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<pre>
The Project Gutenberg eBook, Travels in England in 1782, by Charles P.
Moritz, Edited by Henry Morley
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Travels in England in 1782
Author: Charles P. Moritz
Editor: Henry Morley
Release Date: July 2, 2014 [eBook #5249]
[This file was first posted on June 11, 2002]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRAVELS IN ENGLAND IN 1782***
</pre>
<p>Transcribed from the 1886 Cassell & Company edition by
David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p>
<h1><span class="smcap">Travels in England</span><br />
<span class="GutSmall"><span class="smcap">In</span></span><span
class="GutSmall"> 1782</span></h1>
<div class="gapspace"> </div>
<p style="text-align: center"><span
class="GutSmall">BY</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center">C. P. MORITZ.</p>
<p style="text-align: center">
<a href="images/tpb.jpg">
<img alt=
"Decorative graphic"
title=
"Decorative graphic"
src="images/tps.jpg" />
</a></p>
<p style="text-align: center">CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited:<br
/>
<span class="GutSmall"><i>LONDON</i></span><span
class="GutSmall">, </span><span
class="GutSmall"><i>PARIS</i></span><span class="GutSmall">,
</span><span class="GutSmall"><i>NEW YORK &
MELBOURNE</i></span><span class="GutSmall">.</span><br />
<span class="GutSmall">1886.</span></p>
<h2>INTRODUCTION</h2>
<p><span class="smcap">Charles</span> P. <span
class="smcap">Moritz’s</span> “Travels, chiefly on
foot, through several parts of England in 1782, described in
Letters to a Friend,” were translated from the German by a
lady, and published in 1795. John Pinkerton included them
in the second volume of his Collection of Voyages and
Travels.</p>
<p>The writer of this account of England as it was about a
hundred years ago, and seven years before the French Revolution,
was a young Prussian clergyman, simply religious, calmly
enthusiastic for the freer forms of citizenship, which he found
in England and contrasted with the military system of
Berlin. The touch of his times was upon him, with some of
the feeling that caused Frenchmen, after the first outbreak of
the Revolution, to hail Englishmen as “their forerunners in
the glorious race.” He had learnt English at home,
and read Milton, whose name was inscribed then in German
literature on the banners of the free.</p>
<p>In 1782 Charles Moritz came to England with little in his
purse and “Paradise Lost” in his pocket, which he
meant to read in the Land of Milton. He came ready to
admire, and enthusiasm adds some colour to his earliest
impressions; but when they were coloured again by hard
experience, the quiet living sympathy remained. There is
nothing small in the young Pastor Moritz, we feel a noble nature
in his true simplicity of character.</p>
<p>He stayed seven weeks with us, three of them in London.
He travelled on foot to Richmond, Windsor, Oxford, Birmingham,
and Matlock, with some experience of a stage coach on the way
back; and when, in dread of being hurled from his perch on the
top as the coach flew down hill, he tried a safer berth among the
luggage in the basket, he had further experience. It was
like that of Hood’s old lady, in the same place of inviting
shelter, who, when she crept out, had only breath enough left to
murmur, “Oh, them boxes!”</p>
<p>Pastor Moritz’s experience of inns was such as he hardly
could pick up in these days of the free use of the feet.
But in those days everybody who was anybody rode. And even
now, there might be cold welcome to a shabby-looking pedestrian
without a knapsack. Pastor Moritz had his Milton in one
pocket and his change of linen in the other. From some inns
he was turned away as a tramp, and in others he found cold
comfort. Yet he could be proud of a bit of practical wisdom
drawn by himself out of the “Vicar of Wakefield,”
that taught him to conciliate the innkeeper by drinking with him;
and the more the innkeeper drank of the ale ordered the better,
because Pastor Moritz did not like it, and it did not like
him. He also felt experienced in the ways of the world
when, having taken example from the manners of a bar-maid, if he
drank in a full room he did not omit to say, “Your healths,
gentlemen all.”</p>
<p>Fielding’s Parson Adams, with his Æschylus in his
pocket, and Parson Moritz with his Milton, have points of
likeness that bear strong witness to Fielding’s power of
entering into the spirit of a true and gentle nature. After
the first touches of enthusiastic sentiment, that represent real
freshness of enjoyment, there is no reaction to excess in
opposite extreme. The young foot traveller settles down to
simple truth, retains his faith in English character, and reports
ill-usage without a word of bitterness.</p>
<p>The great charm of this book is its unconscious expression of
the writer’s character. His simple truthfulness
presents to us of 1886 as much of the England of 1782 as he was
able to see with eyes full of intelligence and a heart full of
kindness. He heard Burke speak on the death of his friend
and patron Lord Rockingham, with sudden rebuke to an indolent and
inattentive house. He heard young Pitt, and saw how he
could fix, boy as he looked, every man’s attention.</p>
<blockquote><p>“Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us<br />
To see oursels as others see us!<br />
It wad frae many a blunder free us,<br />
And foolish notion.”</p>
</blockquote>
<p>And when the power is so friendly as that of the Pastor
Moritz, we may, if wise, know ourselves better than from a
thousand satires, but if foolish we may let all run into
self-praise.</p>
<p style="text-align: right">H. M.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2>
<p style="text-align: right"><i>On the Thames</i>, 31st
<i>May</i>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">At</span> length, my dearest Gedike, I
find myself safely landed on the happy shores of that country, a
sight of which has, for many years, been my most earnest wish;
and whither I have so often in imagination transported
myself. A few hours ago the green hills of England yet swam
imperfectly before our eyes, scarcely perceptible in the distant
horizon: they now unfold themselves on either side, forming as it
were a double amphitheatre. The sun bursts through the
clouds, and gilds alternately the shrubs and meadows on the
distant shores, and we now espy the tops of two masts of ships
just peeping above the surface of the deep. What an awful
warning to adventurous men! We now sail close by those very
sands (the Goodwin) where so many unfortunate persons have found
their graves.</p>
<p>The shores now regularly draw nearer to each other: the danger
of the voyage is over; and the season for enjoyment, unembittered
by cares, commences. How do we feel ourselves, we, who have
long been wandering as it were, in a boundless space, on having
once more gained prospects that are not without limits! I
should imagine our sensations as somewhat like those of the
traveller who traverses the immeasurable deserts of America, when
fortunately he obtains a hut wherein to shelter himself; in those
moments he certainly enjoys himself; nor does he then complain of
its being too small. It is indeed the lot of man to be
always circumscribed to a narrow space, even when he wanders over
the most extensive regions; even when the huge sea envelops him
all around, and wraps him close to its bosom, in the act, as it
were, of swallowing him up in a moment: still he is separated
from all the circumjacent immensity of space only by one small
part, or insignificant portion of that immensity.</p>
<p>That portion of this space, which I now see surrounding me, is
a most delightful selection from the whole of beautiful
nature. Here is the Thames full of large and small ships
and boats, dispersed here and there, which are either sailing on
with us, or lying at anchor; and there the hills on either side,
clad with so soft and mild a green, as I have nowhere else ever
seen equalled. The charming banks of the Elbe, which I so
lately quitted, are as much surpassed by these shores as autumn
is by spring! I see everywhere nothing but fertile and
cultivated lands; and those living hedges which in England more
than in any other country, form the boundaries of the green
cornfields, and give to the whole of the distant country the
appearance of a large and majestic garden. The neat
villages and small towns with sundry intermediate country seats,
suggest ideas of prosperity and opulence which is not possible to
describe.</p>
<p>The prospect towards Gravesend is particularly
beautiful. It is a clever little town, built on the side of
a hill; about which there lie hill and dale and meadows, and
arable land, intermixed with pleasure grounds and country seats;
all diversified in the most agreeable manner. On one of the
highest of these hills near Gravesend stands a windmill, which is
a very good object, as you see it at some distance, as well as
part of the country around it, on the windings of the
Thames. But as few human pleasures are ever complete and
perfect, we too, amidst the pleasing contemplation of all these
beauties, found ourselves exposed on the quarter-deck to
uncommonly cold and piercing weather. An unintermitting
violent shower of rain has driven me into the cabin, where I am
now endeavouring to divert a gloomy hour by giving you the
description of a pleasing one.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2>
<p style="text-align: right"><i>London</i>, 2<i>nd</i>
<i>June</i>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">This</span> morning those of us who were
fellow passengers together in the great cabin, being six in
number, requested to be set on shore in a boat, a little before
the vessel got to Dartford, which is still sixteen miles from
London. This expedient is generally adopted, instead of
going up the Thames, towards London, where on account of the
astonishing number of ships, which are always more crowded
together the nearer you approach the city, it frequently requires
many days before a ship can finish her passage. He
therefore who wishes to lose no time unnecessarily, and wishes
also to avoid other inconveniences, such as frequent stoppages,
and perhaps, some alarming dashings against other ships, prefers
travelling those few miles by land in a post-chaise, which is not
very expensive, especially when three join together, as three
passengers pay no more than one. This indulgence is allowed
by act of parliament.</p>
<p>As we left the vessel we were honoured with a general huzza,
or in the English phrase with three cheers, echoed from the
German sailors of our ship. This nautical style of bidding
their friends farewell our Germans have learned from the
English. The cliff where we landed was white and chalky,
and as the distance was not great, nor other means of conveyance
at hand, we resolved to go on foot to Dartford: immediately on
landing we had a pretty steep hill to climb, and that gained, we
arrived at the first English village, where an uncommon neatness
in the structure of the houses, which in general are built with
red bricks and flat roofs, struck me with a pleasing surprise,
especially when I compared them with the long, rambling,
inconvenient, and singularly mean cottages of our peasants.
We now continued our way through the different villages, each
furnished with his staff, and thus exhibited no remote
resemblance of a caravan. Some few people who met us seemed
to stare at us, struck, perhaps, by the singularity of our dress,
or the peculiarity of our manner of travelling. On our
route we passed a wood where a troop of gipsies had taken up
their abode around a fire under a tree. The country, as we
continued to advance, became more and more beautiful.
Naturally, perhaps, the earth is everywhere pretty much alike,
but how different is it rendered by art! How different is
that on which I now tread from ours, and every other spot I have
ever seen. The soil is rich even to exuberance, the verdure
of the trees and hedges, in short the whole of this paradisaical
region is without a parallel! The roads too are
incomparable; I am astonished how they have got them so firm and
solid; every step I took I felt, and was conscious it was English
ground on which I trod.</p>
<p>We breakfasted at Dartford. Here, for the first time, I
saw an English soldier, in his red uniform, his hair cut short
and combed back on his forehead, so as to afford a full view of
his fine, broad, manly face. Here too I first saw (what I
deemed a true English fight) in the street, two boys boxing.</p>
<p>Our little party now separated, and got into two post-chaises,
each of which hold three persons, though it must be owned three
cannot sit quite so commodiously in these chaises as two: the
hire of a post-chaise is a shilling for every English mile.
They may be compared to our extra posts, because they are to be
had at all times. But these carriages are very neat and
lightly built, so that you hardly perceive their motion as they
roll along these firm smooth roads; they have windows in front,
and on both sides. The horses are generally good, and the
postillions particularly smart and active, and always ride on a
full trot. The one we had wore his hair cut short, a round
hat, and a brown jacket of tolerable fine cloth, with a nosegay
in his bosom. Now and then, when he drove very hard, he
looked round, and with a smile seemed to solicit our
approbation. A thousand charming spots, and beautiful
landscapes, on which my eye would long have dwelt with rapture,
were now rapidly passed with the speed of an arrow.</p>
<p>Our road appeared to be undulatory, and our journey, like the
journey of life, seemed to be a pretty regular alternation of up
hill and down, and here and there it was diversified with copses
and woods; the majestic Thames every now and then, like a little
forest of masts, rising to our view, and anon losing itself among
the delightful towns and villages. The amazing large signs
which at the entrance of villages hang in the middle of the
street, being fastened to large beams, which are extended across
the street from one house to another opposite to it, particularly
struck me; these sign-posts have the appearance of gates or of
gateways, for which I at first took them, but the whole
apparatus, unnecessarily large as it seems to be, is intended for
nothing more than to tell the inquisitive traveller that there is
an inn. At length, stunned as it were by this constant
rapid succession of interesting objects to engage our attention,
we arrived at Greenwich nearly in a state of stupefaction.</p>
<p style="text-align: center"><i>The Prospect of London</i>.</p>
<p>We first descried it enveloped in a thick smoke or fog.
St. Paul’s arose like some huge mountain above the enormous
mass of smaller buildings. The Monument, a very lofty
column, erected in memory of the great fire of London, exhibited
to us, perhaps, chiefly on account of its immense height,
apparently so disproportioned to its other dimensions (for it
actually struck us as resembling rather a slender mast, towering
up in immeasurable height into the clouds, than as that it really
is, a stately obelisk) an unusual and singular appearance.
Still we went on, and drew nearer and nearer with amazing
velocity, and the surrounding objects became every moment more
distinct. Westminster Abbey, the Tower, a steeple, one
church, and then another, presented themselves to our view; and
we could now plainly distinguish the high round chimneys on the
tops of the houses, which yet seemed to us to form an innumerable
number of smaller spires, or steeples.</p>
<p>The road from Greenwich to London is actually busier and far
more alive than the most frequented streets in Berlin. At
every step we met people on horseback, in carriages, and foot
passengers; and everywhere also, and on each side of the road,
well-built and noble houses, whilst all along, at proper
distances, the road was lined with lamp-posts. One thing,
in particular, struck and surprised me not a little. This
was the number of people we met riding and walking with
spectacles on, among whom were many who appeared stout, healthy,
and young. We were stopped at least three times at barriers
or gates, here called turnpikes, to pay a duty or toll which,
however small, as being generally paid in their copper coinage,
in the end amounted to some shillings.</p>
<p>At length we arrived at the magnificent bridge of
Westminster. The prospect from this bridge alone seems to
afford one the epitome of a journey, or a voyage in miniature, as
containing something of everything that mostly occurs on a
journey. It is a little assemblage of contrasts and
contrarieties. In contrast to the round, modern, and
majestic cathedral of St. Paul’s on your right, the
venerable, old-fashioned, and hugely noble, long abbey of
Westminster, with its enormous pointed roof, rises on the
left. Down the Thames to the right you see
Blackfriar’s Bridge, which does not yield much, if at all,
in beauty to that of Westminster; on the left bank of the Thames
are delightful terraces, planted with trees, and those new
tasteful buildings called the Adelphi. On the Thames itself
are countless swarms of little boats passing and repassing, many
with one mast and one sail, and many with none, in which persons
of all ranks are carried over. Thus there is hardly less
stir and bustle on this river, than there is in some of its own
London’s crowded streets. Here, indeed, you no longer
see great ships, for they come no farther than London Bridge.</p>
<p>We now drove into the city by Charing Cross, and along the
Strand, to those very Adelphi Buildings which had just afforded
us so charming a prospect on Westminster Bridge.</p>
<p>My two travelling companions, both in the ship and the
post-chaise, were two young Englishmen, who living in this part
of the town, obligingly offered me any assistance and services in
their power, and in particular, to procure me a lodging the same
day in their neighbourhood.</p>
<p>In the streets through which we passed, I must own the houses
in general struck me as if they were dark and gloomy, and yet at
the same time they also struck me as prodigiously great and
majestic. At that moment, I could not in my own mind
compare the external view of London with that of any other city I
had ever before seen. But I remember (and surely it is
singular) that about five years ago, on my first entrance into
Leipzig, I had the very same sensations I now felt. It is
possible that the high houses, by which the streets at Leipzig
are partly darkened, the great number of shops, and the crowd of
people, such as till then I had never seen, might have some faint
resemblance with the scene now surrounding me in London.</p>
<p>There are everywhere leading from the Strand to the Thames,
some well-built, lesser, or subordinate streets, of which the
Adelphi Buildings are now by far the foremost. One district
in this neighbourhood goes by the name of York Buildings, and in
this lies George Street, where my two travelling companions
lived. There reigns in those smaller streets towards the
Thames so pleasing a calm, compared to the tumult and bustle of
people, and carriages, and horses, that are constantly going up
and down the Strand, that in going into one of them you can
hardly help fancying yourself removed at a distance from the
noise of the city, even whilst the noisiest part of it is still
so near at hand.</p>
<p>It might be about ten or eleven o’clock when we arrived
here. After the two Englishmen had first given me some
breakfast at their lodgings, which consisted of tea and bread and
butter, they went about with me themselves, in their own
neighbourhood, in search of an apartment, which they at length
procured for me for sixteen shillings a week, at the house of a
tailor’s widow who lived opposite to them. It was
very fortunate, on other accounts, that they went with me, for
equipped as I was, having neither brought clean linen nor change
of clothes from my trunk, I might perhaps have found it difficult
to obtain good lodgings.</p>
<p>It was a very uncommon but pleasing sensation I experienced on
being now, for the first time in my life, entirely among
Englishmen: among people whose language was foreign, their
manners foreign, and in a foreign climate, with whom,
notwithstanding, I could converse as familiarly as though we had
been educated together from our infancy. It is certainly an
inestimable advantage to understand the language of the country
through which you travel. I did not at first give the
people I was with any reason to suspect I could speak English,
but I soon found that the more I spoke, the more attention and
regard I met with. I now occupy a large room in front on
the ground floor, which has a carpet and mats, and is very neatly
furnished; the chairs are covered with leather, and the tables
are of mahogany. Adjoining to this I have another large
room. I may do just as I please, and keep my own tea,
coffee, bread and butter, for which purpose my landlady has given
me a cupboard in my room, which locks up.</p>
<p>The family consists of the mistress of the house, her maid,
and her two sons, Jacky and Jerry; singular abbreviations for
John and Jeremiah. The eldest, Jacky, about twelve years
old, is a very lively boy, and often entertains me in the most
pleasing manner by relating to me his different employments at
school, and afterwards desiring me in my turn to relate to him
all manner of things about Germany. He repeats his
<i>amo</i>, <i>amas</i>, <i>amavi</i>, in the same singing tone
as our common school-boys. As I happened once when he was
by, to hum a lively tune, he stared at me with surprise, and then
reminded me it was Sunday; and so, that I might not forfeit his
good opinion by any appearance of levity, I gave him to
understand that, in the hurry of my journey, I had forgotten the
day. He has already shown me St. James’s Park, which
is not far from hence; and now let me give you some description
of the renowned</p>
<p style="text-align: center"><i>St. James’s Park</i>.</p>
<p>The park is nothing more than a semicircle, formed of an alley
of trees, which enclose a large green area in the middle of which
is a marshy pond.</p>
<p>The cows feed on this green turf, and their milk is sold here
on the spot, quite new.</p>
<p>In all the alleys or walks there are benches, where you may
rest yourself. When you come through the Horse Guards
(which is provided with several passages) into the park, on the
right hand is St. James’s Palace, or the king’s place
of residence, one of the meanest public buildings in
London. At the lower end, quite at the extremity, is the
queen’s palace, a handsome and modern building, but very
much resembling a private house. As for the rest, there are
generally everywhere about St. James’s Park very good
houses, which is a great addition to it. There is also
before the semicircle of the trees just mentioned a large vacant
space, where the soldiers are exercised.</p>
<p>How little this famous park is to be compared with our park at
Berlin, I need not mention. And yet one cannot but form a
high idea of St. James’s Park and other public places in
London; this arises, perhaps, from their having been oftener
mentioned in romances and other books than ours have. Even
the squares and streets of London are more noted and better known
than many of our principal towns.</p>
<p>But what again greatly compensates for the mediocrity of this
park, is the astonishing number of people who, towards evening in
fine weather, resort here; our finest walks are never so full
even in the midst of summer. The exquisite pleasure of
mixing freely with such a concourse of people, who are for the
most part well-dressed and handsome, I have experienced this
evening for the first time.</p>
<p>Before I went to the park I took another walk with my little
Jacky, which did not cost me much fatigue and yet was most
uncommonly interesting. I went down the little street in
which I live, to the Thames nearly at the end of it, towards the
left, a few steps led me to a singularly pretty terrace, planted
with trees, on the very brink of the river.</p>
<p>Here I had the most delightful prospect you can possibly
imagine. Before me was the Thames with all its windings,
and the stately arches of its bridges; Westminster with its
venerable abbey to the right, to the left again London, with St.
Paul’s, seemed to wind all along the windings of the
Thames, and on the other side of the water lay Southwark, which
is now also considered as part of London. Thus, from this
single spot, I could nearly at one view see the whole city, at
least that side of it towards the Thames. Not far from
hence, in this charming quarter of the town, lived the renowned
Garrick. Depend upon it I shall often visit this delightful
walk during my stay in London.</p>
<p>To-day my two Englishmen carried me to a neighbouring tavern,
or rather an eating-house, where we paid a shilling each for some
roast meat and a salad, giving at the same time nearly half as
much to the waiter, and yet this is reckoned a cheap house, and a
cheap style of living. But I believe, for the future, I
shall pretty often dine at home; I have already begun this
evening with my supper. I am now sitting by the fire in my
own room in London. The day is nearly at an end, the first
I have spent in England, and I hardly know whether I ought to
call it only one day, when I reflect what a quick and varied
succession of new and striking ideas have, in so short a time,
passed in my mind.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2>
<p style="text-align: right"><i>London</i>, 5<i>th</i>
<i>June</i>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">At</span> length, dearest Gedike, I am
again settled, as I have now got my trunk and all my things from
the ship, which arrived only yesterday. Not wishing to have
it taken to the Custom House, which occasions a great deal of
trouble, I was obliged to give a douceur to the officers, and
those who came on board the ship to search it. Having
pacified, as I thought, one of them with a couple of shillings,
another came forward and protested against the delivery of the
trunk upon trust till I had given him as much. To him
succeeded a third, so that it cost me six shillings, which I
willingly paid, because it would have cost me still more at the
Custom House.</p>
<p>By the side of the Thames were several porters, one of whom
took my huge heavy trunk on his shoulders with astonishing ease,
and carried it till I met a hackney coach. This I hired for
two shillings, immediately put the trunk into it, accompanying it
myself without paying anything extra for my own seat. This
is a great advantage in the English hackney coaches, that you are
allowed to take with you whatever you please, for you thus save
at least one half of what you must pay to a porter, and besides
go with it yourself, and are better accommodated. The
observations and the expressions of the common people here have
often struck me as peculiar. They are generally laconic,
but always much in earnest and significant. When I came
home, my landlady kindly recommended it to the coachman not to
ask more than was just, as I was a foreigner; to which he
answered, “Nay, if he were not a foreigner I should not
overcharge him.”</p>
<p>My letters of recommendation to a merchant here, which I could
not bring with me on account of my hasty departure from Hamburgh,
are also arrived. These have saved me a great deal of
trouble in the changing of my money. I can now take my
German money back to Germany, and when I return thither myself,
refund to the correspondent of the merchant here the sum which he
here pays me in English money. I should otherwise have been
obliged to sell my Prussian Fredericks-d’or for what they
weighed; for some few Dutch dollars which I was obliged to part
with before I got this credit they only gave me eight
shillings.</p>
<p>A foreigner has here nothing to fear from being pressed as a
sailor, unless, indeed, he should be found at any suspicious
place. A singular invention for this purpose of pressing is
a ship, which is placed on land not far from the Tower, on Tower
Hill, furnished with masts and all the appurtenances of a
ship. The persons attending this ship promise simple
country people, who happen to be standing and staring at it, to
show it to them for a trifle, and as soon as they are in, they
are secured as in a trap, and according to circumstances made
sailors of or let go again.</p>
<p>The footway, paved with large stones on both sides of the
street, appears to a foreigner exceedingly convenient and
pleasant, as one may there walk in perfect safety, in no more
danger from the prodigious crowd of carts and coaches, than if
one was in one’s own room, for no wheel dares come a
finger’s breadth upon the curb stone. However,
politeness requires you to let a lady, or any one to whom you
wish to show respect, pass, not, as we do, always to the right,
but on the side next the houses or the wall, whether that happens
to be on the right or on the left, being deemed the safest and
most convenient. You seldom see a person of any
understanding or common sense walk in the middle of the streets
in London, excepting when they cross over, which at Charing Cross
and other places, where several streets meet, is sometimes really
dangerous.</p>
<p>It has a strange appearance—especially in the Strand,
where there is a constant succession of shop after shop, and
where, not unfrequently, people of different trades inhabit the
same house—to see their doors or the tops of their windows,
or boards expressly for the purpose, all written over from top to
bottom with large painted letters. Every person, of every
trade or occupation, who owns ever so small a portion of a house,
makes a parade with a sign at his door; and there is hardly a
cobbler whose name and profession may not be read in large golden
characters by every one that passes. It is here not at all
uncommon to see on doors in one continued succession,
“Children educated here,” “Shoes mended
here,” “Foreign spirituous liquors sold here,”
and “Funerals furnished here;” of all these
inscriptions. I am sorry to observe that “Dealer in
foreign spirituous liquors” is by far the most
frequent. And indeed it is allowed by the English
themselves, that the propensity of the common people to the
drinking of brandy or gin is carried to a great excess; and I own
it struck me as a peculiar phraseology, when, to tell you that a
person is intoxicated or drunk, you hear them say, as they
generally do, that he is in liquor. In the late riots,
which even yet are hardly quite subsided, and which are still the
general topic of conversation, more people have been found dead
near empty brandy-casks in the streets, than were killed by the
musket-balls of regiments that were called in. As much as I
have seen of London within these two days, there are on the whole
I think not very many fine streets and very fine houses, but I
met everywhere a far greater number and handsomer people than one
commonly meets in Berlin. It gives me much real pleasure
when I walk from Charing Cross up the Strand, past St.
Paul’s to the Royal Exchange, to meet in the thickest crowd
persons from the highest to the lowest ranks, almost all
well-looking people, and cleanly and neatly dressed. I
rarely see even a fellow with a wheel-barrow who has not a shirt
on, and that, too, such a one as shows it has been washed; nor
even a beggar without both a shirt and shoes and stockings.
The English are certainly distinguished for cleanliness.</p>
<p>It has a very uncommon appearance in this tumult of people,
where every one, with hasty and eager step, seems to be pursuing
either his business or his pleasure, and everywhere making his
way through the crowd, to observe, as you often may, people
pushing one against another, only perhaps to see a funeral
pass. The English coffins are made very economically,
according to the exact form of the body; they are flat, and broad
at top; tapering gradually from the middle, and drawing to a
point at the feet, not very unlike the case of a violin.</p>
<p>A few dirty-looking men, who bear the coffin, endeavour to
make their way through the crowd as well as they can; and some
mourners follow. The people seem to pay as little attention
to such a procession, as if a hay-cart were driving past.
The funerals of people of distinction, and of the great, are,
however, differently regarded.</p>
<p>These funerals always appear to me the more indecent in a
populous city, from the total indifference of the beholders, and
the perfect unconcern with which they are beheld. The body
of a fellow-creature is carried to his long home as though it had
been utterly unconnected with the rest of mankind. And yet,
in a small town or village, everyone knows everyone; and no one
can be so insignificant as not to be missed when he is taken
away.</p>
<p>That same influenza which I left at Berlin, I have had the
hard fortune again to find here; and many people die of it.
It is as yet very cold for the time of the year, and I am obliged
every day to have a fire. I must own that the heat or
warmth given by sea-coal, burnt in the chimney, appears to me
softer and milder than that given by our stoves. The sight
of the fire has also a cheerful and pleasing effect. Only
you must take care not to look at it steadily, and for a
continuance, for this is probably the reason that there are so
many young old men in England, who walk and ride in the public
streets with their spectacles on; thus anticipating, in the bloom
of youth, those conveniences and comforts which were intended for
old age.</p>
<p>I now constantly dine in my own lodgings; and I cannot but
flatter myself that my meals are regulated with frugality.
My usual dish at supper is some pickled salmon, which you eat in
the liquor in which it is pickled, along with some oil and
vinegar; and he must be prejudiced or fastidious who does not
relish it as singularly well tasted and grateful food.</p>
<p>I would always advise those who wish to drink coffee in
England, to mention beforehand how many cups are to be made with
half an ounce; or else the people will probably bring them a
prodigious quantity of brown water; which (notwithstanding all my
admonitions) I have not yet been able wholly to avoid. The
fine wheaten bread which I find here, besides excellent butter
and Cheshire-cheese, makes up for my scanty dinners. For an
English dinner, to such lodgers as I am, generally consists of a
piece of half-boiled, or half-roasted meat; and a few cabbage
leaves boiled in plain water; on which they pour a sauce made of
flour and butter. This, I assure you, is the usual method
of dressing vegetables in England.</p>
<p>The slices of bread and butter, which they give you with your
tea, are as thin as poppy leaves. But there is another kind
of bread and butter usually eaten with tea, which is toasted by
the fire, and is incomparably good. You take one slice
after the other and hold it to the fire on a fork till the butter
is melted, so that it penetrates a number of slices at once: this
is called toast.</p>
<p>The custom of sleeping without a feather-bed for a covering
particularly pleased me. You here lie between two sheets:
underneath the bottom sheet is a fine blanket, which, without
oppressing you, keeps you sufficiently warm. My shoes are
not cleaned in the house, but by a person in the neighbourhood,
whose trade it is; who fetches them every morning, and brings
them back cleaned; for which she receives weekly so much.
When the maid is displeased with me, I hear her sometimes at the
door call me “the German”; otherwise in the family I
go by the name of “the Gentleman.”</p>
<p>I have almost entirely laid aside riding in a coach, although
it does not cost near so much as it does at Berlin; as I can go
and return any distance not exceeding an English mile for a
shilling, for which I should there at least pay a florin.
