manner, 'Ah, indeed.' But I was almost dead with curiosity to know what had occasioned such universal grief among the aristocracy. Has the cholera broken out among the lapdogs, thought I, or what can it be. At last the cause flashed upon my mind. The Countess is an Irishwoman, as you know, and the daughter of a not very exalted father. Of course her ladyship was weeping over the distresses of her starving countrymen. And as for the Dutchess of C., nothing could be more rational than her grief, for her estates lie chiefly in the North of Scotland, where the famine is dreadful, and the prospects of collecting rent for the next year are very gloomy. No wonder that May fair was in mourning when the incomes of the nobility are in such imminent danger of suspension, to say nothing of the awful drains upon the purses of the rich by Government, to promote drainage in Ireland. I could sympathize with the distressed nobility, for I know of nothing that touches one's feelings more severely than touching one's income.
And the countess looked very amiable to me as she sat weeping over the calamities of her native Isle. I had arranged a very pretty compliment to her ladyship in my mind, comparing her to the Genius of Ireland, lamenting the distresses of her children, which I began to prepare the way for bringing out.
'Ah! Countess.' said I, taking my handkerchief slowly from my pocket and unfolding it carefully, lest I should discover too much emotion for the high toned manners of Gore House. 'It is dreadful.'
The Countess again said 'Oh, Mr. Pinto!' and took a dry handkerchief from her waiting woman.
'Poor creatures!' said I.
'Poor craytur—' said he ladyship, who has not got rid entirely of her native brogue.
'What will become of them if the next crop should fail!' said I.
'The next what, Mr. Pinto?' said her ladyship.
'The next crop,' I replied, more distinctly.
'Crop!' said she, 'crop of what?'
'Crop of potatoes, of course,' said I.
'Potatoes!' shrieked her ladyship, 'what do you mean, Mr. Pinto, by naming such things in my hearing!'
'Was not your ladyship lamenting over the distresses of your countrymen?' said I.
'My countrymen!' said she, indignantly, 'no, it was your countryman Mr. Pinto, that darling little Tom Thumb, who has gone back to America, and we never shall see him again, never!'
Finding myself in rather an awkward position from the strange blunder I had made in thinking that the aristocracy cared enough about the starving Irish to shed a tear for them, I hastily bade the Countess good morning, and drove to the house of a friend in Bloomsbury whose family had no connexion with the nobility. But judge of my astonishment on entering this plebeian mansion to find the mother and her two daughters with their handkerchiefs to their eyes. However, I happily knew the cause of their grief, and could seem to sympathize with them, for the middle classes love to copy after the higher. So says I, 'The loss of that interesting little fellow is really dreadful, ladies.'
'Isn't it dreadful?' said Mrs. Crimples, 'just as we were looking forward to fifteen months more of pleasure with him.'
'Just as we had become so attached to his dear little old fashioned ways,' said the Misses Crimples.
'Oh. I dare say he will come back again one of these days,' said I, for I thought they were piling up the agony a little too high, considering the smallness of the subject.
'Come back again!' exclaimed Miss Mary Ann Crimples, looking me in the face, 'come back again, Mr. Pinto, what do you mean?'
'Why,' said I, 'Mr. Barnum is one of our most enterprizing citizens; and as he has made a good deal of money by his first visit, of course he will bring the little fellow back again.'
'What are you talking about?' exclaimed Mrs. Crimples 'how can the dear child be brought back again when he is dead?
'Dead!' I exclaimed in astonishment, 'is my celebrated countryman General Tom Thumb deceased!'
'Tom Thumb!' exclaimed the daughters simultaneously, 'it is dear little Paul Dombey that is dead, Mr. Pinto.'
Sure enough, Young Dombey in dead, and the news of his death and the departure at Tom Thumb both occurring on the same day, have thrown all London into tears. The death of little Paul is a mystery to every body except the initiated. Dickens says that he put an end to the boy's life to spite the Americans, who were writing to him by every steamer, begging him not to kill the child too early, as he had done by little Nell.
Yours, truly, F.M. PINTO.
LETTER FOURTEEN
[New York Weekly Mirror—April 3, 1847.]
(From our Travelling Correspondent.)
LONDON, March 4, 1847.