But, moderate as English fares are, still you save a great deal,
if you walk or go on foot, and know only how to ask your
way. From my lodging to the Royal Exchange is about as far
as from one end of Berlin to the other, and from the Tower and
St. Catharine’s, where the ships arrive in the Thames, as
far again; and I have already walked this distance twice, when I
went to look after my trunk before I got it out of the
ship. As it was quite dark when I came back the first
evening, I was astonished at the admirable manner in which the
streets are lighted up; compared to which our streets in Berlin
make a most miserable show. The lamps are lighted whilst it
is still daylight, and are so near each other, that even on the
most ordinary and common nights, the city has the appearance of a
festive illumination, for which some German prince, who came to
London for the first time, once, they say, actually took it, and
seriously believed it to have been particularly ordered on
account of his arrival.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER IV.</h2>
<p style="text-align: right"><i>The</i> 9<i>th</i> <i>June</i>,
1782.</p>
<p>I <span class="smcap">preached</span> this day at the German
church on Ludgate Hill, for the Rev. Mr. Wendeborn. He is
the author of “Die statischen Beyträge zur nähern
Kentniss Grossbrittaniens.” This valuable book has
already been of uncommon service to me, and I cannot but
recommend it to everyone who goes to England. It is the
more useful, as you can with ease carry it in your pocket, and
you find in it information on every subject. It is natural
to suppose that Mr. Wendeborn, who has now been a length of time
in England, must have been able more frequently, and with greater
exactness to make his observations, than those who only pass
through, or make a very short stay. It is almost impossible
for anyone, who has this book always at hand, to omit anything
worthy of notice in or about London; or not to learn all that is
most material to know of the state and situation of the kingdom
in general.</p>
<p>Mr. Wendeborn lives in New Inn, near Temple Bar, in a
philosophical, but not unimproving, retirement. He is
almost become a native; and his library consists chiefly of
English books. Before I proceed, I must just mention, that
he has not hired, but bought his apartments in this great
building, called New Inn: and this, I believe, is pretty
generally the case with the lodgings in this place. A
purchaser of any of these rooms is considered as a proprietor;
and one who has got a house and home, and has a right, in
parliamentary or other elections, to give his vote, if he is not
a foreigner, which is the case with Mr. Wendeborn, who,
nevertheless, was visited by Mr. Fox when he was to be chosen
member for Westminster.</p>
<p>I saw, for the first time, at Mr. Wendeborn’s, a very
useful machine, which is little known in Germany, or at least not
much used.</p>
<p>This is a press in which, by means of very strong iron
springs, a written paper may be printed on another blank paper,
and you thus save yourself the trouble of copying; and at the
same time multiply your own handwriting. Mr. Wendeborn
makes use of this machine every time he sends manuscripts abroad,
of which he wishes to keep a copy. This machine was of
mahogany, and cost pretty high. I suppose it is because the
inhabitants of London rise so late, that divine service begin
only at half-past ten o’clock. I missed Mr. Wendeborn
this morning, and was therefore obliged to enquire of the
door-keeper at St. Paul’s for a direction to the German
church, where I was to preach. He did not know it. I
then asked at another church, not far from thence. Here I
was directed right, and after I had passed through an iron gate
to the end of a long passage, I arrived just in time at the
church, where, after the sermon, I was obliged to read a public
thanksgiving for the safe arrival of our ship. The German
clergy here dress exactly the same as the English
clergy—<i>i.e.</i>, in long robes with wide
sleeves—in which I likewise was obliged to wrap
myself. Mr. Wendeborn wears his own hair, which curls
naturally, and the toupee is combed up.</p>
<p>The other German clergymen whom I have seen wear wigs, as well
as many of the English.</p>
<p>I yesterday waited on our ambassador, Count Lucy, and was
agreeably surprised at the simplicity of his manner of
living. He lives in a small private house. His
secretary lives upstairs, where also I met with the Prussian
consul, who happened just then to be paying him a visit.
Below, on the right hand, I was immediately shown into his
Excellency’s room, without being obliged to pass through an
antechamber. He wore a blue coat, with a red collar and red
facings. He conversed with me, as we drank a dish of
coffee, on various learned topics; and when I told him of the
great dispute now going on about the <i>tacismus</i> or
<i>stacismus</i>, he declared himself, as a born Greek, for the
<i>stacismus</i>.</p>
<p>When I came to take my leave, he desired me to come and see
him without ceremony whenever it suited me, as he should be
always happy to see me.</p>
<p>Mr. Leonhard, who has translated several celebrated English
plays, such as “The School for Scandal,” and some
others, lives here as a private person, instructing Germans in
English, and Englishmen in German, with great ability. He
also it is who writes the articles concerning England for the new
Hamburgh newspaper, for which he is paid a stated yearly
stipend. I may add also, that he is the master of a German
Freemasons’ lodge in London, and representative of all the
German lodges in England—an employment of far more trouble
than profit to him, for all the world applies to him in all cases
and emergencies. I also was recommended to him from
Hamburgh. He is a very complaisant man, and has already
shown me many civilities. He repeats English poetry with
great propriety, and speaks the language nearly with the same
facility as he does his mother language. He is married to
an amiable Englishwoman. I wish him all possible
happiness. And now let me tell you something of the so
often imitated, but perhaps inimitable</p>
<p style="text-align: center"><i>Vauxhall</i>.</p>
<p>I yesterday visited Vauxhall for the first time. I had
not far to go from my lodgings, in the Adelphi Buildings, to
Westminster Bridge, where you always find a great number of boats
on the Thames, which are ready on the least signal to serve those
who will pay them a shilling or sixpence, or according to the
distance.</p>
<p>From hence I went up the Thames to Vauxhall, and as I passed
along I saw Lambeth; and the venerable old palace belonging to
the archbishops of Canterbury lying on my left.</p>
<p>Vauxhall is, properly speaking, the name of a little village
in which the garden, now almost exclusively bearing the same
name, is situated. You pay a shilling entrance.</p>
<p>On entering it, I really found, or fancied I found, some
resemblance to our Berlin Vauxhall, if, according to Virgil, I
may be permitted to compare small things with great ones.
The walks at least, with the paintings at the end, and the high
trees, which, here and there form a beautiful grove, or wood, on
either side, were so similar to those of Berlin, that often, as I
walked along them, I seemed to transport myself, in imagination,
once more to Berlin, and forgot for a moment that immense seas,
and mountains, and kingdoms now lie between us. I was the
more tempted to indulge in this reverie as I actually met with
several gentlemen, inhabitants of Berlin, in particular Mr.
S—r, and some others, with whom I spent the evening in the
most agreeable manner. Here and there (particularly in one
of the charming woods which art has formed in this garden) you
are pleasingly surprised by the sudden appearance of the statues
of the most renowned English poets and philosophers, such as
Milton, Thomson, and others. But, what gave me most
pleasure was the statue of the German composer Handel, which, on
entering the garden, is not far distant from the orchestra.</p>
<p>This orchestra is among a number of trees situated as in a
little wood, and is an exceedingly handsome one. As you
enter the garden, you immediately hear the sound of vocal and
instrumental music. There are several female singers
constantly hired here to sing in public.</p>
<p>On each side of the orchestra are small boxes, with tables and
benches, in which you sup. The walks before these, as well
as in every other part of the garden, are crowded with people of
all ranks. I supped here with Mr. S—r, and the
secretary of the Prussian ambassador, besides a few other
gentlemen from Berlin; but what most astonished me was the
boldness of the women of the town, who often rushed in upon us by
half dozens, and in the most shameless manner importuned us for
wine, for themselves and their followers. Our gentlemen
thought it either unwise, unkind, or unsafe, to refuse them so
small a boon altogether.</p>
<p>Latish in the evening we were entertained with a sight, that
is indeed singularly curious and interesting. In a
particular part of the garden a curtain was drawn up, and by
means of some mechanism of extraordinary ingenuity, the eye and
the ear are so completely deceived, that it is not easy to
persuade one’s self it is a deception, and that one does
not actually see and hear a natural waterfall from a high
rock. As everyone was flocking to this scene in crowds,
there arose all at once a loud cry of “Take care of your
pockets.” This informed us, but too clearly, that
there were some pickpockets among the crowd, who had already made
some fortunate strokes.</p>
<p>The rotunda, a magnificent circular building in the garden,
particularly engaged my attention. By means of beautiful
chandeliers, and large mirrors, it was illuminated in the most
superb manner; and everywhere decorated with delightful
paintings, and statues, in the contemplation of which you may
spend several hours very agreeably, when you are tired of the
crowd and the bustle, in the walks of the garden.</p>
<p>Among the paintings one represents the surrender of a besieged
city. If you look at this painting with attention, for any
length of time, it affects you so much that you even shed
tears. The expression of the greatest distress, even
bordering on despair, on the part of the besieged, the fearful
expectation of the uncertain issue, and what the victor will
determine concerning those unfortunate people, may all be read so
plainly, and so naturally in the countenances of the inhabitants,
who are imploring for mercy, from the hoary head to the suckling
whom his mother holds up, that you quite forget yourself, and in
the end scarcely believe it to be a painting before you.</p>
<p>You also here find the busts of the best English authors,
placed all round on the sides. Thus a Briton again meets
with his Shakespeare, Locke, Milton, and Dryden in the public
places of his amusements; and there also reveres their
memory. Even the common people thus become familiar with
the names of those who have done honour to their nation; and are
taught to mention them with veneration. For this rotunda is
also an orchestra in which the music is performed in rainy
weather. But enough of Vauxhall!</p>
<p>Certain it is that the English classical authors are read more
generally, beyond all comparison, than the German; which in
general are read only by the learned; or, at most, by the middle
class of people. The English national authors are in all
hands, and read by all people, of which the innumerable editions
they have gone through are a sufficient proof.</p>
<p>My landlady, who is only a tailor’s widow, reads her
Milton; and tells me, that her late husband first fell in love
with her on this very account: because she read Milton with such
proper emphasis. This single instance, perhaps, would prove
but little; but I have conversed with several people of the lower
class, who all knew their national authors, and who all have read
many, if not all, of them. This elevates the lower ranks,
and brings them nearer to the higher. There is hardly any
argument or dispute in conversation, in the higher ranks, about
which the lower cannot also converse or give their opinion.
Now, in Germany, since Gellert, there has as yet been no
poet’s name familiar to the people. But the quick
sale of the classical authors is here promoted also by cheap and
convenient editions. They have them all bound in pocket
volumes, as well as in a more pompous style. I myself
bought Milton in duodecimo for two shillings, neatly bound; it is
such a one as I can, with great convenience, carry in my
pocket. It also appears to me to be a good fashion, which
prevails here, and here only, that the books which are most read,
are always to be had already well and neatly bound. At
stalls, and in the streets, you every now and then meet with a
sort of antiquarians, who sell single or odd volumes; sometimes
perhaps of Shakespeare, etc., so low as a penny; nay, even
sometimes for a halfpenny a piece. Of one of these
itinerant antiquarians I bought the two volumes of the Vicar of
Wakefield for sixpence, <i>i.e.</i> for the half of an English
shilling. In what estimation our German literature is held
in England, I was enabled to judge, in some degree, by the
printed proposals of a book which I saw. The title was,
“The Entertaining Museum, or Complete Circulating
Library,” which is to contain a list of all the English
classical authors, as well as translations of the best French,
Spanish, Italian, and even German novels.</p>
<p>The moderate price of this book deserves also to be noticed;
as by such means books in England come more within the reach of
the people; and of course are more generally distributed among
them. The advertisement mentions that in order that
everyone may have it in his power to buy this work, and at once
to furnish himself with a very valuable library, without
perceiving the expense, a number will be sent out weekly, which,
stitched, costs sixpence, and bound with the title on the back,
ninepence. The twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth numbers
contain the first and second volume of the Vicar of Wakefield,
which I had just bought of the antiquarian above-mentioned.</p>
<p>The only translation from the German which has been
particularly successful in England, is Gesner’s
“Death of Abel.” The translation of that work
has been oftener reprinted in England than ever the original was
in Germany. I have actually seen the eighteenth edition of
it; and if the English preface is to be regarded, it was written
by a lady. “Klopstock’s Messiah,” as is
well known, has been here but ill received; to be sure, they say
it is but indifferently translated. I have not yet been
able to obtain a sight of it. The Rev. Mr. Wendeborn has
written a grammar for the German language in English, for the use
of Englishmen, which has met with much applause.</p>
<p>I must not forget to mention, that the works of Mr. Jacob
Boehmen are all translated into English.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER V.</h2>
<p style="text-align: right"><i>London</i>, 13<i>th</i>
<i>June</i>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Often</span> as I had heard Ranelagh
spoken of, I had yet formed only an imperfect idea of it. I
supposed it to be a garden somewhat different from that of
Vauxhall; but, in fact, I hardly knew what I thought of it.
Yesterday evening I took a walk in order to visit this famous
place of amusement; but I missed my way and got to Chelsea; where
I met a man with a wheel-barrow, who not only very civilly showed
me the right road, but also conversed with me the whole of the
distance which we walked together. And finding, upon
enquiry, that I was a subject of the King of Prussia, he desired
me, with much eagerness, to relate to him some anecdotes
concerning that mighty monarch. At length I arrived at
Ranelagh; and having paid my half-crown on entrance, I soon
enquired for the garden door, and it was readily shown to me;
when, to my infinite astonishment, I found myself in a poor,
mean-looking, and ill-lighted garden, where I met but few
people. I had not been here long before I was accosted by a
young lady, who also was walking there, and who, without
ceremony, offered me her arm, asking me why I walked thus
solitarily? I now concluded, this could not possibly be the
splendid, much-boasted Ranelagh; and so, seeing not far from me a
number of people entering a door, I followed them, in hopes
either to get out again, or to vary the scene.</p>
<p>But it is impossible to describe, or indeed to conceive, the
effect it had on me, when, coming out of the gloom of the garden,
I suddenly entered a round building, illuminated by many hundred
lamps; the splendour and beauty of which surpassed everything of
the kind I had ever seen before. Everything seemed here to
be round; above, there was a gallery divided into boxes; and in
one part of it an organ with a beautiful choir, from which issued
both instrumental and vocal music. All around, under this
gallery, are handsome painted boxes for those who wish to take
refreshments: the floor was covered with mats, in the middle of
which are four high black pillars; within which there are neat
fire-places for preparing tea, coffee and punch; and all around,
also, there are placed tables, set out with all kinds of
refreshments. Within these four pillars, in a kind of magic
rotundo, all the beau-monde of London move perpetually round and
round.</p>
<p>I at first mixed with this immense concourse of people, of all
sexes, ages, countries, and characters; and I must confess, that
the incessant change of faces, the far greater number of which
were strikingly beautiful, together with the illumination, the
extent and majestic splendour of the place, with the continued
sound of the music, makes an inconceivably delightful impression
on the imagination; and I take the liberty to add, that, on
seeing it now for the first time, I felt pretty nearly the same
sensations that I remember to have felt when, in early youth, I
first read the Fairy Tales.</p>
<p>Being, however, at length tired of the crowd, and being tired
also with always moving round and round in a circle, I sat myself
down in one of the boxes, in order to take some refreshment, and
was now contemplating at my ease this prodigious collection and
crowd of a happy, cheerful world, who were here enjoying
themselves devoid of care, when a waiter very civilly asked me
what refreshments I wished to have, and in a few moments returned
with what I asked for. To my astonishment he would accept
no money for these refreshments; which I could not comprehend,
till he told me that everything was included in the half-crown I
had paid at the door; and that I had only to command if I wished
for anything more; but that if I pleased, I might give him as a
present a trifling douceur. This I gave him with pleasure,
as I could not help fancying I was hardly entitled to so much
civility and good attention for one single half-crown.</p>
<p>I now went up into the gallery, and seated myself in one of
the boxes there; and from thence becoming all at once a grave and
moralising spectator, I looked down on the concourse of people
who were still moving round and round in the fairy circle; and
then I could easily distinguish several stars and other orders of
knighthood; French queues and bags contrasted with plain English
heads of hair, or professional wigs; old age and youth, nobility
and commonalty, all passing each other in the motley swarm.
An Englishman who joined me during this my reverie, pointed out
to me on my enquiring, princes and lords with their dazzling
stars; with which they eclipsed the less brilliant part of the
company.</p>
<p>Here some moved round in an eternal circle to see and be seen;
there a group of eager connoisseurs had placed themselves before
the orchestra and were feasting their ears, while others at the
well-supplied tables were regaling the parched roofs of their
mouths in a more substantial manner, and again others, like
myself, were sitting alone, in the corner of a box in the
gallery, making their remarks and reflections on so interesting a
scene.</p>
<p>I now and then indulged myself in the pleasure of exchanging,
for some minutes, all this magnificence and splendour for the
gloom of the garden, in order to renew the pleasing surprise I
experienced on my first entering the building. Thus I spent
here some hours in the night in a continual variation of
entertainment; when the crowd now all at once began to lessen,
and I also took a coach and drove home.</p>
<p>At Ranelagh the company appeared to me much better, and more
select than at Vauxhall; for those of the lower class who go
there, always dress themselves in their best, and thus endeavour
to copy the great. Here I saw no one who had not silk
stockings on. Even the poorest families are at the expense
of a coach to go to Ranelagh, as my landlady assured me.
She always fixed on some one day in the year, on which, without
fail, she drove to Ranelagh. On the whole the expense at
Ranelagh is nothing near so great as it is at Vauxhall, if you
consider the refreshments; for any one who sups at Vauxhall,
which most people do, is likely, for a very moderate supper, to
pay at least half-a-guinea.</p>
<p style="text-align: center"><i>The Parliament</i>.</p>
<p>I had almost forgotten to tell you that I have already been to
the Parliament House; and yet this is of most importance.
For, had I seen nothing else in England but this, I should have
thought my journey thither amply rewarded.</p>
<p>As little as I have hitherto troubled myself with politics,
because indeed with us it is but little worth our while, I was
however desirous of being present at a meeting of
parliament—a wish that was soon amply gratified.</p>
<p>One afternoon, about three o’clock, at which hour, or
thereabouts, the house most commonly meets, I enquired for
Westminster Hall, and was very politely directed by an
Englishman. These directions are always given with the
utmost kindness. You may ask whom you please, if you can
only make yourself tolerably well understood; and by thus asking
every now and then, you may with the greatest ease find your way
throughout all London.</p>
<p>Westminster Hall is an enormous Gothic building, whose vaulted
roof is supported, not by pillars, but instead of these there
are, on each side, large unnatural heads of angels, carved in
wood, which seem to support the roof.</p>
<p>When you have passed through this long hall, you ascend a few
steps at the end, and are led through a dark passage into the
House of Commons, which, below, has a large double-door; and
above, there is a small staircase, by which you go to the
gallery, the place allotted for strangers.</p>
<p>The first time I went up this small staircase, and had reached
the rails, I saw a very genteel man in black standing
there. I accosted him without any introduction, and I asked
him whether I might be allowed to go into the gallery. He
told me that I must be introduced by a member, or else I could
not get admission there. Now, as I had not the honour to be
acquainted with a member, I was under the mortifying necessity of
retreating, and again going down-stairs, as I did much
chagrined. And now, as I was sullenly marching back, I
heard something said about a bottle of wine, which seemed to be
addressed to me.</p>
<p>I could not conceive what it could mean, till I got home, when
my obliging landlady told me I should have given the well-dressed
man half-a-crown, or a couple of shillings for a bottle of
wine. Happy in this information, I went again the next day;
when the same man who before had sent me away, after I had given
him only two shillings, very politely opened the door for me, and
himself recommended me to a good seat in the gallery.</p>
<p>And thus I now, for the first time, saw the whole of the
British nation assembled in its representatives, in rather a
mean-looking building, that not a little resembles a
chapel. The Speaker, an elderly man, with an enormous wig,
with two knotted kind of tresses, or curls, behind, in a black
cloak, his hat on his head, sat opposite to me on a lofty chair;
which was not unlike a small pulpit, save only that in the front
of there was no reading-desk. Before the Speaker’s
chair stands a table, which looks like an altar; and at this
there sit two men, called clerks, dressed in black, with black
cloaks. On the table, by the side of the great parchment
acts, lies a huge gilt sceptre, which is always taken away, and
placed in a conservatory under the table, as soon as ever the
Speaker quits the chair; which he does as often as the House
resolves itself into a committee. A committee means nothing
more than that the House puts itself into a situation freely to
discuss and debate any point of difficulty and moment, and, while
it lasts, the Speaker partly lays aside his power as a
legislator. As soon as this is over, some one tells the
Speaker that he may now again be seated; and immediately on the
Speaker being again in the chair, the sceptre is also replaced on
the table before him.</p>
<p>All round on the sides of the house, under the gallery, are
benches for the members, covered with green cloth, always one
above the other, like our choirs in churches, in order that he
who is speaking may see over those who sit before him. The
seats in the gallery are on the same plan. The members of
parliament keep their hats on, but the spectators in the gallery
are uncovered.</p>
<p>The members of the House of Commons have nothing particular in
their dress. They even come into the House in their great
coats, and with boots and spurs. It is not at all uncommon
to see a member lying stretched out on one of the benches while
others are debating. Some crack nuts, others eat oranges,
or whatever else is in season. There is no end to their
going in and out; and as often as any one wishes to go out, he
places himself before the Speaker, and makes him his bow, as if,
like a schoolboy, he asked tutor’s permission.</p>
<p>Those who speak seem to deliver themselves with but little,
perhaps not always with even a decorous, gravity. All that
is necessary is to stand up in your place, take off your hat,
turn to the Speaker (to whom all the speeches are addressed), to
hold your hat and stick in one hand, and with the other to make
any such motions as you fancy necessary to accompany your
speech.</p>
<p>If it happens that a member rises who is but a bad speaker, or
if what he says is generally deemed not sufficiently interesting,
so much noise is made, and such bursts of laughter are raised,
that the member who is speaking can scarcely distinguish his own
words. This must needs be a distressing situation; and it
seems then to be particularly laughable, when the Speaker in his
chair, like a tutor in a school, again and again endeavours to
restore order, which he does by calling out “<i>To
order</i>, <i>to order</i>,” apparently often without much
attention being paid to it.</p>
<p>On the contrary, when a favourite member, and one who speaks
well and to the purpose, rises, the most perfect silence reigns,
and his friends and admirers, one after another, make their
approbation known by calling out, “<i>Hear him</i>,”
which is often repeated by the whole House at once; and in this
way so much noise is often made that the speaker is frequently
interrupted by this same emphatic “<i>Hear
him</i>.” Notwithstanding which, this calling out is
always regarded as a great encouragement; and I have often
observed that one who began with some diffidence, and even
somewhat inauspiciously, has in the end been so animated that he
has spoken with a torrent of eloquence.</p>
<p>As all speeches are directed to the Speaker, all the members
always preface their speeches with “<i>Sir</i>” and
he, on being thus addressed, generally moves his hat a little,
but immediately puts it on again. This
“<i>Sir</i>” is often introduced in the course of
their speeches, and serves to connect what is said. It
seems also to stand the orator in some stead when any one’s
memory fails him, or he is otherwise at a loss for matter.
For while he is saying “<i>Sir</i>,” and has thus
obtained a little pause, he recollects what is to follow.
Yet I have sometimes seen some members draw a kind of
memorandum-book out of their pockets, like a candidate who is at
a loss in his sermon. This is the only instance in which a
member of the British parliament seems to read his speeches.</p>
<p>The first day that I was at the House of Commons an English
gentleman who sat next to me in the gallery very obligingly
pointed out to me the principal members, such as Fox, Burke,
Rigby, etc., all of whom I heard speak. The debate happened
to be whether, besides being made a peer, any other specific
reward should be bestowed by the nation on their gallant admiral
Rodney. In the course of the debate, I remember, Mr. Fox
was very sharply reprimanded by young Lord Fielding for having,
when minister, opposed the election of Admiral Hood as a member
for Westminster.</p>
<p>Fox was sitting to the right of the Speaker, not far from the
table on which the gilt sceptre lay. He now took his place
so near it that he could reach it with his hand, and, thus
placed, he gave it many a violent and hearty thump, either to
aid, or to show the energy with which he spoke. If the
charge was vehement, his defence was no less so. He
justified himself against Lord Fielding by maintaining that he
had not opposed this election in the character of a minister, but
as an individual, or private person; and that, as such, he had
freely and honestly given his vote for another—namely, for
Sir Cecil Wray, adding that the King, when he appointed him
Secretary of State, had entered into no agreement with him by
which he lost his vote as an individual; to such a requisition he
never would have submitted. It is impossible for me to
describe with what fire and persuasive eloquence he spoke, and
how the Speaker in the chair incessantly nodded approbation from
beneath his solemn wig, and innumerable voices incessantly called
out, “Hear him! hear him!” and when there was the
least sign that he intended to leave off speaking they no less
vociferously exclaimed, “Go on;” and so he continued
to speak in this manner for nearly two hours. Mr. Rigby, in
reply, made a short but humorous speech, in which he mentioned of
how little consequence the title of “lord” and
“lady” was without money to support it, and finished
with the Latin proverb, “infelix paupertas—quia
ridiculos miseros facit.” After having first very
judiciously observed that previous inquiry should be made whether
Admiral Rodney had made any rich prizes or captures; because, if
that should be the case, he would not stand in need of further
reward in money. I have since been almost every day at the
parliament house, and prefer the entertainment I there meet with
to most other amusements.</p>
<p>Fox is still much beloved by the people, notwithstanding that
they are (and certainly with good reason) displeased at his being
the cause of Admiral Rodney’s recall, though even I have
heard him again and again almost extravagant in his encomiums on
this noble admiral. The same celebrated Charles Fox is a
short, fat, and gross man, with a swarthy complexion, and dark;
and in general he is badly dressed. There certainly is
something Jewish in his looks. But upon the whole, he is
not an ill-made nor an ill-looking man, and there are many strong
marks of sagacity and fire in his eyes. I have frequently
heard the people here say that this same Mr. Fox is as cunning as
a fox. Burke is a well-made, tall, upright man, but looks
elderly and broken. Rigby is excessively corpulent, and has
a jolly rubicund face.</p>
<p>The little less than downright open abuse, and the many really
rude things which the members said to each other, struck me
much. For example, when one has finished, another rises,
and immediately taxes with absurdity all that the right
honourable gentleman (for with this title the members of the
House of Commons always honour each other) had just
advanced. It would, indeed, be contrary to the rules of the
House flatly to tell each other that what they have spoken is
<i>false</i>, or even <i>foolish</i>. Instead of this, they
turn themselves, as usual, to the Speaker, and so, whilst their
address is directed to him, they fancy they violate neither the
rules of parliament nor those of good breeding and decorum,
whilst they utter the most cutting personal sarcasms against the
member or the measure they oppose.</p>
<p>It is quite laughable to see, as one sometimes does, one
member speaking, and another accompanying the speech with his
action. This I remarked more than once in a worthy old
citizen, who was fearful of speaking himself, but when his
neighbour spoke he accompanied every energetic sentence with a
suitable gesticulation, by which means his whole body was
sometimes in motion.</p>
<p>It often happens that the jett, or principal point in the
debate is lost in these personal contests and bickerings between
each other. When they last so long as to become quite
tedious and tiresome, and likely to do harm rather than good, the
House takes upon itself to express its disapprobation; and then
there arises a general cry of, “The question! the
question!” This must sometimes be frequently
repeated, as the contending members are both anxious to have the
last word. At length, however, the question is put, and the
votes taken, when the Speaker says, “Those who are for the
question are to say <i>aye</i>, and those who are against it
<i>no</i>.” You then hear a confused cry of
“<i>aye</i>” and “<i>no</i>” but at
length the Speaker says, “I think there are more
<i>ayes</i> than <i>noes</i>, or more <i>noes</i> than
<i>ayes</i>. The <i>ayes</i> have it; or the <i>noes</i>
have it,” as the case may be. But all the spectators
must then retire from the gallery; for then, and not till then,
the voting really commences. And now the members call aloud
to the gallery, “Withdraw! withdraw!” On this
the strangers withdraw, and are shut up in a small room at the
foot of the stairs till the voting is over, when they are again
permitted to take their places in the gallery. Here I could
not help wondering at the impatience even of polished
Englishmen. It is astonishing with what violence, and even
rudeness, they push and jostle one another as soon as the room
door is again opened, eager to gain the first and best seats in
the gallery. In this manner we (the strangers) have
sometimes been sent away two or three times in the course of one
day, or rather evening, afterwards again permitted to
return. Among these spectators are people of all ranks, and
even, not unfrequently, ladies. Two shorthand writers have
sat sometimes not far distant from me, who (though it is rather
by stealth) endeavour to take down the words of the speaker; and
thus all that is very remarkable in what is said in parliament
may generally be read in print the next day. The shorthand
writers, whom I noticed, are supposed to be employed and paid by
the editors of the different newspapers. There are, it
seems, some few persons who are constant attendants on the
parliament; and so they pay the door-keeper beforehand a guinea
for a whole session. I have now and then seen some of the
members bring their sons, whilst quite little boys, and carry
them to their seats along with themselves.</p>
<p>A proposal was once made to erect a gallery in the House of
Peers also for the accommodation of spectators. But this
never was carried into effect. There appears to be much
more politeness and more courteous behaviour in the members of
the upper House. But he who wishes to observe mankind, and
to contemplate the leading traits of the different characters
most strongly marked, will do well to attend frequently the
lower, rather than the other, House.</p>
<p>Last Tuesday was (what is here called) hanging-day.
There was also a parliamentary election. I could only see
one of the two sights, and therefore naturally preferred the
latter, while I only heard tolling at a distance the death-bell
of the sacrifice to justice. I now, therefore, am going to
describe to you, as well as can, an</p>
<p style="text-align: center"><i>Election for a Member of
Parliament</i>.</p>
<p>The cities of London and Westminster send, the one four, and
the other two, members to parliament. Mr. Fox is one of the
two members for Westminster. One seat was vacant, and that
vacancy was now to be filled. And the same Sir Cecil Wray,
whom Fox had before opposed to Lord Hood, was now publicly
chosen. They tell me that at these elections, when there is
a strong opposition party, there is often bloody work; but this
election was, in the electioneering phrase, a “hollow
thing”—<i>i.e.</i> quite sure, as those who had voted
for Admiral Hood now withdrew, without standing a poll, as being
convinced beforehand their chance to succeed was desperate.</p>
<p>The election was held in Covent Garden, a large market-place
in the open air. There was a scaffold erected just before
the door of a very handsome church, which is also called St.
Paul’s, but which, however, is not to be compared to the
cathedral.</p>
<p>A temporary edifice, formed only of boards and wood nailed
together, was erected on the occasion. It was called the
hustings, and filled with benches; and at one end of it, where
the benches ended, mats were laid, on which those who spoke to
the people stood. In the area before the hustings immense
multitudes of people were assembled, of whom the greatest part
seemed to be of the lowest order. To this tumultuous crowd,
however, the speakers often bowed very low, and always addressed
them by the title of “gentlemen.” Sir Cecil
Wray was obliged to step forward and promise these same
gentlemen, with hand and heart, that he would faithfully fulfil
his duties as their representative. He also made an apology
because, on account of his long journey and ill-health, he had
not been able to wait on them, as became him, at their respective
houses. The moment that he began to speak, even this rude
rabble became all as quiet as the raging sea after a storm, only
every now and then rending the air with the parliamentary cry of
“Hear him! hear him!” and as soon as he had done
speaking, they again vociferated aloud an universal
“<i>huzza</i>,” every one at the same time waving his
hat.</p>
<p>And now, being formally declared to have been legally chosen,
he again bowed most profoundly, and returned thanks for the great
honour done him, when a well-dressed man, whose name I could not
learn, stepped forward, and in a well-indited speech
congratulated both the chosen and the choosers. “Upon
my word,” said a gruff carter who stood near me,
“that man speaks well.”</p>
<p>Even little boys clambered up and hung on the rails and on the
lamp-posts; and as if the speeches had also been addressed to
them, they too listened with the utmost attention, and they too
testified their approbation of it by joining lustily in the three
cheers and waving their hats.</p>
<p>All the enthusiasm of my earliest years kindled by the
patriotism of the illustrious heroes of Rome. Coriolanus,
Julius Cæsar, and Antony were now revived in my mind; and
though all I had just seen and heard be, in fact, but the
semblance of liberty, and that, too, tribunitial liberty, yet at
that moment I thought it charming, and it warmed my heart.
Yes, depend on it, my friend, when you here see how, in the happy
country, the lowest and meanest member of society thus
unequivocally testifies the interest which he takes in everything
of a public nature; when you see how even women and children bear
a part in the great concerns of their country; in short, how high
and low, rich and poor, all concur in declaring their feelings
and their convictions that a carter, a common tar, or a
scavenger, is still a man—nay, an Englishman, and as such
has his rights and privileges defined and known as exactly and as
well as his king, or as his king’s minister—take my
word for it, you will feel yourself very differently affected
from what you are when staring at our soldiers in their exercises
at Berlin.</p>
<p>When Fox, who was among the voters, arrived at the beginning
of the election, he too was received with an universal shout of
joy. At length, when it was nearly over, the people took it
into their heads to hear him speak, and every one called out,
“Fox! Fox!” I know not why, but I seemed
to catch some of the spirit of the place and time, and so I also
bawled “Fox! Fox!” and he was obliged to come
forward and speak, for no other reason that I could find but that
the people wished to hear him speak. In this speech he
again confirmed, in the presence of the people, his former
declaration in parliament, that he by no means had any influence
as minister of State in this election, but only and merely as a
private person.</p>
<p>When the whole was over, the rampant spirit of liberty and the
wild impatience of a genuine English mob were exhibited in
perfection. In a very few minutes the whole scaffolding,
benches, and chairs, and everything else, was completely
destroyed, and the mat with which it had been covered torn into
ten thousand long strips, or pieces, or strings, with which they
encircled or enclosed multitudes of people of all ranks.
These they hurried along with them, and everything else that came
in their way, as trophies of joy; and thus, in the midst of
exultation and triumph, they paraded through many of the most
populous streets of London.</p>
<p>Whilst in Prussia poets only speak of the love of country as
one of the dearest of all human affections, here there is no man
who does not feel, and describe with rapture, how much he loves
his country. “Yes, for my country I’ll shed the
last drop of my blood!” often exclaims little Jacky, the
fine boy here in the house where I live, who is yet only about
twelve years old. The love of their country, and its
unparalleled feats in war are, in general, the subject of their
ballads and popular songs, which are sung about the streets by
women, who sell them for a few farthings. It was only the
other day our Jacky brought one home, in which the history of an
admiral was celebrated who bravely continued to command, even
after his two legs were shot off and he was obliged to be
supported. I know not well by what means it has happened
that the King of England, who is certainly one of the best the
nation ever had, is become unpopular. I know not how many
times I have heard people of all sorts object to their king at
the same time that they praised the King of Prussia to the
skies. Indeed, with some the veneration for our monarch
went so far that they seriously wished he was their king.
All that seems to shock and dishearten them is the prodigious
armies he keeps up, and the immense number of soldiers quartered
in Berlin alone. Whereas in London, at least in the city,
not a single troop of soldiers of the King’s guard dare
make their appearance.</p>
<p>A few days ago I saw what is here deemed a great
sight—viz., a lord mayor’s procession. The lord
mayor was in an enormous large gilt coach, which was followed by
an astonishing number of most showy carriages, in which the rest
of the city magistrates, more properly called aldermen of London,
were seated. But enough for the present.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER VI.</h2>
<p style="text-align: right"><i>London</i>, <i>June</i>
17<i>th</i>, 1782.</p>
<p>I <span class="smcap">have</span> now been pretty nearly all
over London, and, according to my own notions, have now seen most
of the things I was most anxious to see. Hereafter, then, I
propose to make an excursion into the country; and this purpose,
by the blessing of God, I hope to be able to carry into effect in
a very few days, for my curiosity is here almost satiated.
I seem to be tired and sick of the smoke of these sea-coal fires,
and I long, with almost childish impatience, once more to breathe
a fresher and clearer air.</p>
<p>It must, I think, be owned, that upon the whole, London is
neither so handsomely nor so well built as Berlin is; but then it
certainly has far more fine squares. Of these there are
many that in real magnificence and beautiful symmetry far surpass
our Gens d’Armes Markt, our Denhoschen and William’s
Place. The squares or quadrangular places contain the best
and most beautiful buildings of London; a spacious street, next
to the houses, goes all round them, and within that there is
generally a round grass-plot, railed in with iron rails, in the
centre of which, in many of them, there is a statue, which
statues most commonly are equestrian and gilt. In Grosvenor
Square, instead of this green plot or area, there is a little
circular wood, intended, no doubt, to give one the idea of <i>rus
in urbe</i>.</p>
<p>One of the longest and pleasantest walks I have yet taken is
from Paddington to Islington; where to the left you have a fine
prospect of the neighbouring hills, and in particular of the
village of Hampstead, which is built on one of them; and to the
right the streets of London furnish an endless variety of
interesting views. It is true that it is dangerous to walk
here alone, especially in the afternoon and in an evening, or at
night, for it was only last week that a man was robbed and
murdered on this very same road. But I now hasten to
another and a more pleasing topic:</p>
<p style="text-align: center"><i>The British Museum</i>.</p>
<p>I have had the happiness to become acquainted with the Rev.
Mr. Woide; who, though well known all over Europe to be one of
the most learned men of the age, is yet, if possible, less
estimable for his learning than he is for his unaffected goodness
of heart. He holds a respectable office in the museum, and
was obliging enough to procure me permission to see it, luckily
the day before it was shut up. In general you must give in
your name a fortnight before you can he admitted. But after
all, I am sorry to say, it was the rooms, the glass cases, the
shelves, or the repository for the books in the British Museum
which I saw, and not the museum itself, we were hurried on so
rapidly through the apartments. The company, who saw it
when and as I did, was various, and some of all sorts; some, I
believe, of the very lowest classes of the people, of both sexes;
for, as it is the property of the nation, every one has the same
right (I use the term of the country) to see it that another
has. I had Mr. Wendeborn’s book in my pocket, and it,
at least, enabled me to take a somewhat more particular notice of
some of the principal things; such as the Egyptian mummy, a head
of Homer, &c. The rest of the company, observing that I
had some assistance which they had not, soon gathered round me; I
pointed out to them as we went along, from Mr. Wendeborn’s
German book, what there was most worth seeing here. The
gentleman who conducted us took little pains to conceal the
contempt which he felt for my communications when he found out
that it was only a German description of the British Museum I had
got. The rapidly passing through this vast suite of rooms,
in a space of time little, if at all, exceeding an hour, with
leisure just to cast one poor longing look of astonishment on all
these stupendous treasures of natural curiosities, antiquities,
and literature, in the contemplation of which you could with
pleasure spend years, and a whole life might be employed in the
study of them—quite confuses, stuns, and overpowers
one. In some branches this collection is said to be far
surpassed by some others; but taken altogether, and for size, it
certainly is equalled by none. The few foreign divines who
travel through England generally desire to have the Alexandrian
manuscript shewn them, in order to be convinced with their own
eyes whether the passage, “These are the three that bear
record, &c.,” is to be found there or not.</p>
<p>The Rev. Mr. Woide lives at a place called Lisson Street, not
far from Paddington; a very village-looking little town, at the
west end of London. It is quite a rural and pleasant
situation; for here I either do, or fancy I do, already breathe a
purer and freer air than in the midst of the town. Of his
great abilities, and particularly in oriental literature, I need
not inform you; but it will give you pleasure to hear that he is
actually meditating a fac-simile edition of the Alexandrian
MS. I have already mentioned the infinite obligations I lie
under to this excellent man for his extraordinary courtesy and
kindness.</p>
<p style="text-align: center"><i>The Theatre in the
Haymarket</i>.</p>
<p>Last week I went twice to an English play-house. The
first time “The Nabob” was represented, of which the
late Mr. Foote was the author, and for the entertainment, a very
pleasing and laughable musical farce, called “The Agreeable
Surprise.” The second time I saw “The English
Merchant:” which piece has been translated into German, and
is known among us by the title of “The Scotchwoman,”
or “The Coffee-house.” I have not yet seen the
theatres of Covent Garden and Drury Lane, because they are not
open in summer. The best actors also usually spend May and
October in the country, and only perform in winter.</p>
<p>A very few excepted, the comedians whom I saw were certainly
nothing extraordinary. For a seat in the boxes you pay five
shillings, in the pit three, in the first gallery two, and in the
second or upper gallery, one shilling. And it is the
tenants in this upper gallery who, for their shilling, make all
that noise and uproar for which the English play-houses are so
famous. I was in the pit, which gradually rises,
amphitheatre-wise, from the orchestra, and is furnished with
benches, one above another, from the top to the bottom.
Often and often, whilst I sat there, did a rotten orange, or
pieces of the peel of an orange, fly past me, or past some of my
neighbours, and once one of them actually hit my hat, without my
daring to look round, for fear another might then hit me on my
face.</p>
<p>All over London as one walks, one everywhere, in the season,
sees oranges to sell; and they are in general sold tolerably
cheap, one and even sometimes two for a halfpenny; or, in our
money, threepence. At the play-house, however, they charged
me sixpence for one orange, and that noways remarkably good.</p>
<p>Besides this perpetual pelting from the gallery, which renders
an English play-house so uncomfortable, there is no end to their
calling out and knocking with their sticks till the curtain is
drawn up. I saw a miller’s, or a baker’s boy,
thus, like a huge booby, leaning over the rails and knocking
again and again on the outside, with all his might, so that he
was seen by everybody, without being in the least ashamed or
abashed. I sometimes heard, too, the people in the lower or
middle gallery quarrelling with those of the upper one.
Behind me, in the pit, sat a young fop, who, in order to display
his costly stone buckles with the utmost brilliancy, continually
put his foot on my bench, and even sometimes upon my coat, which
I could avoid only by sparing him as much space from my portion
of the seat as would make him a footstool. In the boxes,
quite in a corner, sat several servants, who were said to be
placed there to keep the seats for the families they served till
they should arrive; they seemed to sit remarkably close and
still, the reason of which, I was told, was their apprehension of
being pelted; for if one of them dares but to look out of the
box, he is immediately saluted with a shower of orange peel from
the gallery.</p>
<p>In Foote’s “Nabob” there are sundry local
and personal satires which are entirely lost to a
foreigner. The character of the Nabob was performed by a
Mr. Palmer. The jett of the character is, this Nabob, with
many affected airs and constant aims at gentility, is still but a
silly fellow, unexpectedly come into the possession of immense
riches, and therefore, of course, paid much court to by a society
of natural philosophers, Quakers, and I do not know who
besides. Being tempted to become one of their members, he
is elected, and in order to ridicule these would-be philosophers,
but real knaves, a fine flowery fustian speech is put into his
mouth, which he delivers with prodigious pomp and importance, and
is listened to by the philosophers with infinite
complacency. The two scenes of the Quakers and
philosophers, who, with countenances full of imaginary
importance, were seated at a green table with their president at
their head while the secretary, with the utmost care, was making
an inventory of the ridiculous presents of the Nabob, were truly
laughable. One of the last scenes was best received: it is
that in which the Nabob’s friend and school-fellow visit
him, and address him without ceremony by his Christian name; but
to all their questions of “Whether he does not recollect
them? Whether he does not remember such and such a play; or
such and such a scrape into which they had fallen in their
youth?” he uniformly answers with a look of ineffable
contempt, only, “No sir!” Nothing can possibly
be more ludicrous, nor more comic.</p>
<p>The entertainment, “The Agreeable Surprise,” is
really a very diverting farce. I observed that, in England
also, they represent school-masters in ridiculous characters on
the stage, which, though I am sorry for, I own I do not wonder
at, as the pedantry of school-masters in England, they tell me,
is carried at least as far as it is elsewhere. The same
person who, in the play, performed the school-fellow of the Nabob
with a great deal of nature and original humour, here acted the
part of the school-master: his name is Edwin, and he is, without
doubt, one of the best actors of all that I have seen.</p>
<p>This school-master is in love with a certain country girl,
whose name is Cowslip, to whom he makes a declaration of his
passion in a strange mythological, grammatical style and manner,
and to whom, among other fooleries, he sings, quite enraptured,
the following air, and seems to work himself at least up to such
a transport of passion as quite overpowers him. He begins,
you will observe, with the conjugation, and ends with the
declensions and the genders; the whole is inimitably droll:</p>
<blockquote><p>“Amo, amas,<br />
I love a lass,<br />
She is so sweet and tender,<br />
It is sweet Cowslip’s Grace<br />
In the Nominative Case.<br />
And in the feminine Gender.”</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Those two sentences in particular, “in the Nominative
Case,” and “in the feminine Gender,” he affects
to sing in a particularly languishing air, as if confident that
it was irresistible. This Edwin, in all his comic
characters, still preserves something so inexpressibly
good-tempered in his countenance, that notwithstanding all his
burlesques and even grotesque buffoonery, you cannot but be
pleased with him. I own, I felt myself doubly interested
for every character which he represented. Nothing could
equal the tone and countenance of self-satisfaction with which he
answered one who asked him whether he was a scholar?
“Why, I was a master of scholars.” A Mrs. Webb
represented a cheesemonger, and played the part of a woman of the
lower class so naturally as I have nowhere else ever seen
equalled. Her huge, fat, and lusty carcase, and the whole
of her external appearance seemed quite to be cut out for it.</p>
<p>Poor Edwin was obliged, as school-master, to sing himself
almost hoarse, as he sometimes was called on to repeat his
declension and conjugation songs two or three times, only because
it pleased the upper gallery, or “the gods,” as the
English call them, to roar out “encore.” Add to
all this, he was farther forced to thank them with a low bow for
the great honour done him by their applause.</p>
<p>One of the highest comic touches in the piece seemed to me to
consist in a lie, which always became more and more enormous in
the mouths of those who told it again, during the whole of the
piece. This kept the audience in almost a continual fit of
laughter. This farce is not yet printed, or I really think
I should be tempted to venture to make a translation, or rather
an imitation of it.</p>
<p>“The English Merchant, or the Scotchwoman,” I have
seen much better performed abroad than it was here. Mr.
Fleck, at Hamburg, in particular, played the part of the English
merchant with more interest, truth, and propriety than one Aickin
did here. He seemed to me to fail totally in expressing the
peculiar and original character of Freeport; instead of which, by
his measured step and deliberate, affected manner of speaking, he
converted him into a mere fine gentleman.</p>
<p>The trusty old servant who wishes to give up his life for his
master he, too, had the stately walk, or strut, of a
minister. The character of the newspaper writer was
performed by the same Mr. Palmer who acted the part of the Nabob,
but every one said, what I thought, that he made him far too much
of a gentleman. His person, and his dress also, were too
handsome for the character.</p>
<p>The character of Amelia was performed by an actress, who made
her first appearance on the stage, and from a timidity natural on
such an occasion, and not unbecoming, spoke rather low, so that
she could not everywhere be heard; “Speak louder! speak
louder!” cried out some rude fellow from the upper-gallery,
and she immediately, with infinite condescension, did all she
could, and not unsuccessfully, to please even an upper gallery
critic.</p>
<p>The persons near me, in the pit, were often extravagantly
lavish of their applause. They sometimes clapped a single
solitary sentiment, that was almost as unmeaning as it was short,
if it happened to be pronounced only with some little emphasis,
or to contain some little point, some popular doctrine, a
singularly pathetic stroke, or turn of wit.</p>
<p>“The Agreeable Surprise” was repeated, and I saw
it a second time with unabated pleasure. It is become a
favourite piece, and always announced with the addition of the
favourite musical farce. The theatre appeared to me
somewhat larger than the one at Hamburg, and the house was both
times very full. Thus much for English plays, play-houses,
and players.</p>
<p style="text-align: center"><i>English Customs and
Education</i>.</p>
<p>A few words more respecting pedantry. I have seen the
regulation of one seminary of learning, here called an
academy. Of these places of education, there is a
prodigious number in London, though, notwithstanding their
pompous names, they are in reality nothing more than small
schools set up by private persons, for children and young
people.</p>
<p>One of the Englishmen who were my travelling companions, made
me acquainted with a Dr. G— who lives near P—, and
keeps an academy for the education of twelve young people, which
number is here, as well as at our Mr. Kumpe’s, never
exceeded, and the same plan has been adopted and followed by many
others, both here and elsewhere.</p>
<p>At the entrance I perceived over the door of the house a large
board, and written on it, Dr. G—’s Academy. Dr.
G— received me with great courtesy as a foreigner, and
shewed me his school-room, which was furnished just in the same
manner as the classes in our public schools are, with benches and
a professor’s chair or pulpit.</p>
<p>The usher at Dr. G—’s is a young clergyman, who,
seated also in a chair or desk, instructs the boys in the Greek
and Latin grammars.</p>
<p>Such an under-teacher is called an usher, and by what I can
learn, is commonly a tormented being, exactly answering the
exquisite description given of him in the “Vicar of
Wakefield.” We went in during the hours of
attendance, and he was just hearing the boys decline their Latin,
which he did in the old jog-trot way; and I own it had an odd
sound to my ears, when instead of pronouncing, for example
<i>viri veeree</i> I heard them say <i>viri</i>, <i>of the
man</i>, exactly according to the English pronunciation, and
<i>viro</i>, <i>to the man</i>. The case was just the same
afterwards with the Greek.</p>
<p>Mr. G— invited us to dinner, when I became acquainted
with his wife, a very genteel young woman, whose behaviour to the
children was such that she might be said to contribute more to
their education than any one else. The children drank
nothing but water. For every boarder Dr. G— receives
yearly no more than thirty pounds sterling, which however, he
complained of as being too little. From forty to fifty
pounds is the most that is generally paid in these academies.</p>
<p>I told him of our improvements in the manner of education, and
also spoke to him of the apparent great worth of character of his
usher. He listened very attentively, but seemed to have
thought little himself on this subject. Before and after
dinner the Lord’s Prayer was repeated in French, which is
done in several places, as if they were eager not to waste
without some improvement, even this opportunity also, to practise
the French, and thus at once accomplish two points. I
afterwards told him my opinion of this species of prayer, which
however, he did not take amiss.</p>
<p>After dinner the boys had leave to play in a very small yard,
which in most schools or academies, in the city of London, is the
<i>ne plus ultra</i> of their playground in their hours of
recreation. But Mr. G— has another garden at the end
of the town, where he sometimes takes them to walk.</p>
<p>After dinner Mr. G— himself instructed the children in
writing, arithmetic, and French, all which seemed to be well
taught here, especially writing, in which the young people in
England far surpass, I believe, all others. This may
perhaps be owing to their having occasion to learn only one sort
of letters. As the midsummer holidays were now approaching
(at which time the children in all the academies go home for four
weeks), everyone was obliged with the utmost care to copy a
written model, in order to show it to their parents, because this
article is most particularly examined, as everybody can tell what
is or is not good writing. The boys knew all the rules of
syntax by heart.</p>
<p>All these academies are in general called
boarding-schools. Some few retain the old name of schools
only, though it is possible that in real merit they may excel the
so much-boasted of academies.</p>
<p>It is in general the clergy, who have small incomes, who set
up these schools both in town and country, and grown up people
who are foreigners, are also admitted here to learn the English
language. Mr. G— charged for board, lodging, and
instruction in the English, two guineas a-week. He however,
who is desirous of perfecting himself in the English, will do
better to go some distance into the country, and board himself
with any clergyman who takes scholars, where he will hear nothing
but English spoken, and may at every opportunity be taught both
by young and old.</p>
<p>There are in England, besides the two universities, but few
great schools or colleges. In London, there are only St.
Paul’s and Westminster schools; the rest are almost all
private institutions, in which there reigns a kind of family
education, which is certainly the most natural, if properly
conducted. Some few grammar schools, or Latin schools, are
notwithstanding here and there to be met with, where the master
receives a fixed salary, besides the ordinary profits of the
school paid by the scholars.</p>
<p>You see in the streets of London, great and little boys
running about in long blue coats, which, like robes, reach quite
down to the feet, and little white bands, such as the clergy
wear. These belong to a charitable institution, or school,
which hears the name of the Blue Coat School. The singing
of the choristers in the streets, so usual with us, is not at all
customary here. Indeed, there is in England, or at least in
London, such a constant walking, riding, and driving up and down
in the streets, that it would not be very practicable.
Parents here in general, nay even those of the lowest classes,
seem to be kind and indulgent to their children, and do not, like
our common people, break their spirits too much by blows and
sharp language. Children should certainly be inured early
to set a proper value on themselves; whereas with us, parents of
the lower class bring up their children to the same slavery under
which they themselves groan.</p>
<p>Notwithstanding the constant new appetites and calls of
fashion, they here remain faithful to nature—till a certain
age. What a contrast, when I figure to myself our petted,
pale-faced Berlin boys, at six years old, with a large bag, and
all the parade of grown-up persons, nay even with laced coats;
and here, on the contrary see nothing but fine, ruddy, slim,
active boys, with their bosoms open, and their hair cut on their
forehead, whilst behind it flows naturally in ringlets. It
is something uncommon here to meet a young man, and more
especially a boy, with a pale or sallow face, with deformed
features, or disproportioned limbs. With us, alas! it is
not to be concealed, the case is very much otherwise; if it were
not, handsome people would hardly strike us so very much as they
do in this country.</p>
<p>This free, loose, and natural dress is worn till they are
eighteen, or even till they are twenty. It is then, indeed,
discontinued by the higher ranks, but with the common people it
always remains the same. They then begin to have their hair
dressed, and curled with irons, to give the head a large bushy
appearance, and half their backs are covered with powder. I
am obliged to remain still longer under the hands of an English,
than I was under a German hair-dresser; and to sweat under his
hot irons with which he curls my hair all over, in order that I
may appear among Englishmen, somewhat English. I must here
observe that the English hair-dressers are also barbers, an
office however, which they perform very badly indeed; though I
cannot but consider shaving as a far more proper employment for
these petit maîtres than it is for surgeons, who you know
in our country are obliged to shave us. It is incredible
how much the English at present Frenchify themselves; the only
things yet wanting are bags and swords, with which at least I
have seen no one walking publicly, but I am told they are worn at
court.</p>
<p>In the morning it is usual to walk out in a sort of
negligée or morning dress, your hair not dressed, but
merely rolled up in rollers, and in a frock and boots. In
Westminster, the morning lasts till four or five o’clock,
at which time they dine, and supper and going to bed are
regulated accordingly. They generally do not breakfast till
ten o’clock. The farther you go from the court into
the city, the more regular and domestic the people become; and
there they generally dine about three o’clock, <i>i.e.</i>
as soon as the business or ‘Change is over.</p>
<p>Trimmed suits are not yet worn, and the most usual dress is in
summer, a short white waistcoat, black breeches, white silk
stockings, and a frock, generally of very dark blue cloth, which
looks like black; and the English seem in general to prefer dark
colours. If you wish to be full dressed, you wear
black. Officers rarely wear their uniforms, but dress like
other people, and are to be known to be officers only by a
cockade in their hats.</p>
<p>It is a common observation, that the more solicitous any
people are about dress, the more effeminate they are. I
attribute it entirely to this idle adventitious passion for
finery, that these people are become so over and above careful of
their persons; they are for ever, and on every occasion, putting
one another on their guard against catching cold;
“you’ll certainly catch cold,” they always tell
you if you happen to be a little exposed to the draught of the
air, or if you be not clad, as they think, sufficiently
warm. The general topic of conversation in summer, is on
the important objects of whether such and such an acquaintance be
in town, or such a one in the country. Far from blaming it,
I think it natural and commendable, that nearly one half of the
inhabitants of this great city migrate into the country in
summer. And into the country, I too, though not a Londoner,
hope soon to wander.</p>
<p>Electricity happens at present to be the puppet-show of the
English. Whoever at all understands electricity is sure of
being noticed and successful. This a certain Mr.
Katterfelto experiences, who gives himself out for a Prussian,
speaks bad English, and understands beside the usual electrical
and philosophical experiments, some legerdemain tricks, with
which (at least according to the papers) he sets the whole world
in wonder. For in almost every newspaper that appears,
there are some verses on the great Katterfelto, which some one or
other of his hearers are said to have made extempore. Every
sensible person considers Katterfelto as a puppy, an ignoramus, a
braggadocio, and an impostor; notwithstanding which he has a
number of followers. He has demonstrated to the people,
that the influenza is occasioned by a small kind of insect, which
poisons the air; and a nostrum, which he pretends to have found
out to prevent or destroy it, is eagerly bought of him. A
few days ago he put into the papers: “It is true that Mr.
Katterfelto has always wished for cold and rainy weather, in
order to destroy the pernicious insects in the air; but now, on
the contrary, he wishes for nothing more than for fair weather,
as his majesty and the whole royal family have determined, the
first fine day, to be eye-witnesses of the great wonder, which
this learned philosopher will render visible to
them.” Yet all this while the royal family have not
so much as even thought of seeing the wonders of Mr.
Katterfelto. This kind of rhodomontade is very finely
expressed in English by the word puff, which in its literal
sense, signifies a blowing, or violent gust of wind, and in the
metaphorical sense, a boasting or bragging.</p>
<p>Of such puffs the English newspapers are daily full,
particularly of quack medicines and empirics, by means of which
many a one here (and among others a German who goes by the name
of the German doctor) are become rich. An advertisement of
a lottery in the papers begins with capitals in this
manner,—“Ten Thousand Pounds for a Sixpence!
Yes, however astonishing it may seem, it is nevertheless
undoubtedly true, that for the small stake of sixpence, ten
thousand pounds, and other capital prizes, may be won,
etc.”—But enough for this time of the puffs of the
English.</p>
<p>I yesterday dined with the Rev. Mr. Schrader, son-in-law to
Professor Foster of Halle. He is chaplain to the German
chapel at St. James’s; but besides himself he has a
colleague or a reader, who is also in orders, but has only fifty
pounds yearly salary. Mr. Schrader also instructs the
younger princes and princesses of the royal family in their
religion. At his house I saw the two chaplains, Mr.
Lindeman and Mr. Kritter, who went with the Hanoverian troops to
Minorca, and who were returned with the garrison. They were
exposed to every danger along with the troops. The German
clergy, as well as every other person in any public station
immediately under Government, are obliged to pay a considerable
tax out of their salaries.</p>
<p>The English clergy (and I fear those still more particularly
who live in London) are noticeable, and lamentably conspicuous,
by a very free, secular, and irregular way of life. Since
my residence in England, one has fought a duel in Hyde Park, and
shot his antagonist. He was tried for the offence, and it
was evident the judge thought him guilty of murder; but the jury
declared him guilty only of manslaughter; and on this verdict he
was burnt in the hand, if that may be called burning which is
done with a cold iron; this being a privilege which the nobility
and clergy enjoy above other murderers.</p>
<p>Yesterday week, after I had preached for Mr. Wendeborne, we
passed an English church in which, we understood the sermon was
not yet quite finished. On this we went in, and then I
heard a young man preaching, with a tolerable good voice, and a
proper delivery; but, like the English in general, his manner was
unimpassioned, and his tone monotonous. From the church we
went to a coffee-house opposite to it, and there we dined.