Traveller's Club
My dear F.—You see that I am still in town, notwithstanding my hatred of bricks and mortar, and my love of green hedges and cottages. But this is the top of the London season, and as everybody is in town, and I have lodgings in sight of the Green Park, I make out to exist. As I got through the winter months without hanging myself, I may hope to pass the ordeal of an entire season in London. But I am not so badly situated as you may imagine; the Countess of Ellsmere sends me a bunch of violets from her conservatory, every morning, and a rosy-cheeked girl from Somer's Town, who keeps a short-horned cow under the shadow of the brazen Achilles, in Hyde Park, brings me at 10 o'clock a cup of warm milk. And I have been twice to Edmonton, with a party of literary friends, to see the room in which your countrywoman and namesake Miss F. danced a Yankee jig. The good people of the little inn, who had never in their lives seen one of the literati before, tell the most marvellous stories of her performances. Blaskett, the inn-keeper, when he heard the object of our visit, was as voluble as a parrot, and told us a good many things about the strange party that visited his house and insisted on dancing in honor of John Gilpin. He thought at first they were a party of lunatics, and had arranged a plan for putting straight-jackets upon them, but finding that they had money to spend, concluded to make all the profit out of them he could. In his ardor to oblige us, he made his wife get into the floor, and dance like Miss F. If there was any resemblance in her breakdown, I do not wonder that Blaskett thought he had been visited by a party of Bedlamites.
I went yesterday morning to breakfast with Mr. Rogers, the Banker-poet. I had been often invited; but as these breakfasts are growing very common, I had always declined going. But I thought it would be well enough to go once, merely to have it to say that I had been there, just as one goes to Court or to the top of St. Paul's. As it happened, I am glad that I went, for I saw a number of notorieties, whom I could not have seen elsewhere. Mr. Rogers is now a very old man—some say that he was one of the pages at the coronation of George the Third, but the truth is, he was eighty-seven on the l8th of last month, as I learned by inspecting the register of the parish church of St. Pancras, in which he was christened. Such is his passion for breakfasting the literati, that he has bequeathed a large part of his fortune to be devoted to this purpose.
It was one o'clock when I arrived at his house, and soon after we were summoned to the breakfast-room. There were ten or twelve guests, and the only ladies present were the Hon. Mrs. Norton and Miss Rogers a venerable young lady verging upon four score years. She sat at the head of the table, and poured out the tea. The breakfast was a substantial meal—consisting of tea and chocolate, toast, omelettes, Yarmouth bloaters and mutton chops a 'la Maintenon, with green peas. I suppose I ate a guinea's worth of the vegetables. There were also some new potatoes raised in a hot bed, which must have cost about five shillings each. Of these I devoured four. They were rather waxy. Besides the tea and chocolate, there was some capital ale on the table, and after the cloth was removed, some excellent port was produced, which was the only wine I saw. But people don't go to Mr. Rogers' to gormandize and guzzle. The company furnish the real refreshment at his breakfasts. The part which he contributes from his menage is the smallest item in the entertainment. Among the guests were the Duke of Wellington, Peel, and Bishop Whately. The merely literary characters, such as D'Israeli, Bulwer, Horne, and that dandy Tupper, I didn't take much notice of. They pretended to be very much interested in my conversation, because they wanted to be mentioned in my letters, which everybody reads here, but I confined my conversation chiefly to Wellington and Peel, who were very anxious to hear about America.
The Duke talked about Gen. Taylor, and said he was a good fellow, and wanted to know if it was true that the President intended to recall him, and give his command to a lawyer. I told him such was the case. 'Well, Cottenham,' said his grace, turning to the Lord Chancellor, 'what would you think, if her Majesty should appoint you a field marshall, and send you to India to command old Gough?' 'Think?' said the Chancellor, 'why, that she was a d——.' But what he meant to say I can't tell, for the Bishop, who sat near him, clapped his hand upon the Chancellor's mouth, and smothered the words, whatever they were. Judging from his looks, I might guess that the first and last letters of one word was a pair of d's, and of the other an f and an l. Peel winked at me and laughed, and said I thought the same thing of his majesty King Polk. But I looked very serious, and said that the people in the United States never spoke disrespectfully of their Executive. Peel then begged my pardon, and said he meant no offence. He asked me what would be the probable amount of the next crop of corn in the States. I replied that with the aid of Hunt's Magazine, I estimated it at 314,837,240 bushels and 3 pecks, which he put down in his note book, and said the estimate would be of great service to him. He then said, 'By the by, Mr. Pinto, is this Mr. Hunt you spoke of the editor who has such luminous eyes?' Bulwer, who had been watching his opportunity to say a word, now remarked that he had just received a copy of the Literary World from New York, and was happy to see from the booksellers' advertisements, as well as by the editorial matter, that the Americans still gave the preference to English books. 'That was an excellent idea,' said he, 'of establishing a review of your own, to review our books after they have been noticed in the forty or fifty literary journals of this country. Because your critic will have the benefit of all the opinions that have been expressed abroad before he ventures to give his own, if he should happen to have any. I suppose that your critic, instead of reading the book which he criticises, just takes and reads some half a dozen or more reviews of it in our journals, and then makes a review out of them.'