We had not been long there before the same clergyman whom we had
just heard preaching, also came in. He called for pen and
ink, and hastily wrote down a few pages on a long sheet of paper,
which he put into his pocket; I suppose it was some rough sketch
or memorandum that occurred to him at that moment, and which he
thus reserved for some future sermon. He too ordered some
dinner, which he had no sooner ate, than he returned immediately
to the same church. We followed him, and he again mounted
the pulpit, where he drew from his pocket a written paper, or
book of notes, and delivered in all probability those very words
which he had just before composed in our presence at the
coffee-house.</p>
<p>In these coffee-houses, however, there generally prevails a
very decorous stillness and silence. Everyone speaks softly
to those only who sit next him. The greater part read the
newspapers, and no one ever disturbs another. The room is
commonly on the ground floor, and you enter it immediately from
the street; the seats are divided by wooden wainscot
partitions. Many letters and projects are here written and
planned, and many of those that you find in the papers are dated
from some of these coffee-houses. There is, therefore,
nothing incredible, nor very extraordinary, in a person’s
composing a sermon here, excepting that one would imagine it
might have been done better at home, and certainly should not
have thus been put off to the last minute.</p>
<p>Another long walk that I have taken pretty often, is through
Hanover Square and Cavendish Square, to Bulstrode Street, near
Paddington, where the Danish ambassador lives, and where I have
often visited the Danish <i>Charge d’Affaires</i>, M.
Schornborn. He is well known in Germany, as having
attempted to translate Pindar into German. Besides this,
and besides being known to be a man of genius, he is known to be
a great proficient in most of the branches of natural
philosophy. I have spent many very pleasant hours with
him.</p>
<p>Sublime poetry, and in particular odes, are his forte; there
are indeed few departments of learning in which he has not
extensive knowledge, and he is also well read in the Greek and
Roman authors. Everything he studies, he studies merely
from the love he bears to the science itself, and by no means for
the love of fame.</p>
<p>One could hardly help saying it is a pity that so excellent a
man should be so little known, were it not generally the case
with men of transcendent merit. But what makes him still
more valuable is his pure and open soul, and his amiable
unaffected simplicity of character, which has gained him the love
and confidence of all who know him. He has heretofore been
secretary to the ambassador at Algiers; and even here in London,
when he is not occupied by the business arising from his public
station, he lives exceedingly retired, and devotes his time
almost entirely to the study of the sciences. The more
agreeable I find such an acquaintance, the harder it will be for
me to lose, as I soon must, his learned, his instructive, and his
friendly conversation.</p>
<p>I have seen the large Freemasons’ Hall here, at the
tavern of the same name. This hall is of an astonishing
height and breadth, and to me it looked almost like a
church. The orchestra is very much raised, and from that
you have a fine view of the whole hall, which makes a majestic
appearance. The building is said to have cost an immense
sum. But to that the lodges in Germany also
contributed. Freemasonry seems to be held in but little
estimation in England, perhaps because most of the lodges are now
degenerated into mere drinking clubs; though I hope there still
are some who assemble for nobler and more essential
purposes. The Duke of Cumberland is now grand master.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER VII.</h2>
<p style="text-align: right"><i>London</i>, 20<i>th</i>
<i>June</i>, 1782.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">At</span> length my determination of going
into the country takes effect; and I am to set off this very
afternoon in a stage; so that I now write to you my last letter
from London, I mean till I return from my pilgrimage, for as soon
as ever I have got beyond the dangerous neighbourhood of London,
I shall certainly no longer suffer myself to be cooped up in a
post-coach, but take my staff and pursue my journey on
foot. In the meantime, however, I will relate to you what I
may either have forgotten to write before, or what I have seen
worth notice within these few days last past; among which the
foremost is</p>
<p style="text-align: center"><i>St. Paul’s</i>.</p>
<p>I must own that on my entrance into this massy building, an
uncommon vacancy, which seemed to reign in it, rather damped than
raised an impression of anything majestic in me. All around
me I could see nothing but immense bare walls and pillars.
Above me, at an astonishing height, was the vaulted stone roof;
and beneath me a plain, flat even floor, paved with marble.
No altar was to be seen, or any other sign that this was a place
where mankind assembled to adore the Almighty. For the
church itself, or properly that part of it where they perform
divine service, seems as it were a piece stuck on or added to the
main edifice, and is separated from the large round empty space
by an iron gate, or door. Did the great architects who
adopted this style of building mean by this to say that such a
temple is most proper for the adoration of the Almighty? If
this was their aim, I can only say I admire the great temple of
nature, the azure vaulted sky, and the green carpet with which
the earth is spread. This is truly a large temple; but then
there is in it no void, no spot unappropriated, or unfulfilled,
but everywhere proofs in abundance of the presence of the
Almighty. If, however, mankind, in their honest ambition to
worship the great God of nature, in a style not wholly unsuitable
to the great object of their reverence, and in their humble
efforts at magnificence, aim in some degree to rival the
magnificence of nature, particular pains should be taken to hit
on something that might atone for the unavoidable loss of the
animation and ampleness of nature; something in short that should
clearly indicate the true and appropriated design and purpose of
such a building. If, on the other hand, I could be
contented to consider St. Paul’s merely as a work of art,
built as if merely to show the amazing extent of human powers, I
should certainly gaze at it with admiration and astonishment, but
then I wish rather to contemplate it with awe and
veneration. But, I perceive, I am wandering out of my
way. St. Paul’s is here, as it is, a noble pile, and
not unworthy of this great nation. And even if I were sure
that I could, you would hardly thank me for showing you how it
might have been still more worthy of this intelligent
people. I make a conscience however of telling you always,
with fidelity, what impression everything I see or hear makes on
me at the time. For a small sum of money I was conducted
all over the church by a man whose office it seemed to be, and he
repeated to me, I dare say, exactly his lesson, which no doubt he
has perfectly got by rote: of how many feet long and broad it
was; how many years it was in building, and in what year
built. Much of this rigmarole story, which, like a parrot,
he repeated mechanically, I could willingly have dispensed
with. In the part that was separated from the rest by the
iron gate above mentioned, was what I call the church itself;
furnished with benches, pews, pulpit, and an altar; and on each
side seats for the choristers, as there are in our
cathedrals. This church seemed to have been built purposely
in such a way, that the bishop, or dean, or dignitary, who should
preach there, might not be obliged to strain his voice too
much. I was now conducted to that part which is called the
whispering gallery, which is a circumference of prodigious
extent, just below the cupola. Here I was directed to place
myself in a part of it directly opposite to my conductor, on the
other side of the gallery, so that we had the whole breadth of
the church between us, and here as I stood, he, knowing his cue
no doubt, flung to the door with all his force, which gave a
sound that I could compare to nothing less than a peal of
thunder. I was next desired to apply my ear to the wall,
which, when I did, I heard the words of my conductor: “Can
you hear me?” which he softly whispered quite on the other
side, as plain and as loud as one commonly speaks to a deaf
person. This scheme to condense and invigorate sound at so
great a distance is really wonderful. I once noticed some
sound of the same sort in the senatorial cellar at Bremen; but
neither that, nor I believe any other in the world, can pretend
to come in competition with this.</p>
<p>I now ascended several steps to the great gallery, which runs
on the outside of the great dome, and here I remained nearly two
hours, as I could hardly, in less time, satisfy myself with the
prospect of the various interesting objects that lay all round
me, and which can no where be better seen, than from hence.</p>
<p>Every view, and every object I studied attentively, by viewing
them again and again on every side, for I was anxious to make a
lasting impression of it on my imagination.</p>
<p>Below me lay steeples, houses, and palaces in countless
numbers; the squares with their grass plots in their middle that
lay agreeably dispersed and intermixed, with all the huge
clusters of buildings, forming meanwhile a pleasing contrast, and
a relief to the jaded eye.</p>
<p>At one end rose the Tower—itself a city—with a
wood of masts behind it; and at the other Westminster Abbey with
its steeples. There I beheld, clad in smiles, those
beautiful green hills that skirt the environs of Paddington and
Islington; here, on the opposite bank of the Thames, lay
Southwark; the city itself it seems to be impossible for any eye
to take in entirely, for with all my pains I found it impossible
to ascertain either where it ended, or where the circumjacent
villages began; far as the eye could reach, it seemed to be all
one continued chain of buildings.</p>
<p>I well remember how large I thought Berlin when first I saw it
from the steeple of St. Mary, and from the Temple Yard Hills, but
how did it now sink and fall in my imagination, when I compared
it with London!</p>
<p>It is, however, idle and vain to attempt giving you in words,
any description, however faint and imperfect, of such a prospect
as I have just been viewing. He who wishes at one view to
see a world in miniature, must come to the dome of St
Paul’s.</p>
<p>The roof of St. Paul’s itself with its two lesser
steeples lay below me, and as I fancied, looked something like
the background of a small ridge of hills, which you look down
upon when you have attained the summit of some huge rock or
mountain. I should gladly have remained here sometime
longer, but a gust of wind, which in this situation was so
powerful that it was hardly possible to withstand it, drove me
down.</p>
<p>Notwithstanding that St. Paul’s is itself very high, the
elevation of the ground on which it stands contributes greatly to
its elevation.</p>
<p>The church of St. Peter at Berlin, notwithstanding the total
difference between them in the style of building, appears in some
respects to have a great resemblance to St. Paul’s in
London. At least its large high black roof rises above the
other surrounding buildings just as St. Paul’s does.</p>
<p>What else I saw in this stately cathedral was only a wooden
model of this very edifice, which was made before the church was
built, and which suggests some not unpleasing reflections when
one compares it with the enormous building itself.</p>
<p>The churchyard is enclosed with an iron rail, and it appears a
considerable distance if you go all round.</p>
<p>Owing to some cause or other, the site of St. Paul’s
strikes you as being confined, and it is certain that this
beautiful church is on every side closely surrounded by
houses.</p>
<p>A marble statue of Queen Anne in an enclosed piece of ground
in the west front of the church is something of an ornament to
that side.</p>
<p>The size of the bell of St. Paul’s is also worthy of
notice, as it is reckoned one of those that are deemed the
largest in Europe. It takes its place, they say, next to
that at Vienna.</p>
<p>Everything that I saw in St. Paul’s cost me only a
little more than a shilling, which I paid in pence and halfpence,
according to a regulated price, fixed for every different
curiosity.</p>
<p style="text-align: center"><i>Westminster Abbey</i>.</p>
<p>On a very gloomy dismal day, just such a one as it ought to
be, I went to see Westminster Abbey.</p>
<p>I entered at a small door, which brought me immediately to the
poets’ corner, where the monuments and busts of the
principal poets, artists, generals, and great men, are
placed.</p>
<p>Not far from the door, immediately on my entrance, I perceived
the statue of Shakespeare, as large as life; with a band,
&c., in the dress usual in his time.</p>
<p>A passage out of one of Shakespeare’s own plays (the
<i>Tempest</i>), in which he describes in the most solemn and
affecting manner, the end, or the dissolution of all things, is
here, with great propriety, put up as his epitaph; as though none
but Shakespeare could do justice to Shakespeare.</p>
<p>Not far from this immortal bard is Rowe’s monument,
which, as it is intimated in the few lines that are inscribed as
his epitaph, he himself had desired to be placed there.</p>
<p>At no great distance I saw the bust of that amiable writer,
Goldsmith: to whom, as well as to Butler, whose monument is in a
distant part of the abbey, though they had scarcely necessary
bread to eat during their life time, handsome monuments are now
raised. Here, too you see, almost in a row, the monuments
of Milton, Dryden, Gay, and Thomson. The inscription on
Gay’s tombstone is, if not actually immoral, yet futile and
weak; though he is said to have written it himself:</p>
<blockquote><p>“Life is a jest, and all things shew it,<br
/>
‘I thought so once but now I know it.”</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Our Handel has also a monument here, where he is represented
as large as life.</p>
<p>An actress, Pritchard, and Booth, an actor, have also very
distinguished monuments erected here to their memories.</p>
<p>For Newton, as was proper, there is a very costly one.
It is above, at the entrance of the choir, and exactly opposite
to this, at the end of the church, another is erected, which
refers you to the former.</p>
<p>As I passed along the side walls of Westminster Abbey, I
hardly saw any thing but marble monuments of great admirals, but
which were all too much loaded with finery and ornaments, to make
on me at least, the intended impression.</p>
<p>I always returned with most pleasure to the poets’
corner, where the most sensible, most able, and most learned men,
of the different ages, were re-assembled; and particularly where
the elegant simplicity of the monuments made an elevated and
affecting impression on the mind, while a perfect recollection of
some favourite passage, of a Shakespeare, or Milton, recurred to
my idea, and seemed for a moment to re-animate and bring back the
spirits of those truly great men.</p>
<p>Of Addison and Pope I have found no monuments here. The
vaults where the kings are buried, and some other things worth
notice in the abbey, I have not yet seen; but perhaps I may at my
return to London from the country.</p>
<p>I have made every necessary preparation for this journey: In
the first place, I have an accurate map of England in my pocket;
besides an excellent book of the roads, which Mr. Pointer, the
English merchant to whom I am recommended, has lent me. The
title is “A new and accurate description of all the direct
and principal cross roads in Great Britain.” This
book, I hope, will be of great service to me in my ramblings.</p>
<p>I was for a long time undecided which way I should go, whether
to the Isle of Wight, to Portsmouth, or to Derbyshire, which is
famous for its natural curiosities, and also for its romantic
situation. At length I have determined on Derbyshire.</p>
<p>During my absence I leave my trunk at Mr. Mulhausen’s
(one of Mr. Pointer’s senior partners), that I may not be
at the needless expense of paying for my lodging without making
use of it. This Mr. Pointer lived long in Germany, and is
politely partial to us and our language, and speaks it
well. He is a well-bred and singularly obliging man; and
one who possesses a vast fund of information, and a good
taste. I cannot but feel myself happy in having obtained a
recommendation to so accomplished a man. I got it from
Messrs. Persent and Dorner, to whom I had the honour to be
recommended by Mr. Von Taubenheim, Privy Counsellor at
Berlin. These recommendations have been of infinite use to
me.</p>
<p>I propose to go to-day as far as Richmond; for which place a
stage sets out about two o’clock from some inn, not far
from the new church in the Strand. Four guineas, some
linen, my English book of the roads, and a map and pocket-book,
together with Milton’s Paradise Lost, which I must put in
my pocket, compose the whole of my equipage; and I hope to walk
very lightly with it. But it now strikes half-past one, and
of course it is time for me to be at the stage.
Farewell! I will write to you again from Richmond.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER VIII.</h2>
<p style="text-align: right"><i>Richmond</i>, 21<i>st</i>
<i>June</i>, 1782.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Yesterday</span> afternoon I had the
luxury for the first time of being driven in an English
stage. These coaches are, at least in the eyes of a
foreigner, quite elegant, lined in the inside; and with two seats
large enough to accommodate six persons; but it must be owned,
when the carriage is full, the company are rather crowded.</p>
<p>At the White Hart from whence the coach sets out, there was,
at first only an elderly lady who got in; but as we drove along,
it was soon filled, and mostly by ladies, there being only one
more gentleman and myself. The conversation of the ladies
among themselves, who appeared to be a little acquainted with
each other, seemed to me to be but very insipid and
tiresome. All I could do was, I drew out my book of the
roads, and marked the way we were going.</p>
<p>Before you well know that you are out of London you are
already in Kensington and Hammersmith; because there are all the
way houses on both sides, after you are out of the city; just as
you may remember the case is with us when you drive from Berlin
to Schoneberg; although in point of prospect, houses and streets,
the difference, no doubt, is prodigious.</p>
<p>It was a fine day, and there were various delightful prospects
on both sides, on which the eye would willingly have dwelt
longer, had not our coach rolled on past them, so provokingly
quick. It appeared somewhat singular to me, when at a few
miles from London, I saw at a distance a beautiful white house;
and perceived on the high road, on which we were driving, a
direction post, on which were written these words: “that
great white house at a distance is a boarding-school!”</p>
<p>The man who was with us in the coach pointed out to us the
country seats of the lords and great people by which we passed;
and entertained us with all kind of stories of robberies which
had been committed on travellers, hereabouts; so that the ladies
at last began to be rather afraid; on which he began to stand up
for the superior honour of the English robbers, when compared
with the French: the former he said robbed only, the latter both
robbed and murdered.</p>
<p>Notwithstanding this there are in England another species of
villains, who also murder, and that oftentimes for the merest
trifle, of which they rob the person murdered. These are
called footpads, and are the lowest class of English rogues;
amongst whom in general there reigns something like some regard
to character.</p>
<p>The highest order of thieves are the pickpockets or cutpurses,
whom you find everywhere; and sometimes even in the best
companies. They are generally well and handsomely dressed,
so that you take them to be persons of rank; as indeed may
sometimes be the case: persons who by extravagance and excesses
have reduced themselves to want, and find themselves obliged at
last to have recourse to pilfering and thieving.</p>
<p>Next to them come the highwaymen, who rob on horseback; and
often, they say, even with unloaded pistols, they terrify
travellers, in order to put themselves in possession of their
purses. Among these persons, however, there are instances
of true greatness of soul, there are numberless instances of
their returning a part of their booty, where the party robbed has
appeared to be particularly distressed; and they are seldom
guilty of murder.</p>
<p>Then comes the third and lowest, and worst of all thieves and
rogues, the footpads before mentioned; who are on foot, and often
murder in the most inhuman manner, for the sake of only a few
shillings, any unfortunate people who happen to fall in their
way. Of this several mournful instances may be read almost
daily in the English papers. Probably they murder, because
they cannot like highwaymen, aided by their horses, make a rapid
flight: and therefore such pests are frequently pretty easily
pursued and taken if the person robbed gives information of his
robbery in time.</p>
<p>But to return to our stage, I must observe, that they have
here a curious way of riding, not in, but upon a
stage-coach. Persons to whom it is not convenient to pay a
full price, instead of the inside, sit on the top of the coach,
without any seats or even a rail. By what means passengers
thus fasten themselves securely on the roof of these vehicles, I
know not; but you constantly see numbers seated there, apparently
at their ease, and in perfect safety.</p>
<p>This they call riding on the outside; for which they pay only
half as much as those pay who are within: we had at present six
of these passengers over our heads, who, when we alighted,
frequently made such a noise and bustle, as sometimes almost
frightened us. He who can properly balance himself, rides
not incommodiously on the outside; and in summer time, in fine
weather, on account of the prospects, it certainly is more
pleasant than it is within: excepting that the company is
generally low, and the dust is likewise more troublesome than in
the inside, where, at any rate, you may draw up the windows
according to your pleasure.</p>
<p>In Kensington, where we stopped, a Jew applied for a place
along with us; but as there was no seat vacant in the inside, he
would not ride on the outside, which seemed not quite to please
my travelling companions. They could not help thinking it
somewhat preposterous that a Jew should be ashamed to ride on the
outside, or on any side, and in any way; since as they added, he
was nothing more than a Jew. This antipathy and prejudice
against the Jews, I have noticed to be far more common here, than
it is even with us, who certainly are not partial to them.</p>
<p>Of the beautiful country seats and villas which we now passed,
I could only through the windows of our coach gain a partial and
indistinct prospect, which led me to wish, as I soon most
earnestly did, to be released from this movable prison.
Towards evening we arrived at Richmond. In London, before I
set out, I had paid one shilling; another was now demanded, so
that upon the whole, from London to Richmond, the passage in the
stage costs just two shillings.</p>
<p>As soon as I had alighted at an inn and had drunk my tea, I
went out immediately to see the town and the circumjacent
country.</p>
<p>Even this town, though hardly out of sight of London, is more
countrified, pleasanter, and more cheerful than London, and the
houses do not seem to be so much blackened by smoke. The
people also appeared to me here more sociable and more
hospitable. I saw several sitting on benches before their
doors, to enjoy the cool breeze of the evening. On a large
green area in the middle of the town, a number of boys, and even
young men, were enjoying themselves, and playing at
trap-ball. In the streets there reigned here, compared to
London, a pleasing rural tranquillity, and I breathed a purer and
fresher air.</p>
<p>I went now out of the town over a bridge, which lies across
the Thames, and where you pay a penny as often as you pass over
it. The bridge is lofty and built in the form of an arch,
and from it you enter immediately into a most charming valley,
that winds all along the banks of the Thames.</p>
<p>It was evening. The sun was just shedding her last
parting rays on the valley; but such an evening, and such a
valley! Oh, it is impossible I should ever forget
them. The terrace at Richmond does assuredly afford one of
the finest prospects in the world. Whatever is charming in
nature, or pleasing in art, is to be seen here. Nothing I
had ever seen, or ever can see elsewhere, is to be compared to
it. My feelings, during the few short enraptured minutes
that I stood there, it is impossible for any pen to describe.</p>
<p>One of my first sensations was chagrin and sorrow for the days
and hours I had wasted in London, and I had vented a thousand
bitter reproaches on my irresolution, that I had not long ago
quitted that huge dungeon to come here and pass my time in
paradise.</p>
<p>Yes, my friend, whatever be your ideas of paradise, and how
luxuriantly soever it may be depicted to your imagination, I
venture to foretell that here you will be sure to find all those
ideas realised. In every point of view, Richmond is
assuredly one of the first situations in the world. Here it
was that Thomson and Pope gleaned from nature all those beautiful
passages with which their inimitable writings abound.</p>
<p>Instead of the incessant distressing noise in London, I saw
here at a distance, sundry little family parties walking arm in
arm along the banks of the Thames. Everything breathed a
soft and pleasing calm, which warmed my heart and filed it with
some of the most pleasing sensations of which our nature is
susceptible.</p>
<p>Beneath I trod on that fresh, even, and soft verdure which is
to be seen only in England. On one side of me lay a wood,
than which nature cannot produce a finer, and on the other the
Thames, with its shelvy bank and charming lawns rising like an
amphitheatre, along which, here and there, one espies a
picturesque white house, aspiring in majestic simplicity to
pierce the dark foliage of the surrounding trees; thus studding,
like stars in the galaxy, the rich expanse of this charming
vale.</p>
<p>Sweet Richmond! never, no, never, shall I forget that lovely
evening, when from thy fairy hills thou didst so hospitably smile
on me, a poor lonely, insignificant stranger! As I
traversed to and fro thy meads, thy little swelling hills and
flowery dells, and above all that queen of all rivers, thy own
majestic Thames, I forgot all sublunary cares, and thought only
of heaven and heavenly things. Happy, thrice happy am I, I
again and again exclaimed, that I am no longer in yon gloomy
city, but here in Elysium, in Richmond.</p>
<p>O ye copsy hills, ye green meadows, and ye rich streams in
this blessed country, how have ye enchanted me? Still,
however, let me recollect and resolve, as I firmly do, that even
ye shall not prevent my return to those barren and dusty lands
where my, perhaps a less indulgent, destiny has placed me, and
where, in the due discharge of all the arduous and important
duties of that humble function to which providence has called me,
I must and I will faithfully exert my best talents, and in that
exertion find pleasure, and I trust, happiness. In every
future moment of my life, however, the recollection of this
scene, and the feelings it inspired, shall cheer my labours and
invigorate my efforts.</p>
<p>These were some of my reflections, my dearest friend, during
my solitary walk. Of the evening I passed at Richmond, I
speak feebly when I content myself with saying only, it was one
of the pleasantest I ever spent in my life.</p>
<p>I now resolved to go to bed early, with a firm purpose of also
rising early the next day to revisit this charming walk; for I
thought to myself, I have now seen this temple of the modern
world imperfectly; I have seen it only by moonlight. How
much more charming must it be when glistening with the morning
dew! These fond hopes, alas, were all disappointed.
In all great schemes of enjoyment, it is, I believe, no bad way
always to figure to yourself some possible evil that may arise,
and to anticipate a disappointment. If I had done so, I
should not perhaps have felt the mortification I then experienced
quite so pungent. By some means or other I stayed too long
out, and so when I returned to Richmond, I had forgot the name
and the sign of the inn where I had before stopped; it cost me no
little trouble to find it again.</p>
<p>When at last I got back, I told the people what a sweet walk I
had had, and they then spoke much of a prospect from a
neighbouring hill, known by the name of Richmond Hill, which was
the very same hill from the top of which I had just been gazing
at the houses in the vale, the preceding evening. From this
same kill, therefore, I resolved the next morning to see the sun
rise.</p>
<p>The landlady of this house was a notable one, and talked so
much and so loud to her servants, that I could not get to sleep
till it was pretty late. However, I was up next morning at
three o’clock, and was now particularly sensible of the
great inconveniences they sustain in England by their bad custom
of rising so late, for as I was the only one in this family who
was up, I could not get out of the house. This obliged me
to spend three most irksome and heavy hours till six
o’clock; however, a servant at length opened the door, and
I rushed out to climb Richmond Hill. To my infinite
disappointment, within the space of an hour, the sky had become
overcast, and it was now so cloudy that I could not even see, nor
of course enjoy one half of the delightful prospect that lay
before me.</p>
<p>On the top of this hill is an alley of chestnut trees, under
which here and there seats are placed. Behind the alley is
a row of well-built gentlemen’s country seats. One
does not wonder to see it thus occupied; besides the pure air,
the prospect exceeds everything else of the kind in the
world. I never saw a palace which, if I were the owner of
it, I would not give for any of the houses I now saw on Richmond
Terrace.</p>
<p>The descent of the hill to the Thames is covered with verdure,
the Thames at the foot of it forms near a semicircle, in which it
seems to embrace woody plains, with meadows and country seats in
its bosom. On one side you see the town and its magnificent
bridge, and on the other a dark wood.</p>
<p>At a distance you could perceive, peeping out among the
meadows and woods, sundry small villages, so that notwithstanding
the dulness of the weather, this prospect even now was one of the
finest I had ever seen. But what is the reason that
yesterday evening my feelings were far more acute and lively, the
impressions made on me much stronger, when from the vale I viewed
the hill and fancied that there was in it every thing that was
delightful, than they are this morning, when from the hill I
overlooked the vale and knew pretty exactly what it
contained?</p>
<p>I have now finished my breakfast, and once more seize my
staff, the only companion I have, and now again set out on this
romantic journey on foot. From Windsor you shall hear more
of me.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER IX.</h2>
<p style="text-align: right"><i>Windsor</i>, 23<i>rd</i>
<i>June</i>.</p>
<p>I <span class="smcap">have</span> already, my dearest friend,
now that I write to you from hence, experienced so many
inconveniences as a traveller on foot, that I am at some loss to
determine whether or no I shall go on with my journey in the same
manner.</p>
<p>A traveller on foot in this country seems to be considered as
a sort of wild man or out-of-the way being, who is stared at,
pitied, suspected, and shunned by everybody that meets him.
At least this has hitherto been my case on the road from Richmond
to Windsor.</p>
<p>My host at Richmond, yesterday morning, could not sufficiently
express his surprise that I intended to venture to walk as far as
Oxford, and still farther. He however was so kind as to
send his son, a clever little boy, to show me the road leading to
Windsor.</p>
<p>At first I walked along a very pleasant footway by the side of
the Thames, where close to my right lay the king’s
garden. On the opposite bank of the Thames was Isleworth, a
spot that seemed to be distinguished by some elegant
gentlemen’s country-seats and gardens. Here I was
obliged to ferry the river in order to get into the Oxford Road,
which also leads to Windsor.</p>
<p>When I was on the other side of the water, I came to a house
and asked a man who was standing at the door if I was on the
right road to Oxford. “Yes,” said he,
“but you want a carriage to carry you thither.”
When I answered him that I intended walking it, he looked at me
significantly, shook his head, and went into the house again.</p>
<p>I was now on the road to Oxford. It is a charming fine
broad road, and I met on it carriages without number, which,
however, on account of the heat, occasioned a dust that was
extremely troublesome and disagreeable. The fine green
hedges, which border the roads in England, contribute greatly to
render them pleasant. This was the case in the road I now
travelled, for when I was tired I sat down in the shade under one
of these hedges and read Milton. But this relief was soon
rendered disagreeable to me, for those who rode or drove past me,
stared at me with astonishment, and made many significant
gestures as if they thought my head deranged; so singular must it
needs have appeared to them to see a man sitting along the side
of a public road and reading. I therefore found myself
obliged, when I wished to rest myself and read, to look out for a
retired spot in some by-lane or crossroad.</p>
<p>When I again walked, many of the coachmen who drove by called
out to me, ever and anon, and asked if I would not ride on the
outside; and when, every now and then, a farmer on horseback met
me, he said, and seemingly with an air of pity for me,
“’Tis warm walking, sir;” and when I passed
through a village, every old woman testified her pity by an
exclamation of—“Good God!”</p>
<p>As far as Hounslow the way was very pleasant; afterwards I
thought it not quite so good. It lay across a common, which
was of a considerable extent, and bare and naked, excepting that
here and there I saw sheep feeding.</p>
<p>I now began to be very tired, when, to my astonishment, I saw
a tree in the middle of the common that stood quite solitary, and
spread a shade like an arbour round it. At the bottom,
round the trunk, a bench was placed, on which one may sit
down. Beneath the shade of this tree I reposed myself a
little, read some of Milton, and made a note in my
memorandum-book that I would remember this tree, which had so
charitably and hospitably received under its shade a weary
traveller. This, you see, I have now done.</p>
<p>The short English miles are delightful for walking. You
are always pleased to find, every now and then, in how short a
time you have walked a mile, though, no doubt, a mile is
everywhere a mile, I walk but a moderate pace, and can accomplish
four English miles in an hour. It used to take me pretty
nearly the same time for one German mile. Now it is a
pleasing exchange to find that in two hours I can walk eight
miles. And now I fancy I was about seventeen miles from
London, when I came to an inn, where, for a little wine and
water, I was obliged to pay sixpence. An Englishman who
happened to be sitting by the side of the innkeeper found out
that I was a German, and, of course, from the country of his
queen, in praise of whom he was quite lavish, observing more than
once that England never had had such a queen, and would not
easily get such another.</p>
<p>It now began to grow hot. On the left hand, almost close
to the high road, I met with a singularly clear rivulet. In
this I bathed, and was much refreshed, and afterwards, with fresh
alacrity, continued my journey.</p>
<p>I had now got over the common, and was once more in a country
rich and well cultivated beyond all conception. This
continued to be the case as far as Slough, which is twenty miles
and a half from London, on the way to Oxford, and from which to
the left there is a road leading to Windsor, whose high white
castle I have already seen at a distance.</p>
<p>I made no stay here, but went directly to the right, along a
very pleasant high road, between meadows and green hedges,
towards Windsor, where I arrived about noon.</p>
<p>It strikes a foreigner as something particular and unusual
when, on passing through these fine English towns, he observed
one of those circumstances by which the towns in Germany are
distinguished from the villages—no walls, no gates, no
sentries, nor garrisons. No stern examiner comes here to
search and inspect us or our baggage; no imperious guard here
demands a sight of our passports; perfectly free and unmolested,
we here walk through villages and towns as unconcerned as we
should through a house of our own.</p>
<p>Just before I got to Windsor I passed Eton College, one of the
first public schools in England, and perhaps in the world.