I replied indignantly that my literary countrymen were entirely independent of foreign criticism, and that they put no value whatever on English reviews in particular. To which he replied 'Walker!' evidently being very much disconcerted, and not knowing what else to say.
Mrs. Norton, who had been an attentive listener, said, 'And your name is Pinto?'
'Yes,' said I.
'I thought so,' she replied; but why she thought so I am sure I cannot tell.
Bishop Whately hearing me say something about New York, asked me if I knew anybody there. I told him that I didn't know anybody anywhere else. He remarked that he had read in the Mirror the advertisement of Mr. Kernot, whom he had known in London, and wished to know if he kept the up-town book store still. I had never known the gentleman he spoke of, but I knew that his book store was frequented by the literati, and that he was so celebrated for his knowledge of books and obliging ways, as to be familiarly called one of the amenities of literature. The Bishop seemed gratified to hear it, and said,—'Kernot was always a good fellow.'
Yours, F.M.P.
LETTER FIFTEEN
[New York Daily Mirror—May 19, 1847.]
From our Travelling Correspondent
PARIS, May 4, 1847
Rue Vivienne, No. 29
MY DEAR F.—You see by the date of my letter that I am in Paris, and I suppose, that you will wonder at my leaving my Noble friends in London, who made so much of me. But, the truth is, England is no longer a proper place for an American to live in who wishes to preserve his self respect. I have left it forever, and while I remain in Europe shall reside in France, where they have not yet been guilty of insulting my country by abolishing the "peculiar Institution," which, you know, is regarded as the foundation or our Liberty. There has been a "negro imposter," in London,—I don't mean any of the sham darkies who sing Virginia melodies, but a real black man, named Douglas, who pretends to be a philanthropist and an orator. But, of course, he is neither, for things would come to a pretty pass if black fellows were allowed to pass themselves off for philanthropists. This fellow has been in the habit of calling large meetings of respectable white people together, and telling them the most absurd stories about my countrymen, and pretending that he had been nothing but a chattel, and these people, who don't seem to know the difference between a darkey and a free citizen of our country, go on in the most absurd manner about him, and pretend to believe all he says. As I have a real regard for the colored race, and have done all I could to have the freed negroes shipped off to the coast of Africa, where I am sure they all ought to go, because they might be instrumental in converting their brethren to christianity, for it is well known that they make excellent missionaries, from the fact that their desire to study the scriptures is so strong, that it has been found necessary to pass laws forbidding anybody teaching them to read, lest they should spend all their time in poring over polemical writings;—as I have a real regard for them, which is more than any of these fanatics can say, I called upon this fellow when I heard that he was delivering lectures about the land of his birth, and said to him:
"I tell you how it is old fellow, I have heard of your slanders about the glorious institutions of my country, and I will advise you for the future, to keep dark."
"I shall," said he.
"Very well," said I, "if you do, I will speak a good word for you to some of my friends, and I may get you a good place as a valet."
"Yes," said he, "I shall keep dark, for so God has chosen to make me. And I bless his holy Name, that though he has given me dark skin, he has not withheld light from my mind; and I bless Him and praise Him that he has not given me a darkened mind and a white skin."
Such insolence as this, of course I could not put up with, so I was going to chastise him with my cane, when he had the audacity to take hold of my arm and threaten to put me out of the room if I raised my hand to him. As this happened at the London Tavern, in the presence of several people—(I will not say gentlemen and ladies, for they cannot lay any claim to the character of such, after refusing to assist me in punishing the fellow) whom I know, I immediately left with feelings of the strongest disgust, and afterwards finding that the fellow was countenanced, I entered a protest at the Home Office against the insult put upon my country, demanded my passports and left directly for Paris. The truth is, the English have no idea about true liberty. The manner in which they tolerate blacks is really distressing to an enlightened mind; and their pretended philanthropy in freeing their slaves, is well understood by men of the world. When I embarked at Dover, I shook the dust from my feet, or, to speak more correctly, I scraped the chalk from my boots.
Paris is quite delightful. There is one drawback, here, however. The most fashionable place of public amusement is the Theatre de Montpensier, which was built by Alexandre Dumas, and as that noted person has African blood in his veins, of course I cannot patronize it, and I am debarred from visiting a place which all the world is rushing to. But I shall remain true to my principles, for I think that every man is bound to sacrifice his personal convenience to the honor of his country, as Captain Slidell Mackenzie said, when he hung a midshipman and two sailors on board the Somers without the ceremony of a trial.
I shall take a look at the affairs of Europe, now that I am on the spot, and give your readers an exact account of their true position. The present King of France, whose title is Louis Phillippe the First, King of the French, was placed on the throne by the celebrated revolution of July, not the 4th, and is immensely rich. His eldest son, the Duke of Orleans, was killed a few months ago by being thrown from his carriage, and it is quite uncertain who will be the next monarch. If nothing should happen it is probable that the successor of Louis Phillippe will be his grandson, the young Count of Paris; but if there should be an eumete it is probable that some other person will be chosen. This I had from M. Guizot's own lips. I have been to several soirees at the hotel of Thiers, who was very inquisitive about America, and said if he had known that Mr. Headley was writing a history of Napoleon and his Marshals that he would not have gone on with the history of the Consulate and the Empire. I have been to the Louvre to see the old masters, but they are all humbugs, and I don't think much about them. Science, politics, the fine arts, religion, literature, philosophy and social life are all in a state of transition. I will write my opinion on those subjects in my next letter. Everybody knows me here, I find, by reputation; they go to Caliguani's on purpose to read my letters in the Mirror. I had not been in Paris twenty-four hours before I had calls from nearly twenty of the most distinguished savans, philosophers, artists, poets and actors. Among those who left their cards were Paul de Kock, Jules Jasin, George Sand, Paul de la Roche, Edgar Quinet, Lamartine, Victor de Lamney, and Rachel. But the rascals all spell my name wrong. Some directed their cards to M. Pintot, some to Signor Pinteaux, some to Pinteux, and some to Mons. F. Pintot. But none to the name which I shall ever be proud to sign, as truly yours,
F. M. PINTO.
P.S.—Unfortunately I arrived here just too late to see that exceedingly agreeable editrice Miss F., who has left a trail of light behind her as she has run through Europe. But I have luckily fallen upon several lively Frenchmen who had the good fortune to meet Miss F. when she was here and from them I have heard several interesting stories which you will be happy to hear.
F.M.P.
LETTER SIXTEEN
[New York Daily Mirror—June 21, 1847.]
ANOTHER LETTER FROM MR. PINTO.—Our readers will be greatly relieved to hear that we have again a prospect of having frequent letters from our most popular and highly esteemed travelling correspondent, Mr. Pinto. It will be seen by the following letter that he was in Paris at the time of the steamer's sailing, where we fear he has been indulging too much in the gaieties of that capitol. We once had the misfortune to employ a gentleman to write letters from Europe, who set a higher value upon his labors than anybody else, and was more anxious to keep his performances than his promises, for having taken our money, he forgot that he had agreed to return an equivalent for it. But Mr. Pinto's honor is as unquestionable as his veracity, and our readers may be sure that he will redeem his promises to us and them.
PARIS, June 1, 1847
MY DEAR F.,
——Since this occurrence (we omit a few lines which relates to a private matter of no interest to the public) I have met with no disagreeable people in Paris. The truth is, that rich countrymen who come here seem to think that there is no other pleasure to be found in Paris than that of spending money; and the T—— family having set the fashion in that respect, the Parisians turn the cold shoulder to you unless you shell out like a prince. But that is not exactly a just simile, for all the princes that I have met here have been meaner than Connecticut clock pedlers. On Friday night last I supped with the Prince de Witzsnesky, at the Hotel de Chaney—there were two beautiful lorettes on the sideboard, apparently of solid gold, which the Prince offered to sell. I agreed to buy them at a certain price, and when they were sent to my room in the Faubourg St. Germain the next day, I discovered that I had been cheated, the gold lorettes proving to be nothing but gilded copper. I had paid my money for them, however, and had to pocket the loss. I mentioned the circumstance to the Count de ——, and observed that I should send the Prince a challenge, but he said,—"Pooh! pooh! I will put you in a way of getting back your money. The king is very fond of patronising American artists. Send the lorettes to him with your card, and say that they were made by yourself in the backwoods of your native State, wherever that may be, and the king will reward your ingenuity by sending you a check on his private banker for a hundred thousand francs at least." I flared up at this base suggestion, of course, and ordered the Count out of my apartments. I would not have mentioned this circumstance but that I have been informed of the Count's having been sent to New York by the last packet, by the association which exists here for obtaining the fortunes of American heiresses. The Count is furnished with an outfit at the expense of the association, he being as poor as an author, and one-half of the fortune he may obtain by marrying a rich girl must be paid to the association. The diamond rings, watch, gold headed cane, shirt studs, and eye glass which he wears, have already done good service in New York, and when the Count returns the bijouterie will be given up to the association, to be used by another of their members. The Secretary of the society informed me that they had recently declared a good dividend out of the proceeds of a fortune which one of the associates had married in Philadelphia. I was very curious to know who the lady was that had been caught, but the members all being sworn to secrecy, I could only learn that she was the only daughter of a rich druggist.