I have before observed that there are in England fewer of these
great schools than one might expect. It lay on my left; and
on the right, directly opposite to it, was an inn, into which I
went.</p>
<p>I suppose it was during the hour of recreation, or in
playtime, when I got to Eton, for I saw the boys in the yard
before the college, which was enclosed by a low wall, in great
numbers, walking and running up and down.</p>
<p>Their dress struck me particularly. From the biggest to
the least, they all wore black cloaks, or gowns, over coloured
clothes, through which there was an aperture for their
arms. They also wore besides a square hat or cap, that
seemed to be covered with velvet, such as our clergymen in many
places wear.</p>
<p>They were differently employed—some talking together,
some playing, and some had their books in their hands, and were
reading; but I was soon obliged to get out of their sight, they
stared at me so as I came along, all over dust, with my stick in
my hand.</p>
<p>As I entered the inn, and desired to have something to eat,
the countenance of the waiter soon gave me to understand that I
should there find no very friendly reception. Whatever I
got they seemed to give me with such an air as showed too plainly
how little they thought of me, and as if they considered me but
as a beggar. I must do them the justice to own, however,
that they suffered me to pay like a gentleman. No doubt
this was the first time this pert, bepowdered puppy had ever been
called on to wait on a poor devil who entered their place on
foot. I was tired, and asked for a bedroom where I might
sleep. They showed me into one that much resembled a prison
for malefactors. I requested that I might have a better
room at night; on which, without any apology, they told me that
they had no intention of lodging me, as they had no room for such
guests, but that I might go back to Slough, where very probably I
might get a night’s lodging.</p>
<p>With money in my pocket, and a consciousness, moreover, that I
was doing nothing that was either imprudent, unworthy, or really
mean, I own it mortified and vexed me to find myself obliged to
put up with this impudent ill-usage from people who ought to
reflect that they are but the servants of the public, and little
likely to recommend themselves to the high by being insolent to
the low. They made me, however, pay them two shillings for
my dinner and coffee, which I had just thrown down, and was
preparing to shake off the dust from my shoes, and quit this
inhospitable St. Christopher, when the green hills of Windsor
smiled so friendly upon me, that they seemed to invite me first
to visit them.</p>
<p>And now trudging through the streets of Windsor, I at length
mounted a sort of hill; a steep path led me on to its summit,
close to the walls of the castle, where I had an uncommonly
extensive and fine prospect, which so much raised my heart, that
in a moment I forgot not only the insults of waiters and
tavern-keepers, but the hardship of my lot in being obliged to
travel in a manner that exposed me to the scorn of a people whom
I wished to respect. Below me lay the most beautiful
landscapes in the world—all the rich scenery that nature,
in her best attire, can exhibit. Here were the spots that
furnished those delightful themes of which the muse of Denham and
Pope made choice. I seemed to view a whole world at once,
rich and beautiful beyond conception. At that moment what
more could I have wished for?</p>
<p>And the venerable castle, that royal edifice which, in every
part of it, has strong traces of antiquity, smiles through its
green trees, like the serene countenance of some hoary sage, who,
by the vigour of a happy constitution, still retains many of the
charms of youth.</p>
<p>Nothing inspired me with more veneration and awe than the fine
old building St. George’s Church, which, as you come down
from the castle, is on your right. At the sight of it past
centuries seemed to revive in my imagination.</p>
<p>But I will see no more of those sights which are shown you by
one of those venal praters, who ten times a day, parrot-wise,
repeat over the same dull lesson they have got by heart.
The surly fellow, who for a shilling conducted me round the
church, had nearly, with his chattering, destroyed the finest
impressions. Henry VIII., Charles I., and Edward IV. are
buried here. After all, this church, both within and
without, has a most melancholy and dismal appearance.</p>
<p>They were building at what is called the queen’s palace,
and prodigious quantities of materials are provided for that
purpose.</p>
<p>I now went down a gentle declivity into the delightful park at
Windsor, at the foot of which it looks so sombrous and gloomy
that I could hardly help fancying it was some vast old Gothic
temple. This forest certainly, in point of beauty,
surpasses everything of the kind you can figure to
yourself. To its own charms, when I saw it, there were
added a most pleasing and philosophical solitude, the coolness of
an evening breeze, all aided by the soft sounds of music, which,
at this distance from the castle, from whence it issued, was
inexpressibly sweet. It threw me into a sort of
enthusiastic and pleasing reverie, which made me ample amends for
the fatigues, discourtesies, and continued cross accidents I had
encountered in the course of the day.</p>
<p>I now left the forest; the clock struck six, and the workmen
were going home from their work.</p>
<p>I have forgot to mention the large round tower of the castle,
which is also a very ancient building. The roads that lead
to it are all along their sides planted with shrubs; these, being
modern and lively, make a pleasing contrast to the fine old mossy
walls. On the top of this tower the flag of Great Britain
is usually displayed, which, however, as it was now late in the
evening, was taken in.</p>
<p>As I came down from the castle I saw the king driving up to it
in a very plain, two-wheeled, open carriage. The people
here were politer than I used to think they were in London, for I
did not see a single person, high or low, who did not pull off
their hats as their sovereign passed them.</p>
<p>I was now again in Windsor, and found myself, not far from the
castle, opposite to a very capital inn, where I saw many officers
and several persons of consequence going in and out. And
here at this inn, contrary to all expectation, I was received by
the landlord with great civility, and even kindness—very
contrary to the haughty and insolent airs which the upstart at
the other, and his jackanapes of a waiter, there thought fit to
give themselves.</p>
<p>However, it seemed to be my fate to be still a scandal and an
eyesore to all the waiters. The maid, by the order of her
master, showed me a room where I might adjust my dress a little;
but I could hear her mutter and grumble as she went along with
me. Having put myself a little to rights, I went down into
the coffee-room, which is immediately at the entrance of the
house, and told the landlord that I thought I wished to have yet
one more walk. On this he obligingly directed me to stroll
down a pleasant field behind his house, at the foot of which, he
said, I should find the Thames, and a good bathing place.</p>
<p>I followed his advice; and this evening was, if possible,
finer than the preceding. Here again, as I had been told I
should, I found the Thames with all its gentle windings.
Windsor shone nearly as bright over the green vale as those
charming houses on Richmond Hill, and the verdure was not less
soft and delicate. The field I was in seemed to slope a
little towards the Thames. I seated myself near a bush, and
there waited the going down of the sun. At a distance I saw
a number of people bathing in the Thames. When, after
sunset, they were a little dispersed, I drew near the spot I had
been directed to; and here, for the first time, I sported in the
cool tide of the Thames. The bank was steep, but my
landlord had dug some steps that went down into the water, which
is extremely convenient for those who cannot swim. Whilst I
was there, a couple of smart lively apprentice boys came also
from the town, who, with the greatest expedition, threw off their
clothes and leathern aprons, and plunged themselves, head
foremost, into the water, where they opposed the tide with their
sinewy arms till they were tired. They advised me, with
much natural civility, to untie my hair, and that then, like
them, I might plunge into the stream head foremost.</p>
<p>Refreshed and strengthened by this cool bath, I took a long
walk by moonlight on the banks of the Thames. To my left
were the towers of Windsor, before me a little village with a
steeple, the top of which peeped out among the green trees, at a
distance two inviting hills which I was to climb in the morning,
and around me the green cornfields. Oh! how indescribably
beautiful was this evening and this walk! At a distance
among the houses I could easily descry the inn where I lodged,
and where I seemed to myself at length to have found a place of
refuge and a home; and I thought, if I could but stay there, I
should not be very sorry if I were never to find another.</p>
<p>How soon did all these pleasing dreams vanish! On my
return the waiters (who, from my appearance, too probably
expected but a trifling reward for their attentions to me)
received me gruffly, and as if they were sorry to see me
again. This was not all; I had the additional mortification
to be again roughly accosted by the cross maid who had before
shown me to the bed-chamber, and who, dropping a kind of half
courtesy, with a suppressed laugh, sneeringly told me I might
look out for another lodging, as I could not sleep there, since
the room she had by mistake shown me was already engaged.
It can hardly be necessary to tell you that I loudly protested
against this sudden change. At length the landlord came,
and I appealed to him; and he with great courtesy immediately
desired another room to be shown me, in which, however, there
were two beds, so that I was obliged to admit a companion.
Thus was I very near being a second time turned out of an
inn.</p>
<p>Directly under my room was the tap-room, from which I could
plainly hear too much of the conversation of some low people, who
were drinking and singing songs, in which, as far as I could
understand them, there were many passages at least as vulgar and
nonsensical as ours.</p>
<p>This company, I guessed, consisted chiefly of soldiers and low
fellows. I was hardly well lulled to sleep by this
hurly-burly, when my chum (probably one of the drinking party
below) came stumbling into the room and against my bed. At
length, though not without some difficulty, he found his own bed,
into which he threw himself just as he was, without staying to
pull off either clothes or boots.</p>
<p>This morning I rose very early, as I had proposed, in order to
climb the two hills which yesterday presented me with so inviting
a prospect, and in particular that one of them on the summit of
which a high white house appeared among the dark-green trees; the
other was close by.</p>
<p>I found no regular path leading to these hills, and therefore
went straight forward, without minding roads, only keeping in
view the object of my aim. This certainly created me some
trouble. I had sometimes a hedge, and sometimes a hog to
walk round; but at length I had attained the foot of the so
earnestly wished-for hill with the high white house on its
summit, when, just as I was going to ascend it, and was already
pleasing myself in the idea with the prospect from the white
house, behold I read these words on a board: “Take care!
there are steel traps and spring guns here.”</p>
<p>All my labour was lost, and I now went round to the other
hill; but here were also steel traps and spring gnus, though
probably never intended to annoy such a wanderer as myself, who
wished only to enjoy the fine morning air from this eminence.</p>
<p>Thus disappointed in my hopes, I returned to Windsor, much in
the same temper and manner as I had yesterday morning from
Richmond Hill; where my wishes had also been frustrated.</p>
<p>When I got to my inn, I received from the ill-tempered maid,
who seemed to have been stationed there on purpose to plague and
vex me, the polite welcome, that on no account should I sleep
another night there. Luckily, that was not my
intention. I now write to you in the coffee room, where two
Germans are talking together, who certainly little suspect how
well I understand them; if I were to make myself known to them,
as a German, most probably, even these fellows would not speak to
me, because I travel on foot. I fancy they are
Hanoverians! The weather is so fine that, notwithstanding
the inconveniences I have hitherto experienced on this account, I
think I shall continue my journey in the same manner.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER X.</h2>
<p style="text-align: right"><i>Oxford</i>, <i>June</i> 25.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">To</span> what various, singular, and
unaccountable fatalities and adventures are not foot-travellers
exposed, in this land of carriages and horses! But, I will
begin my relation in form and order.</p>
<p>In Windsor, I was obliged to pay for an old fowl I had for
supper, for a bedroom which I procured with some difficulty, and
not without murmurs, and in which, to complete my misadventures,
I was disturbed by a drunken fellow; and for a couple of dishes
of tea, nine shillings, of which the fowl alone was charged six
shillings.</p>
<p>As I was going away the waiter, who had served me with so very
ill a grace, placed himself on the stairs and said, “Pray
remember the waiter.” I gave him three halfpence, on
which he saluted me with the heartiest “G—d d—n
you, sir!” I had ever heard. At the door stood the
cross maid, who also accosted me with, “Pray remember the
chambermaid.” “Yes, yes,” said I,
“I shall long remember your most ill-mannered behaviour and
shameful incivility;” and so I gave her nothing. I
hope she was stung and nettled at my reproof; however, she strove
to stifle her anger by a contemptuous, loud, hoarse laugh.
Thus, as I left Windsor, I was literally followed by abuses and
curses.</p>
<p>I am very sorry to say that I rejoiced when I once more
perceived the towers of Windsor behind me. It is not proper
for wanderers to be prowling near the palaces of kings, and so I
sat me down, philosophically, in the shade of a green hedge, and
again read Milton, no friend of kings, though the first of
poets. Whatever I may think of their inns, it is impossible
not to admire and be charmed with this country.</p>
<p>I took my way through Slough, by Salthill, to
Maidenhead. At Salthill, which can hardly be called even a
village, I saw a barber’s shop, and so I resolved to get
myself both shaved and dressed. For putting my hair a
little in order, and shaving me, I was forced to pay him a
shilling. Opposite to this shop there stands an elegant
house and a neat garden.</p>
<p>Between Salthill and Maidenhead, I met with the first very
remarkable and alarming adventure that has occurred during my
pilgrimage.</p>
<p>Hitherto I had scarcely met a single foot passenger, whilst
coaches without number every moment rolled past me, for there are
few roads, even in England, more crowded than this western road,
which leads to Bath and Bristol as well as to Oxford. I now
also began to meet numbers of people on horseback, which is by no
means an usual method of travelling.</p>
<p>The road now led me along a low sunken piece of ground between
high trees, so that I could not see far before me, when a fellow
in a brown frock and round hat, with a stick in his hand a great
deal stronger than mine, came up to me. His countenance
immediately struck me as having in it something suspicious.
He however passed me; but, before I was aware, he turned back and
asked me for a halfpenny to buy, as he said, some bread, as he
had eaten nothing that day. I felt in my pocket, and found
that I had no halfpence: no, nor even a sixpence; in short,
nothing but shillings. I told him the circumstance, which I
hoped would excuse me; on which he said, with an air and manner
the drift of which I could not understand, “God bless my
soul!” This drew my attention still closer to the
huge brawny fist, which grasped his stick, and that closer
attention determined me immediately to put my hand in my pocket
and give him a shilling. Meanwhile a coach came up.
The fellow thanked me and went on. Had the coach come a
moment sooner, I should not easily have given him the shilling,
which, God knows, I could not well spare. Whether this was
a footpad or not, I will not pretend to say, but he had every
appearance of it.</p>
<p>I now came to Maidenhead bridge, which is five-and-twenty
English miles from London.</p>
<p>The English milestones give me much pleasure, and they
certainly are a great convenience to travellers. They have
often seemed to ease me of half the distance of a journey merely
by telling me how far I had already gone, and by assuring me that
I was on the right road. For, besides the distance from
London, every milestone informs you that to the next place is so
many miles, and where there are cross-roads there are
direction-posts, so that it is hardly possible to lose
one’s-self in walking. I must confess that all this
journey has seemed but as it were one continued walk for
pleasure.</p>
<p>From Maidenhead bridge there is a delightful prospect towards
a hill, which extends itself along the right bank of the Thames,
and on the top of it there are two beautiful country seats, all
surrounded with meadows and parks. The first is called
Taplow, and belongs to the Earl of Inchiquin; and a little
farther Cliefden, which also belongs to him.</p>
<p>These villas seem all to be surrounded with green meadows,
lying along thick woods, and, altogether, are most charming.</p>
<p>From this bridge it is not far to Maidenhead, near which, on
the left, is another prospect of a beautiful seat, belonging to
Pennyston Powney, Esq.</p>
<p>All this knowledge I have gained chiefly from my English
guide; which I have constantly in my hand; and in which
everything most worthy of notice in every mile is marked.
These notices I get confirmed or refuted by the people at whose
houses I stop; who wonder how I, who am a foreigner, have come to
be so well acquainted with their country.</p>
<p>Maidenhead is a place of little note; for some mulled ale,
which I desired them to make me, I was obliged to pay
ninepence. I fancy they did not take me to be either a
great, or a very rich man, for I heard them say, as I passed on,
“A stout fellow!” This, though perhaps not
untrue, did not seem to sound in my ears as very respectful.</p>
<p>At the end of the village was a shoemaker’s shop, just
as at the end of Salthill there was a barber’s shop.</p>
<p>From hence I went to Henley, which is eleven miles from
Maidenhead, and thirty-six from London.</p>
<p>Having walked pretty fast for six English miles together, and
being now only five miles from Henley, I came to a rising ground
where there just happened to be a milestone, near which I sat
down, to enjoy one of the most delightful prospects, the
contemplation of which I recommend to everyone who may ever
happen to come to this spot. Close before me rose a soft
hill, full of green cornfields, fenced with quick-hedges, and the
top of it was encircled with a wood.</p>
<p>At some little distance, in a large semicircle, one green hill
rose after another, all around me, gently raising themselves
aloft from the banks of the Thames, and on which woods, meadows,
arable lands, and villages were interspersed in the greatest and
most beautiful variety; whilst at their foot the Thames
meandered, in most picturesque windings, among villages,
gentlemen’s seats, and green vales.</p>
<p>The banks of the Thames are everywhere beautiful, everywhere
charming; how delighted was I with the sight of it when, having
lost it for a short time, I suddenly and unexpectedly saw it
again with all its beautiful banks. In the vale below,
flocks were feeding; and from the hills I heard the sweet chimes
of distant bells.</p>
<p>The circumstance that renders these English prospects so
enchantingly beautiful, is a concurrence and union of the <i>tout
ensemble</i>. Everything coincides and conspires to render
them fine, moving pictures. It is impossible to name, or
find a spot, on which the eye would not delight to dwell.
Any of the least beautiful of any of these views that I have seen
in England would, anywhere in Germany, be deemed a paradise.</p>
<p>Reinforced, as it were, by this gratifying prospect, to
support fresh fatigues, I now walked a quick pace, both up and
down the hills, the five remaining miles to Henley, where I
arrived about four in the afternoon.</p>
<p>To the left, just before I got to Henley, on this side of the
Thames, I saw on a hill a fine park and a magnificent country
seat, at present occupied by General Conway.</p>
<p>Just before my entrance into Henley, I walked a little
directly on the banks of the Thames; and sat myself down in the
high grass, whilst opposite to me, on the other side, lay the
park on the hill. As I was a little tired, I fell asleep,
and when I awoke the last rays of the setting sun just shone upon
me.</p>
<p>Invigorated by this sweet, though short, slumber, I walked on
and entered the town. Its appearance, however, indicated
that it was too fine a place for me, and so I determined to stop
at an inn on the road-side, such a one as the Vicar of Wakefield
well calls, “the resort of indigence and
frugality.”</p>
<p>The worst of it was, no one, even in these places of refuge,
would take me in. Yet, on this road, I met two farmers, the
first of whom I asked whether he thought I could get a
night’s lodging at a house which I saw at a distance, by
the road side. “Yes, sir, I daresay you may,”
he replied. But he was mistaken: when I came there, I was
accosted with that same harsh salutation, which though, alas, no
longer quite new to me, was still unpleasing to my ears;
“We have got no beds; you can’t stay here
to-night.” It was the same at the other inn on
the road; I was therefore obliged to determine to walk on as far
as Nettlebed, which was five miles farther, where I arrived
rather late in the evening, when it was indeed quite dark.</p>
<p>Everything seemed to be all alive in this little village;
there was a party of militia soldiers who were dancing, singing,
and making merry. Immediately on my entrance into the
village, the first house that I saw, lying on my left, was an
inn, from which, as usual in England, a large beam extended
across the street to the opposite house, from which hung dangling
an astonishing large sign, with the name of the proprietor.</p>
<p>“May I stay here to-night?” I asked with
eagerness. “Why, yes, you may;” an answer
which, however cold and surly, made me exceedingly happy.</p>
<p>They showed me into the kitchen, and set me down to sup at the
same table with some soldiers and the servants. I now, for
the first time, found myself in one of those kitchens which I had
so often read of in Fielding’s fine novels; and which
certainly give one, on the whole, a very accurate idea of English
manners.</p>
<p>The chimney in this kitchen, where they were roasting and
boiling, seemed to be taken off from the rest of the room and
enclosed by a wooden partition; the rest of the apartment was
made use of as a sitting and eating-room. All round on the
sides were shelves with pewter dishes and plates, and the ceiling
was well stored with provisions of various kinds, such as
sugar-loaves, black-puddings, hams, sausages, flitches of bacon,
&c.</p>
<p>While I was eating, a post-chaise drove up, and in a moment
both the folding-doors were thrown open and the whole house set
in motion, in order to receive, with all due respect, these
guests, who, no doubt, were supposed to be persons of
consequence. The gentlemen alighted, however, only for a
moment, and called for nothing but a couple of pots of beer, and
then drove away again. Notwithstanding, the people of the
house behaved to them with all possible attention, for they came
in a post-chaise.</p>
<p>Though this was only an ordinary village, and they certainly
did not take me for a person of consequence, they yet gave me a
carpeted bedroom, and a very good bed.</p>
<p>The next morning I put on clean linen, which I had along with
me, and dressed myself as well as I could. And now, when I
thus made my appearance, they did not, as they had the evening
before, show me into the kitchen, but into the parlour, a room
that seemed to be allotted for strangers, on the
ground-floor. I was also now addressed by the most
respectful term, “sir;” whereas the evening before I
had been called only “master”: by this latter
appellation, I believe, it is usual to address only farmers and
quite common people.</p>
<p>This was Sunday, and all the family were in their
Sunday-clothes. I now began to be much pleased with this
village, and so I resolved to stop at it for the day, and attend
divine service. For this purpose I borrowed a prayer-book
of my host. Mr. Illing was his name, which struck me the
more, perhaps, because it is a very common name in Germany.
During my breakfast I read over several parts of the English
liturgy, and could not help being struck at the circumstance that
every word in the whole service seems to be prescribed and
dictated to the clergyman. They do not visit the sick but
by a prescribed form; as, for instance, they must begin by
saying, “Peace be to this house,” &c.</p>
<p>Its being called a prayer-book, rather than, like ours, a
hymn-book, arises from the nature of the English service, which
is composed very little of singing, and almost entirely of
praying. The psalms of David, however, are here translated
into English verse, and are generally printed at the end of
English prayer-books.</p>
<p>The prayer-book which my landlord lent me was quite a family
piece, for all his children’s births and names, and also
his own wedding-day, were very carefully set down on it.
Even on this account alone the book would not have been
uninteresting to me.</p>
<p>At half-past nine the service began. Directly opposite
to our house, the boys of the village were all drawn up, as if
they had been recruits to be drilled; all well-looking, healthy
lads, neat and decently dressed, and with their hair cut short
and combed on the forehead, according to the English fashion;
their bosoms were open, and the white frills of their shirts
turned back on each side. They seemed to be drawn up here
at the entrance of the village merely to wait the arrival of the
clergyman.</p>
<p>I walked a little way out of the village, where, at some
distance, I saw several people coming from another village, to
attend divine service here at Nettlebed.</p>
<p>At length came the parson on horseback. The boys pulled
off their hats, and all made him very low bows. He appeared
to be rather an elderly man, and wore his own hair round and
decently dressed, or rather curled naturally.</p>
<p>The bell now rung in, and so I too, with a sort of secret
proud sensation, as if I also had been an Englishman, went with
my prayer-book under my arm to church, along with the rest of the
congregation; and when I got into the church, the clerk very
civilly seated me close to the pulpit.</p>
<p>Nothing can possibly be more simple, apt, and becoming than
the few decorations of this church.</p>
<p>Directly over the altar, on two tables in large letters, the
ten commandments were written. There surely is much wisdom
and propriety in thus placing, full in the view of the people,
the sum and substance of all morality.</p>
<p>Under the pulpit near the steps that led up to it, was a desk,
from which the clergyman read the liturgy, the responses were all
regularly made by the clerk; the whole congregation joining
occasionally, though but in a low voice; as for instance, the
minister said, “Lord, have mercy upon us!” the clerk
and the congregation immediately subjoin, “and forgive us
all our sins.” In general, when the clergyman offers
up a prayer, the clerk and the whole congregation answer only,
Amen!</p>
<p>The English service must needs be exceedingly fatiguing to the
officiating minister, inasmuch as besides a sermon, the greatest
part of the liturgy falls to his share to read, besides the
psalms and two lessons.</p>
<p>The joining of the whole congregation in prayer has something
exceedingly solemn and affecting in it.</p>
<p>Two soldiers, who sat near me in the church, and who had
probably been in London, seemed to wish to pass for philosophers,
and wits; for they did not join in the prayers of the church.</p>
<p>The service was now pretty well advanced, when I observed some
little stir in the desk, the clerk was busy, and they seemed to
be preparing for something new and solemn, and I also perceived
several musical instruments. The clergyman now stopped, and
the clerk then said in a loud voice, “Let us sing to the
praise and glory of God, the forty-seventh psalm.”</p>
<p>I cannot well express how affecting and edifying it seemed to
me, to hear this whole orderly and decent congregation, in this
small country church, joining together with vocal and
instrumental music, in the praise of their Maker. It was
the more grateful, as having been performed, not by mercenary
musicians, but by the peaceful and pious inhabitants of this
sweet village. I can hardly figure to myself any offering
more likely to be grateful to God.</p>
<p>The congregation sang and prayed alternately several times,
and the tunes of the psalms were particularly lively and
cheerful, though at the same time sufficiently grave, and
uncommonly interesting. I am a warm admirer of all sacred
music, and I cannot but add that that of the Church of England is
particularly calculated to raise the heart to devotion; I own it
often affected me even to tears.</p>
<p>The clergyman now stood up and made a short but very proper
discourse on this text: “Not all they who say, Lord, Lord!
shall enter the kingdom of heaven.” His language was
particularly plain, though forcible; his arguments were no less
plain, convincing, and earnest, but contained nothing that was
particularly striking. I do not think the sermon lasted
more than half an hour.</p>
<p>This clergyman had not perhaps a very prepossessing
appearance; I thought him also a little distant and reserved, and
I did not quite like his returning the bows of the farmers with a
very formal nod.</p>
<p>I stayed till the service was quite over, and then went out of
the church with the congregation, and amused myself with reading
the inscriptions on the tombstones in the churchyard, which in
general, are simpler, more pathetic, and better written than
ours.</p>
<p>There were some of them which, to be sure, were ludicrous and
laughable enough.</p>
<p>Among these is one on the tomb of a smith, which on account of
its singularity, I here copy and send you.</p>
<blockquote><p>“My sledge and anvil he declined,<br />
My bellows too have lost their wind;<br />
My fire’s extinct, my forge decayed,<br />
My coals are spent, my iron’s gone,<br />
My nails are drove: my work is done.”</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Many of these epitaphs closed with the following quaint
rhymes:</p>
<blockquote><p>“Physicians were in vain;<br />
God knew the best;<br />
So here I rest.”</p>
</blockquote>
<p>In the body of the church I saw a marble monument of a son of
the celebrated Dr. Wallis, with the following simple and
affecting inscription:</p>
<blockquote><p>“The same good sense which qualified him for
every public employment<br />
Taught him to spend his life here in retirement.”</p>
</blockquote>
<p>All the farmers whom I saw there were dressed, not as ours
are, in coarse frocks, but with some taste, in fine good cloth;
and were to be distinguished from the people of the town, not so
much by their dress, as by the greater simplicity and modesty of
their behaviour.</p>
<p>Some soldiers, who probably were ambitious of being thought to
know the world, and to be wits, joined me, as I was looking at
the church, and seemed to be quite ashamed of it, as they said it
was only a very miserable church. On which I took the
liberty to inform them, that no church could be miserable which
contained orderly and good people.</p>
<p>I stayed here to dinner. In the afternoon there was no
service; the young people however, went to church, and there sang
some few psalms; others of the congregation were also
present. This was conducted with so much decorum, that I
could hardly help considering it as actually a kind of
church-service. I stayed with great pleasure till this
meeting also was over.</p>
<p>I seemed indeed to be enchanted, and as if I could not leave
this village. Three times did I get off, in order to go on
farther, and as often returned, more than half resolved to spend
a week, or more, in my favourite Nettlebed.</p>
<p>But the recollection that I had but a few weeks to stay in
England, and that I must see Derbyshire, at length drove me
away. I cast many a longing, lingering look on the little
church-steeple, and those hospitable friendly roofs, where, all
that morning, I had found myself so perfectly at home.</p>
<p>It was now nearly three o’clock in the afternoon when I
left this place, and I was still eighteen miles from
Oxford. However, I seemed resolved to make more than one
stage of it to Oxford, that seat of the muses, and so, by passing
the night about five miles from it, to reach it in good time next
morning.</p>
<p>The road from Nettlebed seemed to me but as one long fine
gravel walk in a neat garden. And my pace in it was varied,
like that of one walking in a garden: I sometimes walked quick,
then slow, and then sat down and read Milton.</p>
<p>When I had got about eight miles from Nettlebed, and was now
not far from Dorchester, I had the Thames at some distance on my
left, and on the opposite side I saw an extensive hill, behind
which a tall mast seemed to rise. This led me to suppose
that on the other side of the hill there must needs also be a
river. The prospect I promised myself from this hill could
not possibly be passed, and so I went out of the road to the left
over a bridge across the Thames, and mounted the hill, always
keeping the mast in view. When I had attained the summit, I
found (and not without some shame and chagrin) that it was all an
illusion. There was, in fact, nothing before me but a great
plain, and the mast had been fixed there, either as a maypole
only, or to entice curious people out of their way.</p>
<p>I therefore now again, slowly and sullenly, descended the
hill, at the bottom of which was a house, where several people
were looking out of the window, and, as I supposed, laughing at
me. Even if it were so, it seemed to be but fair, and so it
rather amused, than vexed me, and I continued to jog on, without
much regretting my waste journey to the mast.</p>
<p>Not far from Dorchester, I had another delightful view.