This society once drove a very profitable business in London, but they have of late years confined their operations entirely to the United States, where titles and distinguished foreigners are held in greater esteem than in any other part of the world. The members of the association have to pay a small entrance fee, and produce a certificate of their nobility, unless they are very good looking, in which case the association furnishes the title of Count and the jewelry. The members are required to know how to read and write—to waltz, to play on some musical instrument, and to have good teeth. These things are indispensable in all, and then candidates for admission undergo an examination by a committee, and receive instructions from some of the older members who have returned from a successful mission. There has been a rival association formed in Vienna for sending German barons and savans over to America, and there has been great jealousy between the two; but the brotherhood of French Counts has thus far been the most successful. The secretary of the latter association says that they never keep more than three members in America at a time, allowing one to each of the three principal cities. At the outset they made some shocking mistakes—three or four of their associates having married the daughters of merchants who afterwards failed, and they had to be taken care of by the association. Great pains have to be taken to make the young members fall in love before they leave Paris, so that they may not fall into such a silly mistake after they arrive in New York or Boston. This surprised me a great deal, and I said "Pray, Monsieur ——, how do you expect these young rascals are going to get married unless they first fall in love with somebody?"
The secretary gave me a contemptuous look and uttered the universal "Peste!" which expresses everything that is contemptuous and vexatious with a Frenchman.
As the Count de —— is probably in New York by this time, I will give you a brief sketch of his person that you may know him when you see him. He is about 35 years of age, tall, fair-complexioned, with regular features, a beautifully chiseled mouth and chin, dark chestnut-colored moustache, good teeth, and perfectly good eyes; although he wears an eye-glass. He plays on the guitar and sings Italian. The brotherhood, who keep a register of all the marriageable fortunes in the three American cities, have formed great expectations of his success, and even went to the unusual expense of allowing him an extra outfit of a dozen of fine cotton shirts. He had particular instructions when he left from the executive committee to make his coup d'essai upon one of the three daughters of a wealthy tailor whose death in Philadelphia had just been heard of. It is supposed that if he should be successful in that family, the other sisters might be brought over to Paris and taken by some of the members of the association here, which would save the expense of two outfits. The secretary informed me of a very curious fact in psychology. He says that the families of Tailors have a stronger penchant for Counts than any other class of Americans, and that some of the best speculations of the association have been among those people.
I have been paying a good deal of attention to the affairs of Europe lately, and shall give you my opinions in relation to the probable duration of the monarchal principles of government in my next.
I dined with Mons. Thiers yesterday, where I had the pleasure of meeting that remarkable author, Geo. Sand. He is quite young for so famous an author, and I understand intends visiting the United States in one of the French steamers. George Sand, altho a Frenchman born, is of English descent. His ancestor came over in the train of Henry the Eighth, and was one of the knights who accompanied that monarch to the field of the cloth of gold. He showed me a piece of the cloth itself, about the size of a pocket handkerchief, which has been preserved in his family as an heirloom. Sand is a very gay, dashing young fellow; he writes his novels between the hours of eleven and two at night, and is remarkable for the great number of diamond rings which he wears.
I am not in the habit of making puns, but I made a shocking one in regard to Mons. Sand, which has caused a good deal of merriment here; and I was told by M. Guizot, was laughed at by Louis Phillippe. Sand, as I said, is a very gay young fellow, and is almost proverbial for his cheerfulness, which nothing can affect. Leaving him in a warm debate with Mons. Thiers, on the subject of polygamy, which it is well known he favors, I came out into the Boulevard Janlieus and there I met my friend Vicompte de Lamnay, who was sauntering along with an opera-dancer at his side.
"Aha, Pinto," said he, "when did you see Sand?"
"Poor Sand!" said I, "I think something bad must have happened to him, for I just left him in Thiers."
"Sand in tears!" exclaimed the Vicompte.
"Yes," I replied with a smile, "in Mons. Louis Adolphe Thiers."
"Peste!" exclaimed the Vicompte, and turned into the Cafe de Paris.
Yours, PINTO
LETTER SEVENTEEN
[New York Daily Mirror—September 27, 1847.]
From our Travelling Correspondent.
ROME, August 25, 1847
MY DEAR F.—After parting that night with Guizot, and being satisfied that it would be quite impossible for the government of Louis Phillippe to do justice to our glorious institutions by withholding the royal sanction from Dumas, I resolved to leave Paris sur le champ, as the ladies say in their letters. The next day I received my passports from the minister and left Paris. But before I came away I sent an indignant remonstrance to the Debats against the slight put upon my country by the toleration of such a person as—(the MS is so imperfect that we cannot make out the name,) but the editor had not the courage to print it. That withering rebuke would have caused many a tremor in the Tuilleries. But the truth is, la belle France, as they absurdly call that shockingly disagreeable place, knows nothing about liberty or true democratic principles. You may judge what pretensions it can have to the title of la belle when I tell you that the manager of one of their theatres is a quadroon, and that they allow black students in their college. Pah! I hurried out of the kingdom as fast as I could, and came here where I understood there were several American editrices. The Pope, you know, is a capital good fellow and a real republican; my friend, the Abbe Lamennais, gave me a letter of introduction to his Holiness, which insured me a good reception, an invitation to dinner in the Vatican. You have heard talk, I suppose, about kissing the Pope's toe; I had read something about it myself, and I told Lamennais that of course it couldn't be expected that a man brought up under the influence of our glorious institutions should debase himself by stooping quite so low as to kiss the toe of even so great a man as the Pope, and that I, for one, intended to enter an indignant remonstrance against it. He said that I had better stay away from Rome unless I intended to do as Romans do, and I must confess that the old apothegm never before struck me with such force. However, I was determined not to stay away, for I wanted to see the Pope and the other curiosities of that celebrated city. Accordingly I left Paris and came here by the usual route, and besides having my pockets picked by everybody on the way, I was stopped and robbed in the Appenines by a splendid-looking Italian bandit who looked as though he had just walked out of a melodrama. After he had obtained my purse, I asked him if he would have the goodness to allow me to look at his blunderbuss; he did so, what I immediately levelled it at him and bade him deliver; he attempted to run, but I fired and he fell. Perceiving that he was dead, I hurriedly rifled his pockets, not only of the money of which he had robbed me, but seeing a splendid ring on his finger, I took it off and found it was marked Mrs. J. G. B. I afterwards learned that he had taken it from a celebrated editrice, one of my own countrywomen, who was creating a great sensation among the Cardinals, owing to her having so many friends among those amiable people the Austrians. I shall have the pleasure of delivering it to her when I return. I had not proceeded many steps from where the bandit fell, before he rose and began to curse me in "very choice Italian." It appeared that he had only been stunned, which I was glad to perceive, for it would have given me great uneasiness to have killed such a splendid-looking fellow, for what would Italy be without its handsome robbers and old pictures.
On my arrival in the city, I immediately called upon Cardinal Gizzi, who took me to the Vatican in his carriage, and introduced me to the Pope. I reached out my hand to shake hands with his Holiness when the Cardinal whispered to me that the Pope never shook hands with anybody, and that I must kiss his toe. Kneel down, my son, said his Holiness, it will do you no harm. I replied that I was not under any apprehensions that it would, but that it might possibly do him some harm, for if I got my mouth near his toe, I should be certain to bite it, as I had a strange propensity that way. The Cardinal then whispered to Pius, who said that as I was an American citizen, and one of the Anglo Saxons, of whose victories in Mexico he had heard, I should be excused from the usual ceremony of kissing his toe, and to show what a good democrat he was, he reached out his hand and gave me a hearty shake. He invited me to dine with him the next day, and said that he supposed I would like to look at his collection of pictures, as all the Americans who came to Rome were great admirers of the Fine Arts. I quite surprised him by telling him that in my own green forest home in the West, we too had painters; I told him that we had produced a Whitehorn, a Shegogue and a West; and that we could boast of a Century Club and a National Gallery. He was a good deal surprised to hear these famous names, and said that he hoped to see me often at the Vatican, as he wished to have some conversation with me about the institutions of America. Cardinal Gizzi then intimated to me that it was time to withdraw. as there were several princes waiting to be introduced. The particulars of the dinner at the papal residence, and the curious conversation I had with his holiness about religion and other matters I shall give you in my next letter. After we left, Cardinal Gizzi took me in a red-wheeled carriage to a good many places I wished to see, among the rest to Frascati's, and then we drove to Mount Algidus to enjoy a real Italian sunset, where I saw several poor devils of Artists trying to paint the glorious scene, but they did not succeed very well.