The country here became so fine, that I positively could not
prevail on myself to quit it, and so I laid myself down on the
green turf, which was so fresh and sweet, that I could almost
have been contented, like Nebuchadnezzar, to have grazed on
it. The moon was at the full; the sun darted its last
parting rays through the green hedges, to all which was added,
the overpowering fragrance of the meadows, the diversified song
of the birds, the hills that skirted the Thames, some of them of
a light, and others of a dark-green hue, with the tufted tops of
trees dispersed here and there among them. The
contemplation of all these delightful circumstances well-nigh
overcame me.</p>
<p>I arrived rather late at Dorchester. This is only a
small place, but there is in it a large and noble old
church. As I was walking along, I saw several ladies with
their heads dressed, leaning out of their windows, or standing
before the houses, and this made me conclude that this was too
fine a place for me, and so I determined to walk on
three-quarters of a mile farther to Nuneham, which place is only
five miles from Oxford. When I reached Nuneham, I was not a
little tired, and it was also quite dark.</p>
<p>The place consists of two rows of low, neat houses, built
close to each other, and as regular and uniform as a London
street. All the doors seemed to be shut, and even a light
was to be seen only in a few of them.</p>
<p>At length quite at the end of the place, I perceived a great
sign hanging across the street, and the last house to the left
was the inn, at which everything seemed to be still in
motion.</p>
<p>I entered without ceremony, and told them my errand, which
was, that I intended to sleep there that night. “By
no means,” was the answer, “it was utterly
impossible; the whole house was full, and all their beds engaged,
and, as I had come so far, I might even as well walk on the
remaining five miles to Oxford.”</p>
<p>Being very hungry, I requested that, at least, they would give
me something to eat. To this they answered that, as I could
not stay all night there, it would be more proper for me to sup
where I lodged, and so I might go on.</p>
<p>At length, quite humbled by the untowardness of my
circumstances, I asked for a pot of beer, and that they did
vouchsafe to give me, for ready money only; but a bit of bread to
eat with it (for which also I would willingly have paid) they
peremptorily refused me.</p>
<p>Such unparalleled inhospitality I really could not have
expected in an English inn, but resolving, with a kind of
spiteful indignation, to see how far their inhumanity would carry
them, I begged that they would only let me sleep on a bench, and
merely give me house-room, adding, that if they would grant me
that boon only, I would pay them the same as for a bed, for, that
I was so tired, I could not possibly go any farther. Even
in the moment that I was thus humbly soliciting this humble boon,
they banged the door to full in my face.</p>
<p>As here, in a small village, they had refused to receive me,
it seemed to be presumption to hope that I should gain admittance
at Oxford. What could I do? I was much tired, and so,
as it was not a very cold night, I resolved to pass it in the
open air; in this resolution, bouncing from this rude inn, I went
to look out for a convenient spot for that purpose in an
adjoining field, beneath some friendly tree. Just as I had
found a place, which I thought would do, and was going to pull
off my great coat to lay under my head by way of pillow, I heard
someone behind me, following me with a quick pace. At first
I was alarmed, but my fears were soon dispelled by his calling
after me, and asking “if I would accept of
company.”</p>
<p>As little as anyone is to be trusted who thus follows you into
a field in a dark night, yet it was a pleasure to me to find that
there were still some beings not quite inhuman, and at least one
person who still interested himself about me, I therefore
stopped, and as he came up to me he said that if I was a good
walker, we might keep each other company, as he was also going to
Oxford. I readily accepted of his proposal, and so we
immediately set off together.</p>
<p>Now, as I could not tell whether my travelling companion was
to be trusted or not, I soon took an opportunity to let him know
that I was poor, and much distressed. To confirm this, I
told him of the inhumanity with which I had just been treated at
the inn, where they refused a poor wanderer so much as a place to
lay his head, or even a morsel of bread for his money.</p>
<p>My companion somewhat excused the people by saying that the
house was really full of people who had been at work in the
neighbourhood, and now slept there. But that they had
refused me a bit of bread he certainly could not justify.
As we went along, other topics of conversation were started, and
among other things he asked me where I came from that day.</p>
<p>I answered from Nettlebed, and added, that I had attended
divine service there that morning.</p>
<p>“As you probably passed through Dorchester this
afternoon,” said he, “you might have heard me preach
also, had you come into the church there, for that is my curacy,
from which I am just come, and am now returning to
Oxford.” “So you are a clergyman;” said
I, quite overjoyed that, in a dark night, I had met a companion
on the road, who was of the same profession as myself.
“And I, also,” said I, “am a preacher of the
gospel, though not of this country.” And now I
thought it right to give him to understand, that it was not, as I
had before intimated, out of absolute poverty, but with a view of
becoming better acquainted with men and manners, that I thus
travelled on foot. He was as much pleased with this
agreeable meeting as myself, and before we took a step farther,
we cordially shook hands.</p>
<p>He now began to address me in Latin, and on my answering him
in that language, which I attempted to pronounce according to the
English manner of speaking it, he applauded me not a little for
my correct pronunciation. He then told me, that some years
ago, in the night also, and nearly at the same spot where he
found me, he had met another German, who likewise spoke to him in
Latin; but this unknown countryman of mine had pronounced it so
very badly, that he said it was absolutely unintelligible.</p>
<p>The conversation now turned on various theological matters;
and among others on the novel notions of a Dr. Priestly, whom he
roundly blamed. I was not at all disposed to dispute that
point with him, and so, professing with great sincerity, a high
esteem for the Church of England, and great respect and regard
for its clergy, I seemed to gain his good opinion.</p>
<p>Beguiling the tediousness of the road by such discourse, we
were now got, almost without knowing it, quite to Oxford.</p>
<p>He told me I should now see one of the finest and most
beautiful cities, not only in England, but in all Europe.
All he lamented, was, that on account of the darkness of the
night, I should not immediately see it.</p>
<p>This really was the case: “And now,” said he, as
we entered the town, “I introduce you into Oxford by one of
the finest, the longest, and most beautiful streets, not only in
this city, but in England, and I may safely add in all
Europe.”</p>
<p>The beauty and the magnificence of the street I could not
distinguish; but of its length I was perfectly sensible by my
fatigue; for we still went on, and still through the longest, the
finest, and most beautiful street in Europe, which seemed to have
no end; nor had I any assurance that I should be able to find a
bed for myself in all this famous street. At length my
companion stopped to take leave of me, and said he should now go
to his college.</p>
<p>“And I,” said I, “will seat myself for the
night on this stone bench and await the morning, as it will be in
vain for me, I imagine, to look for shelter in a house at this
time of night.”</p>
<p>“Seat yourself on a stone!” said my companion, and
shook his head. “No, no! come along with me to a
neighbouring ale-house, where it is possible they mayn’t be
gone to bed, and we may yet find company.” We went on
a few houses further, and then knocked at a door. It was
then nearly twelve. They readily let us in; but how great
was my astonishment, when, on being shown into a room on the
left, I saw a great number of clergymen, all with their gowns and
bands on, sitting round a large table, each with his pot of beer
before him. My travelling companion introduced me to them,
as a German clergyman, whom he could not sufficiently praise for
my correct pronunciation of the Latin, my orthodoxy, and my good
walking.</p>
<p>I now saw myself in a moment, as it were, all at once
transported into the midst of a company, all apparently very
respectable men, but all strangers to me. And it appeared
to me extraordinary that I should, thus at midnight, be in
Oxford, in a large company of Oxonian clergy, without well
knowing how I had got there. Meanwhile, however, I took all
the pains in my power to recommend myself to my company, and in
the course of conversation, I gave them as good an account as I
could of our German universities, neither denying nor concealing
that, now and then, we had riots and disturbances.
“Oh, we are very unruly here, too,” said one of the
clergymen as he took a hearty draught out of his pot of beer, and
knocked on the table with his hand. The conversation now
became louder, more general, and a little confused; they enquired
after Mr. Bruns, at present professor at Helmstadt, and who was
known by many of them.</p>
<p>Among these gentlemen there was one of the name of Clerk, who
seemed ambitious to pass for a great wit, which he attempted by
starting sundry objections to the Bible. I should have
liked him better if he had confined himself to punning and
playing on his own name, by telling us again and again, that he
should still be at least a Clerk, even though he should never
become a clergyman. Upon the whole, however, he was, in his
way, a man of some humour, and an agreeable companion.</p>
<p>Among other objections to the Scriptures, he started this one
to my travelling companion, whose name I now learnt was Maud,
that it was said in the Bible that God was a wine-bibber.
On this Mr. Maud fell into a violent passion, and maintained that
it was utterly impossible that any such passage should be found
in the Bible. Another divine, a Mr. Caern referred us to
his absent brother, who had already been forty years in the
church, and must certainly know something of such a passage if it
were in the Bible, but he would venture to lay any wager his
brother knew nothing of it.</p>
<p>“Waiter! fetch a Bible!” called out Mr. Clerk, and
a great family Bible was immediately brought in, and opened on
the table among all the beer jugs.</p>
<p>Mr. Clerk turned over a few leaves, and in the book of Judges,
9th chapter, verse xiii, he read, “Should I leave my wine,
which cheereth God and man?”</p>
<p>Mr. Maud and Mr. Caern, who had before been most violent, now
sat as if struck dumb. A silence of some minutes prevailed,
when all at once, the spirit of revelation seemed to come on me,
and I said, “Why, gentlemen, you must be sensible that it
is but an allegorical expression;” and I added, “how
often in the Bible are kings called gods!”</p>
<p>“Why, yes, to be sure,” said Mr. Maud and Mr.
Caern, “it is an allegorical expression; nothing can be
more clear; it is a metaphor, and therefore it is absurd to
understand it in a literal sense.” And now they, in
their turn, triumphed over poor Clerk, and drank large draughts
to my health in strong ale; which, as my company seemed to like
so much, I was sorry I could not like. It either
intoxicated or stupefied me; and I do think it overpowers one
much sooner than so much wine would. The conversation now
turned on many other different subjects. At last, when
morning drew near, Mr. Maud suddenly exclaimed, “D-n me, I
must read prayers this morning at All-Souls!” D-n me
is an abbreviation of G—d d—n me; which, in England,
does not seem to mean more mischief or harm than any of our or
their common expletives in conversation, such as O gemini! or,
The deuce take me!</p>
<p>Before Mr. Maud went away, he invited me to go and see him in
the morning, and very politely offered himself to show me the
curiosities of Oxford. The rest of the company now also
dispersed; and as I had once (though in so singular a manner)
been introduced into so reputable a society, the people of the
house made no difficulty of giving me lodging, but with great
civility showed me a very decent bed-chamber.</p>
<p>I am almost ashamed to own, that next morning, when I awoke, I
had got so dreadful a headache, from the copious and numerous
toasts of my jolly and reverend friends, that I could not
possibly get up; still less could I wait on Mr. Maud at his
college.</p>
<p>The inn where I was goes by the name of the Mitre.
Compared to Windsor, I here found prince-like attendance.
Being, perhaps, a little elevated the preceding evening, I had in
the gaiety, or perhaps in the vanity of my heart, told the
waiter, that he must not think, because I came on foot, that
therefore I should give him less than others gave. I
assured him of the contrary. It was probably not a little
owing to this assurance that I had so much attention shown to
me.</p>
<p>I now determined to stay at least a couple of days at Oxford;
it was necessary and proper, if for no other reason, yet merely
that I might have clean linen. No people are so cleanly as
the English, nor so particular about neat and clean linen.
For, one afternoon, my shirt not having been lately changed, as I
was walking through a little street, I heard two women, who were
standing at a door, call after me, “Look at the gentleman
there! a fine gentleman, indeed, who cannot afford even a clean
shirt!”</p>
<p>I dined below with the family, and a few other persons, and
the conversation in general was agreeable enough. I was
obliged to tell them many wonderful stories (for who are so
illiterate or insensible as not to be delighted with the
marvellous!) concerning Germany and the King of Prussia.
They could not sufficiently admire my courage in determining to
travel on foot, although they could not help approving of the
motive. At length, however, it came out, and they candidly
owned, that I should not have been received into their house, had
I not been introduced as I was.</p>
<p>I was now confirmed in my suspicions, that, in England, any
person undertaking so long a journey on foot, is sure to be
looked upon and considered as either a beggar or a vagabond, or
some necessitous wretch, which is a character not much more
popular than that of a rogue; so that I could now easily account
for my reception in Windsor and at Nuneham. But, with all
my partiality for this country, it is impossible even in theory,
and much less so in practice, to approve of a system which
confines all the pleasures and benefits of travel to the
rich. A poor peripatetic is hardly allowed even the humble
merit of being honest.</p>
<p>As I still intended to pursue my journey to Derbyshire, I was
advised (at least till I got further into the country) to take a
place in a post-coach. They told me that the further I got
from London, the more reasonable and humble I should find the
people; everything would be cheaper, and everybody more
hospitable. This determined me to go in the post-coach from
Oxford to Birmingham; where Mr. Pointer, of London, had
recommended me to a Mr. Fothergill, a merchant there; and from
thence to continue my journey on foot.</p>
<p>Monday I spent at Oxford, but rather unpleasantly, on account
of my headache. Mr. Maud himself came to fetch me, as he
had promised he would, but I found myself unable to go with
him.</p>
<p>Notwithstanding this, in the afternoon, I took a little walk
up a hill, which lies to the north of Oxford; and from the top of
which I could see the whole city; which did not, however, appear
to me nearly so beautiful and magnificent as Mr. Maud had
described it to me during our last night’s walk.</p>
<p>The colleges are mostly in the Gothic taste, and much
overloaded with ornaments, and built with grey stone; which,
perhaps, while it is new, looks pretty well, but it has now the
most dingy, dirty, and disgusting appearance that you can
possibly imagine.</p>
<p>Only one of these colleges is in the modern style. The
houses of the city are in general ordinary, in some parts quite
miserable; in some streets they are only one story high, and have
shingled roofs. To me Oxford seemed to have but a dull and
gloomy look; and I cannot but wonder how it ever came to be
considered as so fine a city, and next to London.</p>
<p>I remained on the hill, on which there was a flight of steps
that led to a subterraneous walk, till sunset, and saw several
students walking here, who wore their black gowns over their
coloured clothes, and flat square hats, just like those I had
seen worn by the Eton scholars. This is the general dress
of all those who belong to the universities, with the exception
of a very trifling difference, by which persons of high birth and
rank are distinguished.</p>
<p>It is probably on account of these gowns that the members of
the university are called Gownsmen, to distinguish them from the
citizens, who are called Townsmen; and when you want to mention
all the inhabitants of Oxford together, you say, “the whole
town, Gownsmen and Townsmen.”</p>
<p>This dress, I must own, pleases me far beyond the boots,
cockades, and other frippery, of many of our students. Nor
am I less delighted with the better behaviour and conduct which,
in general, does so much credit to the students of Oxford.</p>
<p>The next morning Mr. Maud, according to his promise, showed me
some of the things most worthy of notice in Oxford. And
first he took me to his own room in his own college, which was on
the ground floor, very low and dark, and resembled a cell, at
least as much as a place of study. The name of this college
is Corpus Christi. He next conducted me to All Souls’
College, a very elegant building, in which the chapel is
particularly beautiful. Mr. Maud also showed me, over the
altar here, a fine painting of Mengs, at the sight of which he
showed far more sensibility than I thought him possessed
of. He said that notwithstanding he saw that painting
almost daily, he never saw it without being much affected.</p>
<p>The painting represented Mary Magdalene when she first
suddenly sees Jesus standing before her, and falls at His
feet. And in her countenance pain, joy, grief, in short
almost all the strongest of our passions, are expressed in so
masterly a manner, that no man of true taste was ever tired of
contemplating it; the longer it is looked at the more it is
admired. He now also showed me the library of this college,
which is provided with a gallery round the top, and the whole is
most admirably regulated and arranged. Among other things,
I here saw a description of Oxford, with plates to illustrate it:
and I cannot help observing what, though trite, is true, that all
these places look much better, and are far more beautiful on
paper, than they appeared to me to be as I looked at them where
they actually stand.</p>
<p>Afterwards Mr. Maud conducted me to the Bodleian Library,
which is not unworthy of being compared to the Vatican at Rome;
and next to the building which is called the Theatre, and where
the public orations are delivered. This is a circular
building with a gallery all round it, which is furnished with
benches one above the other, on which the doctors, masters of
arts, and students sit, and directly opposite to each other are
erected two chairs, or pulpits, from which the disputants
harangue and contend.</p>
<p>Christ Church and Queen’s College are the most modern,
and, I think, indisputably the best built of all the
colleges. Balliol College seems particularly to be
distinguished on account of its antiquity, and its complete
Gothic style of building.</p>
<p>Mr. Maud told me that a good deal of money might be sometimes
earned by preaching at Oxford; for all the members of a certain
standing are obliged in their turn to preach in the church of the
university; but many of them, when it comes to their turn, prefer
the procuring a substitute; and so not unfrequently pay as high
as five or six guineas for a sermon.</p>
<p>Mr. Maud also told me he had been now eighteen years at this
university, and might be made a doctor whenever he chose it: he
was a master of arts, and according to his own account gave
lectures in his college on the classics. He also did the
duty and officiated as curate, occasionally, in some of the
neighbouring villages. Going along the street we met the
English poet laureate, Warton, now rather an elderly man; and yet
he is still the fellow of a college. His greatest pleasure
next to poetry is, as Mr. Maud told me, shooting wild ducks.</p>
<p>Mr. Maud seemed upon the whole to be a most worthy and
philanthropic man. He told me, that where he now officiated
the clerk was dead, and had left a numerous family in the
greatest distress; and that he was going to the place next day,
on purpose to try if he could bring about the election of the
son, a lad about sixteen years of age, in the place of his
deceased father, as clerk, to support a necessitous family.</p>
<p>At the Mitre, the inn where I lodged, there was hardly a
minute in which some students or others did not call, either to
drink, or to amuse themselves in conversation with the daughter
of the landlord, who is not only handsome, but sensible, and well
behaved.</p>
<p>They often spoke to me much in praise of a German, of the name
of Mitchel, at least they pronounced it so, who had for many
years rendered himself famous as a musician. I was rejoiced
to hear one of my countrymen thus praised by the English; and
wished to have paid him a visit, but I had not the good fortune
to find him at home.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XI.</h2>
<p style="text-align: right"><i>Castleton</i>, <i>June</i>
30<i>th</i>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Before</span> I tell you anything of the
place where I now am, I will proceed regularly in my narrative,
and so begin now where I left off in my last letter. On
Tuesday afternoon Mr. Maud took me to the different walks about
Oxford, and often remarked, that they were not only the finest in
England, but he believed in Europe. I own I do not think he
over-rated their merit. There is one in particular near the
river, and close to some charming meadows, behind Corpus Christi
College, which may fairly challenge the world.</p>
<p>We here seated ourselves on a bench, and Mr. Maud drew a
review from his pocket, where, among other things, a German book
of Professor Beckman’s was reviewed and applauded.
Mr. Maud seemed, on this occasion, to show some respect for
German literature. At length we parted. He went to
fill up the vacancy of the clerk’s place at Dorchester, and
I to the Mitre, to prepare for my departure from Oxford, which
took place on Wednesday morning at three o’clock, in the
post-coach. Considering the pleasing, if not kind attention
shown me here, I own I thought my bill not unreasonable; though
to be sure, it made a great hole in my little purse.</p>
<p>Within this coach there was another young man, who, though
dressed in black, yet to judge from the cockade in his hat might
be an officer. The outside was quite full with soldiers and
their wives. The women of the lower class here wear a kind
of short cloak made of red cloth: but women in general, from the
highest to the lowest, wear hats, which differ from each other
less in fashion than they do in fineness.</p>
<p>Fashion is so generally attended to among the English women,
that the poorest maid-servant is careful to be in the
fashion. They seem to be particularly so in their hats or
bonnets, which they all wear: and they are in my opinion far more
becoming than the very unsightly hoods and caps which our German
women, of the rank of citizens, wear. There is, through all
ranks here, not near so great a distinction between high and low
as there is in Germany.</p>
<p>I had, during this day, a little headache; which rendered me
more silent and reserved to my company than is either usual in
England or natural to me. The English are taxed, perhaps
too hastily, with being shy and distant to strangers. I do
not think this was, even formerly, their true character; or that
any such sentiment is conveyed in Virgil’s
“<i>Hospitibus feros</i>.” Be this as it may,
the case was here reversed. The Englishman here spoke to me
several times in a very friendly manner, while I testified not
the least inclination to enter into conversation with him.</p>
<p>He however owned afterwards that it was this very apparent
reserve of mine that first gained me his good opinion.</p>
<p>He said he had studied physic, but with no immediate view of
practising it. His intention, he said, was to go to the
East Indies, and there, first, to try his fortune as an
officer. And he was now going to Birmingham, merely to take
leave of his three sisters, whom he much loved, and who were at
school there.</p>
<p>I endeavoured to merit his confidence by telling him in my
turn of my journey on foot through England; and by relating to
him a few of the most remarkable of my adventures. He
frankly told me he thought it was venturing a great deal, yet he
applauded the design of my journey, and did not severely censure
my plan. On my asking him why Englishmen, who were so
remarkable for acting up to their own notions and ideas, did not,
now and then, merely to see life in every point of view, travel
on foot. “Oh,” said he, “we are too rich,
too lazy, and too proud.”</p>
<p>And most true it is, that the poorest Englishman one sees, is
prouder and better pleased to expose himself to the danger of
having his neck broken on the outside of a stage, than to walk
any considerable distance, though he might walk ever so much at
his ease. I own I was frightened and distressed when I saw
the women, where we occasionally stopped, get down from the top
of the coach. One of them was actually once in much danger
of a terrible fall from the roof, because, just as she was going
to alight, the horses all at once unexpectedly went on.
From Oxford to Birmingham is sixty-two miles; but all that was to
be seen between the two places was entirely lost to me, for I was
again mewed up in a post-coach, and driven along with such
velocity from one place to another, that I seemed to myself as
doing nothing less than travelling.</p>
<p>My companion, however, made me amends in some measure for this
loss. He seemed to be an exceedingly good-tempered and
intelligent man; and I felt in this short time a prepossession in
his favour one does not easily form for an ordinary person.
This, I flattered myself, was also the case with him, and it
would mortify me not a little to think he had quite forgotten me,
as I am sure I shall never forget him.</p>
<p>Just as we had been sometime eagerly conversing about
Shakespeare, we arrived, without either of us having thought of
it, at Stratford-upon-Avon, Shakespeare’s birthplace, where
our coach stopped, that being the end of one stage. We were
still two-and-twenty miles from Birmingham, and ninety-four from
London. I need not tell you what our feelings were, on thus
setting our feet on classic ground.</p>
<p>It was here that perhaps the greatest genius nature ever
produced was born. Here he first lisped his native tongue;
here first conceived the embryos of those compositions which were
afterwards to charm a listening world; and on these plains the
young Hercules first played. And here, too, in this lowly
hut, with a few friends, he happily spent the decline of his
life, after having retired from the great theatre of that busy
world whose manners he had so faithfully portrayed.</p>
<p>The river Avon is here pretty broad, and a row of neat though
humble cottages, only one storey high, with shingled roofs, are
ranged all along its banks. These houses impressed me
strongly with the idea of patriarchal simplicity and content.</p>
<p>We went to see Shakespeare’s own house, which, of all
the houses at Stratford I think is now the worst, and one that
made the least appearance. Yet, who would not be proud to
be the owner of it? There now however lived in it only two
old people, who show it to strangers for a trifle, and what
little they earn thus is their chief income.</p>
<p>Shakespeare’s chair, in which he used to sit before the
door, was so cut to pieces that it hardly looked like a chair;
for every one that travels through Stratford cuts off a chip as a
remembrance, which he carefully preserves, and deems a precious
relic, I also cut myself a piece of it, but reverencing
Shakespeare as I do, I am almost ashamed to own to you it was so
small that I have lost it, and therefore you will not see it on
my return.</p>
<p>As we travelled, I observed every spot with attention,
fancying to myself that such or such a spot might be the place
where such a genius as Shakespeare’s first dawned, and
received those first impressions from surrounding nature which
are so strongly marked in all his works. The first
impressions of childhood, I knew, were strong and permanent; of
course I made sure of seeing here some images at least of the
wonderful conceptions of this wonderful man. But my
imagination misled me, and I was disappointed; for I saw nothing
in the country thereabouts at all striking, or in any respect
particularly beautiful. It was not at all wild and
romantic; but rather distinguished for an air of neatness and
simplicity.</p>
<p>We arrived at Birmingham about three o’clock in the
afternoon. I had already paid sixteen shillings at
Stratford for my place in the coach from Oxford to
Birmingham. At Oxford they had not asked anything of me,
and indeed you are not obliged in general in England, as you are
in Germany, to pay your passage beforehand.</p>
<p>My companion and myself alighted at the inn where the coach
stopped. We parted with some reluctance, and I was obliged
to promise him that, on my return to London, I would certainly
call on him, for which purpose he gave me his address. His
father was Dr. Wilson, a celebrated author in his particular
style of writing.</p>
<p>I now inquired for the house of Mr. Fothergill, to whom I was
recommended, and I was readily directed to it, but had the
misfortune to learn, at the same time, that this very Mr.