Yours, F. M. PINTO
*Our readers will see that Mr. Pinto refers to some event of which he imagines we are well informed. He has no doubt written us several letters which we have not received; perhaps they were destroyed by the European Post-offices on account of the too great liberalism of our correspondent. Of course Cave Johnson had no hand in their detention.—Ed. M.
LETTER EIGHTEEN
[New York Daily Mirror—November 8, 1847.]
Another Letter From Mr. Pinto
We are happy to present the following interesting letter to our readers, which we received by the last arrival from our highly valued correspondent. It will serve as an answer to the many anxious enquiries that have been addressed us from different parts of the country, respecting Mr. Pinto's present whereabout. He is still in Italy, where he upholds the honor of his country under all circumstances with the same noble feeling of patriotism, which he has displayed since he went abroad.—Ed. Mir.
ROME, Oct. 1, 1847
MY DEAR F.—A former correspondent of the Mirror gave you his first impression of Rome, and a pretty good description of some of the ruins, which are to be seen here, but I shall not take the trouble to do any thing of the sort; I send you a half dozen volumes in which you will find everything set down that is worth knowing respecting the decayed part of the eternal city; and if you should think your readers are in want of any information on such subjects, you can occasionally give them a page or two of authentic details. As to the present population of Rome, I think that New Yorkers must be tolerably familiar with their personal appearance, for every American Artist that comes here sends home a dozen or two of portraits of the beggars in the character of Apostles, or Virgin Maries. A sturdy old fellow who blacks my boots tells me that he has been painted twenty eight times in the character of Saint Paul, thirteen times as Joseph, nine times as Saint Peter, he cannot remember how many times as the "Roman Father," and as "the Head of an Old Man," at least a thousand times. One would think that from assuming these pious characters so often, he would have attained to uncommon sanctity, but he is, in truth, the greatest rogue I have seen in Italy. When I accused him of his rogueries and told him what a scandal it was that a man who personated so many saints should be so little like them, he had the impudence to say to me: "why not, Signor? How can I afford to be honest when I only get ten cents an hour for sitting as a saint. If I got as good pay as the Padres do for acting the saint, I could afford to be as good as they are, and that would be nothing to boast of Signor. I think I am a very good saint for the pay."
The rascal prides himself a good deal on being sent so often to America, and the other day he told me that he believed there was not a gentleman's parlor in my country in which he or one of his family was not hung up in a gilt frame. He said to me yesterday, "my son and daughter have just been sent to America again, one as 'a Peasant Boy of the Campagna,' and the other as 'a Roman Lady.' " Having detected him that week in an attempt to secrete one of my pocket handkerchiefs, to show his contrition, he said he and his daughter (who is quite as great a thief as her father,) would sit to one of my artist-countrymen, for a holy family, if I would promise not to expose him. "A precious pair you are to-be-sure for a Holy family," said I. "Why, Signor," said the rogue, "my religious expression is worth two cents an hour more than that of any man in Rome; and as for my daughter she is a most excellent Virgin, and if her little boy had not had his face marked with that rascally small-pox, she would have commanded two scudi an hour more than any jade in all Italy."
But such trifles as these are hardly worth sending all the way from Rome to New York. You will be better pleased to learn something about the Pope, who is the only object now in Rome worth a moment's consideration. I have already informed you that his Holiness had invited me to dine with him at the Vatican; the day on which I was to realize this great honor happened to be the festival of Saint Onofrio, the Egyptian; and as there was to be some public rejoicings in the evening, it was necessary that the Pope should be free from any engagements before the illuminations commenced, because he was to bless the candles; therefore I was instructed to be in readiness at an early hour in the afternoon. It was just half past two when the scarlet-wheeled carriage of Cardinal Gizzi stopped at my palazza; the Cardinal had gone to the Vatican some hours before, he having some private business to transact with the Pope; so I had to ride alone to the papal residence—and I must acknowledge that I felt somewhat flurried at the thought of dining with such a host—and the thought occurred to me, as I am prone to make mal-apropos speeches, that, if there should happen to be a roast goose on the table, I should infallibly ask for the Pope's nose; and then a far more disagreeable thought occurred to me. The chances were ten to one that I should be poisoned, for I knew that the Austrians, the Neapolitan minister, the representative of the Duke of Lucca, and the ambassador from the King of Sardinia, had all threatened to take the life of the Pope, and that there had been repeated attempts to poison his food. I might have saved myself any fears on this score, for there was nothing on the dinner-table but boiled eggs and a pitcher of clear water. I had to pass through several long galleries in the Vatican, which were lined with Swiss soldiers, before I reached the private apartments of the Pontiff. I found him in a small octagon saloon, which was furnished very simply and without any pictures, although the walls were painted in fresco by Andrea del Sarto, the subject being some rather equivocal story from the pagan mythology, executed by order of Caesar Borgia when his father occupied the papal chair. The only persons with his Holiness were the Cardinals Gizzi and Lambuschini. The latter whispered in my ear when I entered, "Remember, when Pius comes into his private rooms, he leaves his Holiness at the door." I understood this as a hint not to address him by that dignified title; and not knowing exactly what to say, I called him Mr. Pius; but I observed afterwards that the Cardinals called him Papa—so I corrected my mistake, and did the same. He received me with great cordiality; and, soon after I entered, we sat down to dinner. The plainness of the repast surprised me, for I had anticipated some Roman punch at the very least. However, I did not forget that I was in Rome, and of course I expected to do as Romans do. But when Pius remarked that the dinner was a plain one, I could not help replying, "that in my own country, I thanked Heaven, that under our glorious institutions, freedom of speech and conscience were enjoyed by every member of the community, and that there a man might be virtuously great, without being in danger of eating poison with his food."
Pius looked a little surprised at this remark, and turning to Cardinal Lambuschini he said, "my son, how shamefully I have been imposed upon by travellers from America, who have told me stories about the Bostonians setting fire to a convent of poor nuns, and destroying their property and perilling their precious lives on account of their religious faith." The Cardinal merely shrugged his shoulders and said, non mi ricordo: I fear out of politeness to me; for I think he must have noticed the scarlet blushes in my face; but as I have adopted for my motto that noble sentiment of my brave countryman, "my country, may she always be right; but right or wrong, my country." I wasn't going to acknowledge the guilt of the Bostonians, for the truth is, I had an uncle engaged in that business of setting fire to that convent, and I think he was not far from right either. Therefore I did not seem to take any notice of this observation of the Pope, who, I began to see, was a good deal of a humbug after all, and I thought I would let him know that I could see about as far into a millstone as most people of my age, so I said to him, "How does it happen, Pius, that you do not at once give entire freedom to the people of your government and put them on a level with my countrymen, who live under our glorious institutions. What is the good of dilly-dallying with the poor devils, yielding a little to them to-day, a little tomorrow, and so on? Make them free at once, and give them a constitution, like ours."
"My son," he replied, "my will is good to do so, but policy forbids. My people are not yet prepared for the degree of liberty which you ask for them.—They must be prepared for it before it can be safely given to them."
"Prepared for it!" I exclaimed. "Why, did ever any rational being talk so absurdly before. Prepare a man for freedom by keeping him in bondage! Well, that is decidedly original. For my part, Pius, I think a man is prepared for the enjoyment of freedom the moment that he has the capacity to desire it."
"And are you all so perfectly free in your country?" said he.
"As free as the air we breathe!" I replied, exultingly.
"How I have been imposed upon," said his Holiness, turning again to Lambuschini, "they told me that you had three millions of slaves in the United States."
"So we have," said I. And I repeated to myself those beautiful lines of the Wizzard of the North,
Lives there a man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land.
"What, do they live under those glorious institutions you have apostrophized so often?" said he.
"Of course they do," said I, proudly.
"Why do you not make them free," said his Holiness, winking to Cardinal Gizzi. I noticed it and replied indignantly;
"Because they are a set of lazy, ignorant rascals, who wouldn't know what to do with themselves if they were freed."
"O, ho!" said the Pope, "then of course they never show any desire for freedom by running away from their masters, because if people are fit for liberty when they have the capacity to desire it you would give it to them."
It was very evident what sort of people these Italians are, and I saw exactly what the meaning of liberality is when applied to a Pope of Rome; they have about as correct a notion of true liberty as they have of true religion. I had no idea of hearing my country reviled by a Pope of Rome, who has had his mind poisoned by English abolitionists; so I looked at my watch, and remarking that I had an engagement to go and see the Coliseum by moonlight with some countrywomen of mine who had come to Rome for that purpose, I bade the Pope and his two Cardinals a haughty farewell, determined never again to darken the doors of such a humbug. The next day I received a note from Cardinal Lambuschini, which you shall know more about in my next.
Truly yours,
FERDINAND MENDEZ PINTO