Fothergill had died about eight days before. As, therefore,
under these circumstances, my recommendation to him was likely to
be but of little use, I had the less desire to tarry long at
Birmingham, and so, without staying a minute longer, I
immediately inquired the road to Derby, and left
Birmingham. Of this famous manufacturing town, therefore, I
can give you no account.</p>
<p>The road from Birmingham onwards is not very agreeable, being
in general uncommonly sandy. Yet the same evening I reached
a little place called Sutton, where everything, however, appeared
to be too grand for me to hope to obtain lodgings in it, till
quite at the end of it I came to a small inn with the sign of the
Swan, under which was written Aulton, brickmaker.</p>
<p>This seemed to have something in it that suited me, and
therefore I boldly went into it; and when in I did not
immediately, as heretofore, inquire if I could stay all night
there, but asked for a pint of ale. I own I felt myself
disheartened by their calling me nothing but master, and by their
showing me into the kitchen, where the landlady was sitting at a
table and complaining much of the toothache. The compassion
I expressed for her on this account, as a stranger, seemed soon
to recommend me to her favour, and she herself asked me if I
would not stay the night there? To this I most readily
assented; and thus I was again happy in a lodging for another
night.</p>
<p>The company I here met with consisted of a female
chimney-sweeper and her children, who, on my sitting down in the
kitchen, soon drank to my health, and began a conversation with
me and the landlady.</p>
<p>She related to us her history, which I am not ashamed to own I
thought not uninteresting. She had married early, but had
the hard luck to be soon deprived of her husband, by his being
pressed as a soldier. She neither saw nor heard of him for
many years, so concluded he was dead. Thus destitute, she
lived seven years as a servant in Ireland, without any
one’s knowing that she was married. During this time
her husband, who was a chimney-sweeper, came back to England and
settled at Lichfield, resumed his old trade, and did well in
it. As soon as he was in good circumstances, he everywhere
made inquiry for his wife, and at last found out where she was,
and immediately fetched her from Ireland. There surely is
something pleasing in this constancy of affection in a
chimney-sweeper. She told us, with tears in her eyes, in
what a style of grandeur he had conducted her into Lichfield; and
how, in honour to her, he made a splendid feast on the
occasion. At this same Lichfield, which is only two miles
from Sutton, and through which she said the road lay which I was
to travel to-morrow, she still lived with this same excellent
husband, where they were noted for their industry, where
everybody respected them, and where, though in the lowest sphere,
they are passing through life neither uselessly nor
unhappily.</p>
<p>The landlady, during her absence, told me as in confidence,
that this chimney-sweeper’s husband, as meanly as I might
fancy she now appeared, was worth a thousand pounds, and that
without reckoning in their plate and furniture, that he always
wore his silver watch, and that when he passed through Sutton,
and lodged there, he paid like a nobleman.</p>
<p>She further remarked that the wife was indeed rather
low-lived; but that the husband was one of the best-behaved,
politest, and civilest men in the world. I had myself taken
notice that this same dingy companion of mine had something
singularly coarse and vulgar in her pronunciation. The word
old, for example, she sounded like auld. In other respects,
I had not yet remarked any striking variety or difference from
the pronunciation of Oxford or London.</p>
<p>To-morrow the chimney-sweeper, said she, her husband, would
not be at home, but if I came back by the way of Lichfield, she
would take the liberty to request the honour of a visit, and to
this end she told me her name and the place of her abode.</p>
<p>At night the rest of the family, a son and daughter of the
landlady, came home, and paid all possible attention to their
sick mother. I supped with the family, and they here
behaved to me as if we had already lived many years together.</p>
<p>Happening to mention that I was, if not a scholar, yet a
student, the son told me there was at Sutton a celebrated
grammar-school, where the school-master received two hundred
pounds a year settled salary, besides the income arising from the
scholars.</p>
<p>And this was only in a village. I thought, and not
without some shame and sorrow, of our grammar-schools in Germany,
and the miserable pay of the masters.</p>
<p>When I paid my reckoning the next morning, I observed the
uncommon difference here and at Windsor, Nettlebed, and
Oxford. At Oxford I was obliged to pay for my supper, bed,
and breakfast at least three shillings, and one to the
waiter. I here paid for my supper, bed, and breakfast only
one shilling, and to the daughter, whom I was to consider as
chambermaid, fourpence; for which she very civilly thanked me,
and gave me a written recommendation to an inn at Lichfield,
where I should be well lodged, as the people in Lichfield were,
in general, she said, very proud. This written
recommendation was a masterpiece of orthography, and showed that
in England, as well as elsewhere, there are people who write
entirely from the ear, and as they pronounce. In English,
however, it seems to look particularly odd, but perhaps that may
be the case in all languages that are not native.</p>
<p>I took leave here, as one does of good friends, with a certain
promise that on my return I would certainly call on them
again.</p>
<p>At noon I got to Lichfield, an old-fashioned town with narrow
dirty streets, where for the first time I saw round panes of
glass in the windows. The place to mime wore an unfriendly
appearance; I therefore made no use of my recommendation, but
went straight through, and only bought some bread at a
baker’s, which I took along with me.</p>
<p>At night I reached Burton, where the famous Burton ale is
brewed. By this time I felt myself pretty well tired, and
therefore proposed to stay the night here. But my courage
failed me, and I dropped the resolution immediately on my
entering the town. The houses and everything else seemed to
wear as grand an appearance, almost, as if I had been still in
London. And yet the manners of some of its inhabitants were
so thoroughly rustic and rude, that I saw them actually pointing
at me with their fingers as a foreigner. And now, to
complete my chagrin and mortification, I came to a long street,
where everybody on both sides of the way were at their doors, and
actually made me run the gauntlet through their inquiring
looks. Some even hissed at me as I passed along. All
my arguments to induce me to pluck up my courage, such as the
certainty that I should never see these people again nor they me,
were of no use. Burton became odious and almost
insupportable to me; and the street appeared as long and tired me
as much, as if I had walked a mile. This strongly-marked
contemptuous treatment of a stranger, who was travelling through
their country merely from the respect he bore it, I experienced
nowhere but at Burton.</p>
<p>How happy did I feel when I again found myself out of their
town, although at that moment I did not know where I should find
a lodging for the night, and was, besides, excessively
tired. But I pursued my journey, and still kept in the road
to Derby, along a footpath which I knew to be right. It led
across a very pleasant mead, the hedges of which were separated
by stiles, over which I was often obliged to clamber. When
I had walked some distance without meeting with an inn on the
road, and it had already begun to be dark, I at last sat me down
near a small toll-house, or a turnpike-gate, in order to rest
myself, and also to see whether the man at the turnpike could and
would lodge me.</p>
<p>After I had sat here a considerable time, a farmer came riding
by, and asked me where I wanted to go? I told him I was so
tired that I could go no farther. On this the good-natured
and truly hospitable man, of his own accord and without the least
distrust, offered to take me behind him on his horse and carry me
to a neighbouring inn, where he said I might stay all night.</p>
<p>The horse was a tall one, and I could not easily get up.
The turnpike-man, who appeared to be quite decrepid and infirm,
on this came out. I took it for granted, however, that he
who appeared to have hardly sufficient strength to support
himself could not help me. This poor looking, feeble old
man, however, took hold of me with one arm, and lifted me with a
single jerk upon the horse so quick and so alertly that it quite
astonished me.</p>
<p>And now I trotted on with my charming farmer, who did not ask
me one single impertinent question, but set me down quietly at
the inn, and immediately rode away to his own village, which lay
to the left.</p>
<p>This inn was called the Bear, and not improperly; for the
landlord went about and growled at his people just like a bear,
so that at first I expected no favourable reception. I
endeavoured to gentle him a little by asking for a mug of ale,
and once or twice drinking to him. This succeeded; he soon
became so very civil and conversable, that I began to think him
quite a pleasant fellow. This device I had learnt of the
“Vicar of Wakefield,” who always made his hosts
affable by inviting them to drink with him. It was an
expedient that suited me also in another point of view, as the
strong ale of England did not at all agree with me.</p>
<p>This innkeeper called me sir; and he made his people lay a
separate table for himself and me; for he said he could see
plainly I was a gentleman.</p>
<p>In our chat, we talked much of George the Second, who appeared
to be his favourite king, much more so than George the
Third. And among others things, we talked of the battle at
Dettingen, of which he knew many particulars. I was obliged
also in my turn to tell him stories of our great King of Prussia,
and his numerous armies, and also what sheep sold for in
Prussia. After we had been thus talking some time, chiefly
on political matters, he all at once asked me if I could blow the
French horn? This he supposed I could do, only because I
came from Germany; for he said he remembered, when he was a boy,
a German had once stopped at the inn with his parents who blew
the French horn extremely well. He therefore fancied this
was a talent peculiar to the Germans.</p>
<p>I removed this error, and we resumed our political topics,
while his children and servants at some distance listened with
great respect to our conversation.</p>
<p>Thus I again spent a very agreeable evening; and when I had
breakfasted in the morning, my bill was not more than it had been
at Sutton. I at length reached the common before Derby on
Friday morning. The air was mild, and I seemed to feel
myself uncommonly cheerful and happy. About noon the
romantic part of the country began to open upon me. I came
to a lofty eminence, where all at once I saw a boundless prospect
of hills before me, behind which fresh hills seemed always to
arise, and to be infinite.</p>
<p>The ground now seemed undulatory, and to rise and fall like
waves; when at the summit of the rise I seemed to be first raised
aloft, and had an extensive view all around me, and the next
moment, when I went down the hill, I lost it.</p>
<p>In the afternoon I saw Derby in the vale before me, and I was
now an hundred and twenty-six miles from London. Derby is
but a small, and not very considerable town. It was
market-day when I got there, and I was obliged to pass through a
crowd of people: but there was here no such odious curiosity, no
offensive staring, as at Burton. At this place too I took
notice that I began to be always civilly bowed to by the children
of the villages through which I passed.</p>
<p>From Derby to the baths of Matlock, which is one of the most
romantic situations, it was still fifteen miles. On my way
thither, I came to a long and extensive village, which I believe
was called Duffield. They here at least did not show me
into the kitchen, but into the parlour; and I dined on cold
victuals.</p>
<p>The prints and pictures which I have generally seen at these
inns are, I think, almost always prints of the royal family,
oftentimes in a group, where the king, as the father of the
family, assembles his children around him; or else I have found a
map of London, and not seldom the portrait of the King of
Prussia; I have met with it several times. You also
sometimes see some of the droll prints of Hogarth. The heat
being now very great, I several times in this village heard the
commiserating exclamation of “Good God Almighty!” by
which the people expressed their pity for me, as being a poor
foot passenger.</p>
<p>At night I again stopped at an inn on the road, about five
miles from Matlock. I could easily have reached Matlock,
but I wished rather to reserve the first view of the country till
the next day than to get there when it was dark.</p>
<p>But I was not equally fortunate in this inn, as in the two
former. The kitchen was full of farmers, among whom I could
not distinguish the landlord, whose health I should otherwise
immediately have drank. It is true I heard a country girl
who was also in the kitchen, as often as she drank say,
“Your health, gentlemen all!” But I do not know
how it was, I forgot to drink any one’s health, which I
afterwards found was taken much amiss. The landlord drank
twice to my health sneeringly, as if to reprimand me for my
incivility; and then began to join the rest in ridiculing me, who
almost pointed at me with their fingers. I was thus obliged
for a time to serve the farmers as a laughing-stock, till at
length one of them compassionately said, “Nay, nay, we must
do him no harm, for he is a stranger.” The landlord,
I suppose, to excuse himself, as if he thought he had perhaps
before gone too far said, “Ay, God forbid we should hurt
any stranger,” and ceased his ridicule; but when I was
going to drink his health, he slighted and refused my attention,
and told me, with a sneer, all I had to do was to seat myself in
the chimney-corner, and not trouble myself about the rest of the
world. The landlady seemed to pity me, and so she led me
into another room where I could be alone, saying, “What
wicked people!”</p>
<p>I left this unfriendly roof early the next morning, and now
quickly proceeded to Matlock.</p>
<p>The extent of my journey I had now resolved should be the
great cavern near Castleton, in the high Peak of
Derbyshire. It was about twenty miles beyond Matlock.</p>
<p>The country here had quite a different appearance from that at
Windsor and Richmond. Instead of green meadows and pleasant
hills, I now saw barren mountains and lofty rocks; instead of
fine living hedges, the fields and pasture lands here were fenced
with a wall of grey stone; and of this very same stone, which is
here everywhere to be found in plenty, all the houses are built
in a very uniform and patriarchal manner, inasmuch as the rough
stones are almost without any preparation placed one upon
another, and compose four walls, so that in case of necessity, a
man might here without much trouble build himself a house.
At Derby the houses seem to be built of the same stone.</p>
<p>The situation of Matlock itself surpassed every idea I had
formed of it. On the right were some elegant houses for the
bathing company, and lesser cottages suspended like birds’
nests in a high rock; to the left, deep in the bottom, there was
a fine bold river, which was almost hid from the eye by a
majestic arch formed by high trees, which hung over it. A
prodigious stone wall extended itself above a mile along its
border, and all along there is a singularly romantic and
beautiful secret walk, sheltered and adorned by many beautiful
shrubs.</p>
<p>The steep rock was covered at the top with green bushes, and
now and then a sheep, or a cow, separated from the grazing flock,
came to the edge of the precipice, and peeped over it.</p>
<p>I have got, in Milton’s “Paradise Lost,”
which I am reading thoroughly through, just to the part where he
describes Paradise, when I arrived here and the following
passage, which I read at the brink of the river, had a most
striking and pleasing effect on me. The landscape here
described was as exactly similar to that I saw before me, as if
the poet had taken it from hence</p>
<blockquote><p>“—delicious Paradise,<br />
Now nearer, crowns with her enclosure green,<br />
As with a rural mound, the champion head<br />
Of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides<br />
With thicket overgrown, grotesque and wild,<br />
Access denied.”—<i>Book</i> IV. v. 132.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>From Matlock Baths you go over Matlock Bridge, to the little
town of Matlock itself, which, in reality, scarcely deserves the
name of a village, as it consists of but a few and miserable
houses. There is here, on account of the baths, a number of
horses and carriages, and a great thoroughfare. From hence
I came through some villages to a small town of the name of
Bakewell. The whole country in this part is hilly and
romantic. Often my way led me, by small passes, over
astonishing eminences, where, in the deep below me, I saw a few
huts or cottages lying. The fencing of the fields with grey
stone gave the whole a wild and not very promising
appearance. The hills were in general not wooded, but naked
and barren; and you saw the flocks at a distance grazing on their
summit.</p>
<p>As I was coming through one of the villages, I heard a great
farmer’s boy eagerly ask another if he did not think I was
a Frenchman. It seemed as if he had been waiting some time
to see the wonder; for, he spoke as though his wish was now
accomplished.</p>
<p>When I was past Bakewell, a place far inferior to Derby, I
came by the side of a broad river, to a small eminence, where a
fine cultivated field lay before me. This field, all at
once, made an indescribable and very pleasing impression on me,
which at first, I could not account for; till I recollected
having seen, in my childhood, near the village where I was
educated, a situation strikingly similar to that now before me
here in England.</p>
<p>This field, as if it had been in Germany, was not enclosed
with hedges, but every spot in it was uninterruptedly diversified
with all kinds of crops and growths of different green and
yellowish colours, which gave the whole a most pleasing effect;
but besides this large field, the general view of the country,
and a thousand other little circumstances which I cannot now
particularly enumerate, served to bring back to my recollection
the years of my youth.</p>
<p>Here I rested myself a while, and when I was going on again I
thought of the place of my residence, on all my acquaintances,
and not a little on you, my dearest friend, and imagined what you
would think and say, if you were to see your friend thus
wandering here all alone, totally unknown, and in a foreign
land. And at that moment I first seriously felt the idea of
distance, and the thought that I was now in England, so very far
from all I loved, or who loved me, produced in me such sensations
as I have not often felt.</p>
<p>It was perhaps the same with you, my dearest friend, when on
our journey to Hamburg we drove from Perlsbeg, to your
birthplace, the village of Boberow; where, among the farmers, you
again found your own playmates, one of whom was now become the
bailiff of the place. On your asking them whether they knew
you, one and all of them answered so heartily, “O, yes,
yes—why, your are Master Frederic.” The
pedantic school-master, you will remember, was not so
frank. He expressed himself in the stiff town phrase of,
“He had not the honour of knowing you, as during your
residence in that village, when a child, he had not been <i>in
loco</i>.”</p>
<p>I now came through a little place of the name of Ashford, and
wished to reach the small village of Wardlow, which was only
three miles distant, when two men came after me, at a distance,
whom I had already seen at Matlock, who called to me to wait for
them. These were the only foot passengers since Mr. Maud,
who had offered to walk with me.</p>
<p>The one was a saddler, and wore a short brown jacket and an
apron, with a round hat. The other was very decently
dressed, but a very silent man, whereas the saddler was quite
talkative.</p>
<p>I listened with astonishment when I heard him begin to speak
of Homer, of Horace, and of Virgil; and still more when he quoted
several passages, by memory, from each of these authors,
pronouncing the words, and laying his emphasis, with as much
propriety as I could possibly have expected, had he been educated
at Cambridge or at Oxford. He advised me not to go to
Wardlow, where I should find bad accommodations, but rather a few
miles to Tideswell, where he lived. This name is, by a
singular abbreviation, pronounced Tidsel, the same as Birmingham
is called by the common people Brummidgeham.</p>
<p>We halted at a small ale-house on the road-side, where the
saddler stopped to drink and talk, and from whence he was in no
haste to depart. He had the generosity and honour, however,
to pay my share of the reckoning, because, as he said, he had
brought me hither.</p>
<p>At no great distance from the house we came to a rising
ground, where my philosophical saddler made me observe a
prospect, which was perhaps the only one of the kind in
England. Below us was a hollow, not unlike a huge kettle,
hollowed out of the surrounding mass of earth; and at the bottom
of it a little valley, where the green meadow was divided by a
small rivulet, that ran in serpentine windings, its banks graced
with the most inviting walks; behind a small winding, there is
just seen a house where one of the most distinguished inhabitants
of this happy vale, a great philosopher, lives retired,
dedicating almost all his time to his favourite studies. He
has transplanted a number of foreign plants into his
grounds. My guide fell into almost a poetic rapture as he
pointed out to me the beauties of this vale, while our third
companion, who grew tired, became impatient at our
tediousness.</p>
<p>We were now led by a steep road to the vale, through which we
passed, and then ascended again among the hills on the other
side.</p>
<p>Not far from Tideswell our third companion left us, as he
lived in a neighbouring place. As we now at length saw
Tideswell lying before us in the vale, the saddler began to give
me an account of his family, adding, by way of episode, that he
never quarrelled with his wife, nor had ever once threatened her
with his fist, much less, ever lifted it against her. For
his own sake, he said, he never called her names, nor gave her
the lie. I must here observe, that it is the greatest
offence you can give any one in England to say to him, <i>you
lie</i>.</p>
<p>To be called a <i>liar</i> is a still greater affront, and you
<i>are a damned liar</i>, is the very acme of vulgar abuse.</p>
<p>Just as in Germany, no one will bear the name of a
<i>scoundrel</i>, or <i>knave</i>, or as in all quarrels, the
bestowing such epithets on our adversary is the signal for
fighting, so the term of a <i>liar</i> in England is the most
offensive, and is always resented by blows. A man would
never forgive himself, nor be forgiven, who could bear to be
called a <i>liar</i>.</p>
<p>Our Jackey in London once looked at me with astonishment, on
my happening to say to him in a joke, you <i>are a
liar</i>. I assure you I had much to do before I could
pacify him.</p>
<p>If one may form a judgment of the character of the whole
nation, from such little circumstances as this, I must say this
rooted hatred of the word liar appears to me to be no bad trait
in the English.</p>
<p>But to return to my travelling companion, who further told me
that he was obliged to earn his livelihood, at some distance from
home, and that he was now returning for the first time, for these
two months, to his family.</p>
<p>He showed me a row of trees near the town which he said his
father had planted, and which, therefore, he never could look at
but with emotion, though he passed them often as he went
backwards and forwards on his little journeys to and from his
birthplace. His father, he added, had once been a rich man,
but had expended all his fortune to support one son.
Unfortunately for himself as well as his family, his father had
gone to America and left the rest of his children poor,
notwithstanding which, his memory was still dear to him, and he
was always affected by the sight of these trees.</p>
<p>Tideswell consists of two rows of low houses, built of rough
grey stone. My guide, immediately on our entrance into the
place, bade me take notice of the church, which was very
handsome, and notwithstanding its age, had still some pretensions
to be considered as an edifice built in the modern taste.</p>
<p>He now asked me whether he should show me to a great inn or to
a cheap one, and as I preferred the latter, he went with me
himself to a small public-house, and very particularly
recommended me to their care as his fellow-traveller, and a
clever man not without learning.</p>
<p>The people here also endeavoured to accommodate me most
magnificently, and for this purpose gave me some toasted cheese,
which was Cheshire cheese roasted and half melted at the
fire. This, in England it seems, is reckoned good eating,
but, unfortunately for me, I could not touch a bit of it; I
therefore invited my landlord to partake of it, and he indeed
seemed to feast on it. As I neither drank brandy nor ale,
he told me I lived far too sparingly for a foot traveller; he
wondered how I had strength to walk so well and so far.</p>
<p>I avail myself of this opportunity to observe that the English
innkeepers are in general great ale drinkers, and for this reason
most of them are gross and corpulent; in particular they are
plump and rosy in their faces. I once heard it said of one
of them, that the extravasated claret in his phiz might well
remind one, as Falstaff says of Bardolph, of hell-fire.</p>
<p>The next morning my landlady did me the honour to drink coffee
with me, but helped me very sparingly to milk and sugar. It
was Sunday, and I went with my landlord to a barber, on whose
shop was written “Shaving for a penny.” There
were a great many inhabitants assembled there, who took me for a
gentleman, on account, I suppose, of my hat, which I had bought
in London for a guinea, and which they all admired. I
considered this as a proof that pomp and finery had not yet
become general thus far from London.</p>
<p>You frequently find in England, at many of the houses of the
common people, printed papers, with sundry apt and good moral
maxims and rules fastened against the room door, just as we find
them in Germany. On such wretched paper some of the most
delightful and the finest sentiments may be read, such as would
do honour to any writer of any country.</p>
<p>For instance, I read among other things this golden rule on
such an ordinary printed paper stuck against a room door,
“Make no comparisons;” and if you consider how many
quarrels, and how much mischief arise in the world from odious
comparisons of the merits of one with the merits of another, the
most delightful lessons of morality are contained in the few
words of the above-mentioned rule.</p>
<p>A man to whom I gave sixpence conducted me out of the town to
the road leading to Castleton, which was close to a wall of
stones confusedly heaped one upon another, as I have before
described. The whole country was hilly and rough, and the
ground covered with brown heath. Here and there some sheep
were feeding.</p>
<p>I made a little digression to a hill to the left, where I had
a prospect awfully beautiful, composed almost entirely of naked
rocks, far and near, among which, those that were entirely
covered with black heath made a most tremendous appearance.</p>
<p>I was now a hundred and seventy miles from London, when I
ascended one of the highest hills, and all at once perceived a
beautiful vale below me, which was traversed by rivers and brooks
and enclosed on all sides by hills. In this vale lay
Castleton, a small town with low houses, which takes its name
from an old castle, whose ruins are still to be seen here.</p>
<p>A narrow path, which wound itself down the side of the rock,
led me through the vale into the street of Castleton, where I
soon found an inn, and also soon dined. After dinner I made
the best of my way to the cavern.</p>
<p>A little rivulet, which runs through the middle of the town,
led me to its entrance.</p>
<p>I stood here a few moments, full of wonder and astonishment at
the amazing height of the steep rock before me, covered on each
side with ivy and other shrubs. At its summit are the
decayed wall and towers of an ancient castle which formerly stood
on this rock, and at its foot the monstrous aperture or mouth to
the entrance of the cavern, where it is pitch dark when one looks
down even at mid-day.</p>
<p>As I was standing here full of admiration, I perceived, at the
entrance of the cavern, a man of a rude and rough appearance, who
asked me if I wished to see the Peak, and the echo strongly
reverberated his coarse voice.</p>
<p>Answering as I did in the affirmative, he next further asked
me if I should want to be carried to the other side of the
stream, telling me at the same time what the sum would be which I
must pay for it.</p>
<p>This man had, along with his black stringy hair and his dirty
and tattered clothes, such a singularly wild and infernal look,
that he actually struck me as a real Charon. His voice, and
the questions he asked me, were not of a kind to remove this
notion, so that, far from its requiring any effort of
imagination, I found it not easy to avoid believing that, at
length, I had actually reached Avernus, was about to cross
Acheron, and to be ferried by Charon.</p>
<p>I had no sooner agreed to his demand, than he told me all I
had to do was boldly to follow him, and thus we entered the
cavern.</p>
<p>To the left, in the entrance of the cavern, lay the trunk of a
tree that had been cut down, on which several of the boys of the
town were playing.</p>
<p>Our way seemed to be altogether on a descent, though not
steep, so that the light which came in at the mouth of the cavern
near the entrance gradually forsook us, and when we had gone
forward a few steps farther, I was astonished by a sight which,
of all other, I here the least expected. I perceived to the
right, in the hollow of the cavern, a whole subterranean village,
where the inhabitants, on account of its being Sunday, were
resting from their work, and with happy and cheerful looks were
sitting at the doors of their huts along with their children.</p>
<p>We had scarcely passed these small subterranean houses when I
perceived a number of large wheels, on which on week days these
human moles, the inhabitants of the cavern, make ropes.</p>
<p>I fancied I here saw the wheel of Ixion, and the incessant
labour of the Danaides.</p>
<p>The opening through which the light came seemed, as we
descended, every moment to become less and less, and the darkness
at every step to increase, till at length only a few rays
appeared, as if darting through a crevice, and just tinging the
small clouds of smoke which, at dusk, raised themselves to the
mouth of the cavern.</p>
<p>This gradual growth, or increase of darkness, awakens in a
contemplative mind a soft melancholy. As you go down the
gentle descent of the cavern, you can hardly help fancying the
moment is come when, without pain or grief, the thread of life is
about to be snapped; and that you are now going thus quietly to
that land of peace where trouble is no more.</p>
<p>At length the great cavern in the rock closed itself, in the
same manner as heaven and earth seem to join each other, when we
came to a little door, where an old woman came out of one of the
huts, and brought two candles, of which we each took one.</p>
<p>My guide now opened the door, which completely shut out the
faint glimmering of light, which, till then, it was still
possible to perceive, and led us to the inmost centre of this
dreary temple of old Chaos and Night, as if, till now, we had
only been traversing the outer courts. The rock was here so
low, that we were obliged to stoop very much for some few steps
in order to get through; but how great was my astonishment, when
we had passed this narrow passage and again stood upright, at
once to perceive, as well as the feeble light of our candles
would permit, the amazing length, breadth, and height of the
cavern; compared to which the monstrous opening through which we
had already passed was nothing!</p>
<p>After we had wandered here more than an hour, as beneath a
dark and dusky sky, on a level, sandy soil, the rock gradually
lowered itself, and we suddenly found ourselves on the edge of a
broad river, which, from the glimmering of our candles amid the
total darkness, suggested sundry interesting reflections.
To the side of this river a small boat was moored, with some
straw in its bottom. Into this boat my guide desired me to
step, and lay myself down in it quite flat; because, as he said,
towards the middle of the river, the rock would almost touch the
water.</p>
<p>When I had laid myself down as directed, he himself jumped
into the water, and drew the boat after him.</p>
<p>All around us was one still, solemn, and deadly silence; and
as the boat advanced, the rock seemed to stoop, and come nearer
and nearer to us, till at length it nearly touched my face; and
as I lay, I could hardly hold the candle upright. I seemed
to myself to be in a coffin rather than in a boat, as I had no
room to stir hand or foot till we had passed this frightful
strait, and the rock rose again on the other side, where my guide
once more handed me ashore.</p>
<p>The cavern was now become, all at once, broad and high: and
then suddenly it was again low and narrow.</p>
<p>I observed on both sides as we passed along a prodigious
number of great and small petrified plants and animals, which,
however, we could not examine, unless we had been disposed to
spend some days in the cavern.</p>
<p>And thus we arrived at the opposite side, at the second river
or stream, which, however, was not so broad as the first, as one
may see across it to the other side; across this stream my guide
carried me on his shoulders, because there was here no boat to
carry us over.</p>
<p>From thence we only went a few steps farther, when we came to
a very small piece of water which extended itself lengthways, and
led us to the end of the cavern.</p>
<p>The path along the edge of this water was wet and slippery,
and sometimes so very narrow, that one can hardly set one foot
before the other.</p>
<p>Notwithstanding, I wandered with pleasure on this subterranean
shore, and was regaling myself with the interesting contemplation
of all these various wonderful objects, in this land of darkness
and shadow of death, when, all at once, something like music at a
distance sounded in mine ears.</p>
<p>I instantly stopped, full of astonishment, and eagerly asked
my guide what this might mean? He answered, “Only
have patience, and you shall soon see.”</p>
<p>But as we advanced, the sounds of harmony seemed to die away;
the noise became weaker and weaker; and at length it seemed to
sink into a gentle hissing or hum, like distant drops of falling
rain.</p>
<p>And how great was my amazement when, ere long, I actually saw
and felt a violent shower of rain falling from the rock, as from
a thick cloud, whose drops, which now fell on our candles, had
caused that same melancholy sound which I had heard at a
distance.</p>
<p>This was what is here called a mizzling rain, which fell from
the ceiling or roof of the cavern, through the veins of the
rock.</p>
<p>We did not dare to approach too near with our candles, as they
might easily have been extinguished by the falling drops; and so
we perhaps have been forced to seek our way back in vain.</p>
<p>We continued our march therefore along the side of the water,
and often saw on the sides large apertures in the rock, which
seemed to be new or subordinate caverns, all which we passed
without looking into. At length my guide prepared me for
one of the finest sights we had yet seen, which we should now
soon behold.</p>
<p>And we had hardly gone on a few paces, when we entered what
might easily have been taken for a majestic temple, with lofty
arches, supported by beautiful pillars, formed by the plastic
hand of some ingenious artist.</p>
<p>This subterranean temple, in the structure of which no human
hand had borne a part, appeared to me at that moment to surpass
all the most stupendous buildings in the world, in point of
regularity, magnificence, and beauty.</p>
<p>Full of admiration and reverence, here, even in the inmost
recesses of nature, I saw the majesty of the Creator displayed;
and before I quitted this temple, here, in this solemn silence
and holy gloom, I thought it would be a becoming act of true
religion to adore, as I cordially did, the God of nature.</p>
<p>We now drew near the end of our journey. Our faithful
companion, the water, guided us through the remainder of the
cavern, where the rock is arched for the last time, and then
sinks till it touches the water, which here forms a semicircle,
and thus the cavern closes, so that no mortal can go one step
farther.</p>
<p>My guide here again jumped into the water, swam a little way
under the rock, and then came back quite wet, to show me that it
was impossible to go any further, unless this rock could be blown
up with powder, and a second cavern opened. I now thought
all we had to do was to return the nearest way; but there were
new difficulties still to encounter, and new scenes to behold
still more beautiful than any I had yet seen.</p>
<p>My guide now turned and went back towards the left, where I
followed him through a large opening in the rock.</p>
<p>And here he first asked me if I could determine to creep a
considerable distance through the rock, where it nearly touched
the ground. Having consented to do so, he told me I had
only to follow him, warning me at the same time to take great
care of my candle.</p>
<p>Thus we crept on our hands and feet, on the wet and muddy
ground, through the opening in the rock, which was often scarcely
large enough for us to get through with our bodies.</p>
<p>When at length we had got through this troublesome passage, I
saw in the cavern a steep hill, which was so high that it seemed
to lose itself as in a cloud, in the summit of the rock.</p>
<p>This hill was so wet and slippery, that as soon as I attempted
to ascend, I fell down. My guide, however, took hold of my
hand and told me I had only resolutely to follow him.</p>
<p>We now ascended such an amazing height, and there were such
precipices on each side, that it makes me giddy even now when I
think of it.</p>
<p>When we at length had gained the summit, where the hill seemed
to lose itself in the rock, my guide placed me where I could
stand firm, and told me to stay there quietly. In the
meantime he himself went down the hill with his candle, and left
me alone.</p>
<p>I lost sight of him for some moments, but at length I
perceived, not him, indeed, but his candle, quite in the bottom,
from whence it seemed to shine like a bright and twinkling
star.</p>
<p>After I had enjoyed this indescribably beautiful sight for
some time, my guide came back, and carried me safely down the
hill again on his shoulders. And as I now stood below, he
went up and let his candle shine again through an opening of the
rock, while I covered mine with my hand; and it was now as if on
a dark night a bright star shone down upon me, a sight which, in
point of beauty, far surpassed all that I had ever seen.</p>
<p>Our journey was now ended, and we returned, not without
trouble and difficulty, through the narrow passage. We
again entered the temple we had a short time before left; again
heard the pattering of the rain, which sounded as rain when we
were near it, but which at a distance seemed a sonorous, dull,
and melancholy hum; and now again we returned across the quiet
streams through the capacious entrance of the cavern to the
little door, where we had before taken our leave of daylight,
which, after so long a darkness, we now again hailed with
joy.</p>
<p>Before my guide opened the door, he told me I should now have
a view of a sight that would surpass all the foregoing. I
found that he was in the right, for when he had only half opened
the door, it really seemed as if I was looking into Elysium.</p>
<p>The day seemed to be gradually breaking, and night and
darkness to have vanished. At a distance you again just saw
the smoke of the cottages, and then the cottages themselves; and
as we ascended we saw the boys still playing around the hewn
trunk, till at length the reddish purple stripes in the sky
faintly appeared through the mouth of the hole; yet, just as we
came out, the sun was setting in the west.</p>
<p>Thus had I spent nearly the whole afternoon till it was quite
evening in the cavern; and when I looked at myself, I was, as to
my dress, not much unlike my guide; my shoes scarcely hung to my
feet, they were so soft and so torn by walking so long on the
damp sand, and the hard pointed stones.</p>
<p>I paid no more than half-a-crown for seeing all that I had
seen, with a trifle to my guide; for it seems he does not get the
half-crown, but is obliged to account for it to his master, who
lives very comfortably on the revenue he derives from this
cavern, and is able to keep a man to show it to strangers.</p>
<p>When I came home I sent for a shoemaker. There was one
who lived just opposite; and he immediately came to examine my
shoes. He told me he could not sufficiently wonder at the
badness of the work, for they were shoes I had brought from
Germany. Notwithstanding this, he undertook, as he had no
new ones ready, to mend them for me as well as he could.
This led me to make a very agreeable acquaintance with this
shoemaker; for when I expressed to him my admiration of the
cavern, it pleased him greatly that in so insignificant a place
as Castleton there should be anything which could inspire people
with astonishment, who came from such distant countries; and
thereupon offered to take a walk with me, to show me, at no great
distance, the famous mountain called Mam Tor, which is reckoned
among the things of most note in Derbyshire.</p>
<p>This mountain is covered with verdure on its summit and sides;
but at the end it is a steep precipice. The middle part
does not, like other mountains, consist of rock, but of a loose
earth, which gives way, and either rolls from the top of the
precipice in little pieces, or tears itself loose in large
masses, and falls with a thundering crash, thus forming a hill on
its side which is continually increasing.</p>
<p>From these circumstances probably is derived the name of Mam
Tor, which literally signifies Mother Hill; for Tor is either an
abbreviation of, or the old word for, Tower, and means not only a
lofty building, but any eminence. Mam is a familiar term,
that obtains in all languages, for Mother; and this mountain,
like a mother, produces several other small hills.</p>
<p>The inhabitants here have a superstitious notion that this
mountain, notwithstanding its daily loss, never decreases, but
always keeps its own, and remains the same.</p>
<p>My companion told me a shocking history of an inhabitant of
Castleton who laid a wager that he would ascend this steep
precipice.</p>
<p>As the lower part is not quite so steep, but rather slanting
upwards, he could get good hold in this soft loose earth, and
clambered up, without looking round. At length he had
gained more than half the ascent, and was just at the part where
it projects and overlooks its basis. From this astonishing
height the unfortunate man cast down his eyes, whilst the
threatening point of the rock hung over him, with tottering
masses of earth.</p>
<p>He trembled all over, and was just going to relinquish his
hold, not daring to move backwards or forwards; in this manner he
hung for some time between heaven and earth, surrounded by
despair. However, his sinews would bear it no longer, and
therefore, in an effort of despair, he once more collected all
his strength and got hold of first one loose stone, and then
another, all of which would have failed him had he not
immediately caught hold of another. By these means,
however, at length, to his own, as well as to the astonishment of
all the spectators, he avoided almost instant and certain death,
safely gained the summit of the hill, and won his wager.</p>
<p>I trembled as I heard this relation, seeing the mountain and
the precipice in question so near to me, I could not help
figuring to myself the man clambering up it.</p>
<p>Not far from hence is Elden Hole, a cavity or pit, or hole in
the earth, of such a monstrous depth, that if you throw in a
pebble stone, and lay your ear to the edge of the hole, you hear
it falling for a long time.</p>
<p>As soon as it comes to the bottom it emits a sound as if some
one were uttering a loud sigh. The first noise it makes on
its being first parted with affects the ear like a subterranean
thunder. This rumbling or thundering noise continues for
some time, and then decreases as the stone falls against first
one hard rock and then another at a greater and a greater depth,
and at length, when it has for some time been falling, the noise
stops with a kind of whizzing or a hissing murmur. The
people have also a world of superstitious stories relating to
this place, one of which is that some person once threw into it a
goose, which appeared again at two miles’ distance in the
great cavern I have already mentioned, quite stripped of its
feathers. But I will not stuff my letters with many of
these fabulous histories.</p>
<p>They reckon that they have in Derbyshire seven wonders of
nature, of which this Elden Hole, the hill of Mam Tor, and the
great cavern I have been at are the principal.</p>
<p>The remaining four wonders are Pool’s Hole, which has
some resemblance to this that I have seen, as I am told, for I
did not see it; next St. Anne’s Well, where there are two
springs which rise close to each other, the one of which is
boiling hot, the other as cold as ice; the next is Tide’s
Well, not far from the town of that name through which I
passed. It is a spring or well, which in general flows or
runs underground imperceptibly, and then all at once rushes forth
with a mighty rumbling or subterranean noise, which is said to
have something musical in it, and overflows its banks; lastly
Chatsworth, a palace or seat belonging to the Dukes of
Devonshire, at the foot of a mountain whose summit is covered
with eternal snow, and therefore always gives one the idea of
winter, at the same time that the most delightful spring blooms
at its foot. I can give you no further description of these
latter wonders, as I only know them by the account given me by
others. They were the subjects with which my guide, the
shoemaker, entertained me during our walk.</p>
<p>While this man was showing me everything within his knowledge
that he thought most interesting, he often expressed his
admiration on thinking how much of the world I had already seen;
and the idea excited in him so lively a desire to travel, that I
had much to do to reason him out of it. He could not help
talking of it the whole evening, and again and again protested
that, had he not got a wife and child, he would set off in the
morning at daybreak along with me; for here in Castleton there is
but little to be earned by the hardest labour or even
genius. Provisions are not cheap, and in short, there is no
scope for exertion. This honest man was not yet thirty.</p>
<p>As we returned, he wished yet to show me the lead mines, but
it was too late. Yet, late as it was, he mended my shoes
the same evening, and I must do him the justice to add in a very
masterly manner.</p>
<p>But I am sorry to tell you I have brought a cough from the
cavern that does not at all please me; indeed, it occasions me no
little pain, which makes me suppose that one must needs breathe a
very unwholesome damp air in this cavern. But then, were
that the case, I do not comprehend how my friend Charon should
have held it out so long and so well as he has.</p>
<p>This morning I was up very early in order to view the ruins,
and to climb a high hill alongside of them. The ruins are
directly over the mouth of the hole on the hill, which extends
itself some distance over the cavern beyond the ruins, and always
widens, though here in front it is so narrow that the building
takes up the whole.</p>
<p>From the ruins all around there is nothing but steep rock, so
that there is no access to it but from the town, where a crooked
path from the foot of the hill is hewn in the rock, but is also
prodigiously steep.</p>
<p>The spot on which the ruins stand is now all overgrown with
nettles and thistles. Formerly, it is said, there was a
bridge from this mountain to the opposite one, of which one may
yet discover some traces, as in the vale which divides the two
rocks we still find the remains of some of the arches on which
the bridge rested. This vale, which lies at the back of the
ruins and probably over the cavern, is called the Cave’s
Way, and is one of the greatest thoroughfares to the town.
In the part at which, at some distance, it begins to descend
between these two mountains, its descent is so gentle that one is
not at all tired in going down it; but if you should happen to
miss the way between the two rocks and continue on the heights,
you are in great danger of falling from the rock, which every
moment becomes steeper and steeper.</p>
<p>The mountain on which the ruins stand is everywhere
rocky. The one on the left of it, which is separated by the
vale, is perfectly verdant and fertile, and on its summit the
pasture hands are divided by stones, piled up in the form of a
wall. This green mountain is at least three times as high
as that on which the ruins stand.</p>
<p>I began to clamber up the green mountain, which is also pretty
steep; and when I had got more than half way up without having
once looked back, I was nearly in the same situation as the
adventurer who clambered up Mam Tor Hill, for when I looked
round, I found my eye had not been trained to view, unmoved, so
prodigious a height. Castleton with the surrounding country
lay below me like a map, the roofs of the houses seemed almost
close to the ground, and the mountain with the ruins itself
seemed to be lying at my feet.</p>
<p>I grew giddy at the prospect, and it required all my reason to
convince me that I was in no danger, and that, at all events, I
could only scramble down the green turf in the same manner as I
had got up. At length I seemed to grow accustomed to this
view till it really gave me pleasure, and I now climbed quite to
the summit and walked over the meadows, and at length reached the
way which gradually descends between the two mountains.</p>
<p>At the top of the green mountain I met with some neat country
girls, who were milking their cows, and coming this same way with
their milk-pails on their heads.</p>
<p>This little rural party formed a beautiful group when some of
them with their milk-pails took shelter, as it began to rain,
under a part of the rock, beneath which they sat down on natural
stone benches, and there, with pastoral innocence and glee,
talked and laughed till the shower was over.</p>
<p>My way led me into the town, from whence I now write, and
which I intend leaving in order to begin my journey back to
London, but I think I shall not now pursue quite the same
road.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XII.</h2>
<p style="text-align: right"><i>Northampton</i>.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">When</span> I took my leave of the honest
shoemaker in Castleton, who would have rejoiced to have
accompanied me, I resolved to return, not by Tideswell, but by
Wardlow, which is nearer.</p>
<p>I there found but one single inn, and in it only a landlady,
who told me that her husband was at work in the lead mines, and
that the cavern at Castleton, and all that I had yet seen, was
nothing to be compared to these lead mines. Her husband,
she said, would be happy to show them to me.</p>
<p>When I came to offer to pay her for my dinner she made some
difficulty about it, because, as I had neither drank ale or
brandy, by the selling of which she chiefly made her livelihood,
she said she could not well make out my bill. On this I
called for a mug of ale (which I did not drink) in order to
enable me the better to settle her reckoning.</p>
<p>At this same time I saw my innkeeper of Tideswell, who,
however, had not, like me, come on foot, but prancing proudly on
horseback.</p>
<p>As I proceeded, and saw the hills rise before me, which were
still fresh in my memory, having so recently become acquainted
with them in my journey thither, I was just reading the passage
in Milton relative to the creation, in which the Angel describes
to Adam how the water subsided, and</p>
<blockquote><p>“Immediately the mountains huge appear<br />
Emergent, and their broad bare backs upheave<br />
Into the clouds, their tops ascend the sky.”</p>
<p style="text-align: right"><i>Book VII.</i>, 1. 285.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>It seemed to me, while reading this passage, as if everything
around me were in the act of creating, and the mountains
themselves appeared to emerge or rise, so animated was the
scene.</p>
<p>I had felt something not very unlike this on my journey
hither, as I was sitting opposite to a hill, whose top was
covered with trees, and was reading in Milton the sublime
description of the combat of the angels, where the fallen angels
are made, with but little regard to chronology, to attack their
antagonists with artillery and cannon, as if it had been a battle
on earth of the present age. The better angels, however,
defend themselves against their antagonists by each seizing on
some hill by the tufts on its summit, tearing them up by the
root, and thus bearing them in their hands to fling them at their
enemy:</p>
<blockquote><p>“—they ran, they flew,<br />
From their foundation loos’ning to and fro,<br />
They pluck’d the seated hills with all their load,<br />
Rocks, waters, woods, and by the shaggy tops<br />
Uplifting bore them in their hands—.”</p>
<p style="text-align: right">Book <i>VI.</i>, 1. 642.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>I seemed to fancy to myself that I actually saw an angel there
standing and plucking up a hill before me and shaking it in the
air.</p>
<p>When I came to the last village before I got to Matlock, as it
was now evening and dark, I determined to spend the night there,
and inquired for an inn, which, I was told, was at the end of the
village; and so on I walked, and kept walking till near midnight
before I found this same inn. The place seemed to have no
end. On my journey to Castleton I must either not have
passed through this village or not have noticed its length.
Much tired, and not a little indisposed, I at length arrived at
the inn, where I sat myself down by the fire in the kitchen, and
asked for something to eat. As they told me I could not
have a bed here, I replied I absolutely would not be driven away,
for that if nothing better could be had I would sit all night by
the fire. This I actually prepared to do, and laid my head
on the table in order to sleep.</p>
<p>When the people in the kitchen thought that I was asleep, I
heard them taking about me, and guessing who or what I might
be. One woman alone seemed to take my part, and said,
“I daresay he is a well-bred gentleman;” another
scouted that notion, merely because, as she said, “I had
come on foot;” and “depend on it,” said she,
“he is some poor travelling creature!” My ears
yet ring with the contemptuous tone with which she uttered,
“poor travelling creature!” It seems to express
all the wretchedness of one who neither has house nor
home—a vagabond and outcast of society.</p>
<p>At last, when these unfeeling people saw that I was
determined, at all events, to stay there all night, they gave me
a bed, but not till I had long given up all hopes of getting
one. And in the morning, when they asked me a shilling for
it, I gave them half-a-crown, adding, with something of an air,
that I would have no change. This I did, though perhaps
foolishly, to show them that I was not quite “<i>a poor
creature</i>.” And now they took leave of me with
great civility and many excuses; and I now continued my journey
much at my ease.</p>
<p>When I had passed Matlock I did not go again towards Derby,
but took the road to the left towards Nottingham. Here the
hills gradually disappeared; and my journey now lay through
meadow grounds and cultivated fields.</p>
<p>I must here inform you that the word <i>Peake</i>, or
<i>Pike</i>, in old English signifies a point or summit.
The <i>Peak</i> of Derbyshire, therefore, means that part of the
country which is hilly, or where the mountains are highest.</p>
<p>Towards noon I again came to an eminence, where I found but
one single solitary inn, which had a singular inscription on its
sign. It was in rhyme, and I remember only that it ended
with these words, “Refresh, and then go on.”
“Entertainment for man and horse.” This I have
seen on several signs, but the most common, at all the lesser
ale-houses, is, “A. B. C. or D. dealer in foreign
spirituous liquors.”</p>
<p>I dined here on cold meat and salad. This, or else eggs
and salad, was my usual supper, and my dinner too, at the inns at
which I stopped. It was but seldom that I had the good
fortune to get anything hot. The salad, for which they
brought me all the ingredients, I was always obliged to dress
myself. This, I believe, is always done in England.</p>
<p>The road was now tolerably pleasant, but the country seemed
here to be uniform and unvaried, even to dulness. However,
it was a very fine evening, and as I passed through a village
just before sunset several people who met me accosted me with a
phrase which, at first, I thought odd, but which I now think
civil, if not polite. As if I could possibly want
information on such a point as they passed me, they all very
courteously told me, “’Twas a fine evening,” or
“A pleasant night.”</p>
<p>I have also often met people who as they passed me obligingly
and kindly asked: “How do you do?” To which
unexpected question from total strangers I have now learned to
answer, “Pretty well, I thank you; how do you
do?” This manner of address must needs appear very
singular to a foreigner, who is all at once asked by a person
whom he has never seen before how he does.</p>
<p>After I had passed through this village I came to a green
field, at the side of which I met with an ale-house. The
mistress was sitting at the window. I asked her if I could
stay the night there. She said “No!” and shut
the window in my face.</p>
<p>This unmannerliness recalled to my recollection the many
receptions of this kind to which I have now so often been
exposed, and I could not forbear uttering aloud my indignation at
the inhospitality of the English. This harsh sentiment I
soon corrected, however, as I walked on, by recollecting, and
placing in the opposite scale, the unbounded and unequalled
generosity of this nation, and also the many acts of real and
substantial kindness which I had myself experienced in it.</p>
<p>I at last came to another inn, where there was written on the
sign: “The Navigation Inn,” because it is the depot,
or storehouse, of the colliers of the Trent.</p>
<p>A rougher or ruder kind of people I never saw than these
colliers, whom I here met assembled in the kitchen, and in whose
company I was obliged to spend the evening.</p>
<p>Their language, their dress, their manners were, all of them,
singularly vulgar and disagreeable, and their expressions still
more so, for they hardly spoke a word, without adding “a
G—d d— me” to it, and thus cursing,
quarrelling, drinking, singing, and fighting, they seemed to be
pleased, and to enjoy the evening. I must do them the
justice to add, that none of them, however, at all molested me or
did me any harm. On the contrary, every one again and again
drank my health, and I took care not to forget to drink theirs in
return. The treatment of my host at Matlock was still fresh
in my memory, and so, as often as I drank, I never omitted
saying, “Your healths, gentlemen all!”</p>
<p>When two Englishmen quarrel, the fray is carried on, and
decided, rather by actions than by words; though loud and
boisterous, they do not say much, and frequently repeat the same
thing over and over again, always clinching it with an additional
“G— d— you!” Their anger seems to
overpower their utterance, and can vent only by coming to
blows.</p>
<p>The landlady, who sat in the kitchen along with all this
goodly company, was nevertheless well dressed, and a remarkably
well-looking woman. As soon as I had supped I hastened to
bed, but could not sleep; my quondam companions, the colliers,
made such a noise the whole night through. In the morning,
when I got up, there was not cue to be seen nor heard.</p>
<p>I was now only a few miles from Nottingham, where I arrived
towards noon.</p>
<p>This, of all the towns I have yet seen, except London, seemed
to me to be one of the best, and is undoubtedly the
cleanest. Everything here wore a modern appearance, and a
large place in the centre, scarcely yielded to a London square in
point of beauty.</p>
<p>From the town a charming footpath leads you across the meadows
to the high-road, where there is a bridge over the Trent.
Not far from this bridge was an inn, where I dined, though I
could get nothing but bread-and-butter, of which I desired to
have a toast made.</p>
<p>Nottingham lies high, and made a beautiful appearance at a
distance, with its neat high houses, red roofs, and its lofty
steeples. I have not seen so fine a prospect in any other
town in England.</p>
<p>I now came through several villages, as Ruddington, Bradmore,
and Buny, to Castol, where I stayed all night.</p>
<p>This whole afternoon I heard the ringing of bells in many of
the villages. Probably it is some holiday which they thus
celebrate. It was cloudy weather, and I felt myself not at
all well, and in these circumstances this ringing discomposed me
still more, and made me at length quite low-spirited and
melancholy.</p>
<p>At Castol there were three inns close to each other, in which,
to judge only from the outside of the houses, little but poverty
was to be expected. In the one at which I at length stopped
there was only a landlady, a sick butcher, and a sick carter,
both of whom had come to stay the night. This assemblage of
sick persons gave me the idea of an hospital, and depressed me
still more. I felt some degree of fever, was very restless
all night, and so I kept my bed very late the next morning, until
the woman of the house came and aroused me by saying she had been
uneasy on my account. And now I formed the resolution to go
to Leicester in the post-coach.</p>
<p>I was now only four miles from Loughborough, a small, and I
think, not a very handsome town, where I arrived late at noon,
and dined at the last inn on the road that leads to
Leicester. Here again, far beyond expectation, the people
treated me like a gentleman, and let me dine in the parlour.</p>
<p>From Loughborough to Leicester was only ten miles, but the
road was sandy and very unpleasant walking.</p>
<p>I came through a village called Mountsorrel, which perhaps
takes its name from a little hill at the end of it. As for
the rest, it was all one large plain, all the way to
Leicester.</p>
<p>Towards evening I came to a pleasant meadow just before I got
to Leicester, through which a footpath led me to the town, which
made a good appearance as I viewed it lengthways, and indeed much
larger than it really is.</p>
<p>I went up a long street before I got to the house from which
the post-coaches set out, and which is also an inn. I here
learnt that the stage was to set out that evening for London, but
that the inside was already full; some places were, however,
still left on the outside.</p>
<p>Being obliged to bestir myself to get back to London, as the
time drew near when the Hamburg captain, with whom I intend to
return, had fixed his departure, I determined to take a place as
far as Northampton on the outside.</p>
<p>But this ride from Leicester to Northampton I shall remember
as long as I live.</p>
<p>The coach drove from the yard through a part of the
house. The inside passengers got in in the yard, but we on
the outside were obliged to clamber up in the public street,
because we should have had no room for our heads to pass under
the gateway.</p>
<p>My companions on the top of the coach were a farmer, a young
man very decently dressed, and a blackamoor.</p>
<p>The getting up alone was at the risk of one’s life, and
when I was up I was obliged to sit just at the corner of the
coach, with nothing to hold by but a sort of little handle
fastened on the side. I sat nearest the wheel, and the
moment that we set off I fancied that I saw certain death await
me. All I could do was to take still safer hold of the
handle, and to be more and more careful to preserve my
balance.</p>
<p>The machine now rolled along with prodigious rapidity, over
the stones through the town, and every moment we seemed to fly
into the air, so that it was almost a miracle that we still stuck
to the coach and did not fall. We seemed to be thus on the
wing, and to fly, as often as we passed through a village, or
went down a hill.</p>
<p>At last the being continually in fear of my life became
insupportable, and as we were going up a hill, and consequently
proceeding rather slower than usual, I crept from the top of the
coach and got snug into the basket.</p>
<p>“O, sir, sir, you will be shaken to death!” said
the black, but I flattered myself he exaggerated the
unpleasantness of my post.</p>
<p>As long as we went up hill it was easy and pleasant.
And, having had little or no sleep the night before, I was almost
asleep among the trunks and the packages; but how was the case
altered when we came to go down hill! then all the trunks and
parcels began, as it were, to dance around me, and everything in
the basket seemed to be alive, and I every moment received from
them such violent blows that I thought my last hour was
come. I now found that what the black had told me was no
exaggeration, but all my complaints were useless. I was
obliged to suffer this torture nearly an hour, till we came to
another hill again, when quite shaken to pieces and sadly
bruised, I again crept to the top of the coach, and took
possession of my former seat. “Ah, did not I tell you
that you would be shaken to death?” said the black, as I
was getting up, but I made him no reply. Indeed, I was
ashamed; and I now write this as a warning to all strangers to
stage-coaches who may happen to take it into their heads, without
being used to it, to take a place on the outside of an English
post-coach, and still more, a place in the basket.</p>
<p>About midnight we arrived at Harborough, where I could only
rest myself a moment, before we were again called to set off,
full drive, through a number of villages, so that a few hours
before daybreak we had reached Northampton, which is, however,
thirty-three miles from Leicester.</p>
<p>From Harborough to Leicester I had a most dreadful journey, it
rained incessantly; and as before we had been covered with dust,
we now were soaked with rain. My neighbour, the young man
who sat next me in the middle, that my inconveniences might be
complete, every now and then fell asleep; and as, when asleep, he
perpetually bolted and rolled against me, with the whole weight
of his body, more than once he was very near pushing me entirely
off my seat.</p>
<p>We at last reached Northampton, where I immediately went to
bed, and have slept almost till noon. To-morrow morning I
intend to continue my journey to London in some other
stage-coach.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XIII.</h2>
<p style="text-align: right"><i>London</i>, 15th <i>July</i>,
1782.</p>
<p><span class="smcap">The</span> journey from Northampton to
London I can again hardly call a journey, but rather a perpetual
motion, or removal from one place to another, in a close box;
during your conveyance you may, perhaps, if you are in luck,
converse with two or three people shut up along with you.</p>
<p>But I was not so fortunate, for my three travelling companions
were all farmers, who slept so soundly that even the hearty
knocks of the head with which they often saluted each other, did
not awake them.</p>
<p>Their faces, bloated and discoloured by their copious use of
ale and brandy, looked, as they lay before me, like so many lumps
of dead flesh. When now and then they woke, sheep, in which
they all dealt, was the first and last topic of their
conversation. One of the three, however, differed not a
little from the other two; his face was sallow and thin, his eyes
quite sunk and hollow, his long, lank fingers hung quite loose,
and as if detached from his hands. He was, in short, the
picture of avarice and misanthropy. The former he certainly
was; for at every stage he refused to give the coachman the
accustomed perquisite, which every body else paid; and every
farthing he was forced to part with, forced a “G—d
d—n” from his heart. As he sat in the coach, he
seemed anxious to shun the light; and so shut up every window
that he could come at, except when now and then I opened them to
take a slight view of the charms of the country through which we
seemed to be flying, rather than driving.</p>
<p>Our road lay through Newport Pagnell, Dunstable, St. Albans,
Barnet, to Islington, or rather to London itself. But these
names are all I know of the different places.</p>
<p>At Dunstable, if I do not mistake, we breakfasted; and here,
as is usual, everything was paid for in common by all the
passengers; as I did not know this, I ordered coffee separately;
however, when it came, the three farmers also drank of it, and
gave me some of their tea.</p>
<p>They asked me what part of the world I came from; whereas we
in Germany generally inquired what countryman a person is.</p>
<p>When we had breakfasted, and were again seated in the coach,
all the farmers, the lean one excepted, seemed quite alive again,
and now began a conversation on religion and on politics.</p>
<p>One of them brought the history of Samson on the carpet, which
the clergyman of his parish, he said, had lately explained, I
dare say very satisfactorily; though this honest farmer still had
a great many doubts about the great gate which Samson carried
away, and about the foxes with the firebrands between their
tails. In other respects, however, the man seemed not to be
either uninformed or sceptical.</p>
<p>They now proceeded to relate to each other various stories,
chiefly out of the Bible; not merely as important facts, but as
interesting narratives, which they would have told and listened
to with equal satisfaction had they met them anywhere else.
One of them had only heard these stories from his minister in the
church, not being able to read them himself.</p>
<p>The one that sat next to him now began to talk about the Jews
of the Old Testament, and assured us that the present race were
all descended from those old ones. “Ay, and they are
all damned to all eternity!” said his companion, as coolly
and as confidently as if at that moment he had seen them burning
in the bottomless pit.</p>
<p>We now frequently took up fresh passengers, who only rode a
short distance with us, and then got out again. Among
others was a woman from London, whose business was the making of
brandy. She entertained us with a very circumstantial
narrative of all the shocking scenes during the late riot in that
city. What particularly struck me was her saying that she
saw a man, opposite to her house, who was so furious, that he
stood on the wall of a house that was already half burnt down,
and there, like a demon, with his own hands pulled down and
tossed about the bricks which the fire had spared, till at length
he was shot, and fell back among the flames.</p>
<p>At length we arrived at London without any accident, in a hard
rain, about one o’clock. I had been obliged to pay
sixteen shillings beforehand at Northampton, for the sixty miles
to London. This the coachman seemed not to know for
certain, and therefore asked me more earnestly if I was sure I
had paid: I assured him I had, and he took my word.</p>
<p>I looked like a crazy creature when I arrived in London;
notwithstanding which, Mr. Pointer, with whom I left my trunk,
received me in the most friendly manner, and desired me during
dinner to relate to him my adventures.</p>
<p>The same evening I called on Mr. Leonhardi, who, as I did not
wish to hire a lodging for the few days I might be obliged to
wait for a fair wind, got me into the Freemasons’
Tavern. And here I have been waiting these eight days, and
the wind still continues contrary for Hambro’; though I do
now most heartily wish for a fair wind, as I can no longer make
any improvement by my stay, since I must keep myself in constant
readiness to embark whenever the wind changes; and therefore I
dare go no great distance.</p>
<p>Everybody here is now full of the Marquis of
Rockingham’s death, and the change of the ministry in
consequence of it. They are much displeased that Fox has
given up his seat; and yet it is singular, they still are much
concerned, and interest themselves for him, as if whatever
interested him were the interest of the nation. On Tuesday
there was a highly important debate in Parliament. Fox was
called on to assign the true reasons of his resignation before
the nation. At eleven o’clock the gallery was so full
that nobody could get a place, and the debates only began at
three, and lasted this evening till ten.</p>
<p>About four Fox came. Every one was full of
expectation. He spoke at first with great vehemence, but it
was observed that he gradually became more and more moderate, and
when at length he had vindicated the step he had taken, and
showed it to be, in every point of view, just, wise, and
honourable, he added, with great force and pathos, “and now
I stand here once more as poor as ever I was.” It was
impossible to hear such a speech and such declarations
unmoved.</p>
<p>General Conway then gave his reasons why he did not resign,
though he was of the same political principles as Mr. Fox and Mr.
Burke; he was of the same opinion with them in regard to the
independency of America; the more equal representation of the
people in Parliament, and the regulations necessary in Ireland;
but he did not think the present minister, Lord Shelburne, would
act contrary to those principles. As soon as he did, he
should likewise resign, but not before.</p>
<p>Burke now stood up and made a most elegant though florid
speech, in praise of the late Marquis of Rockingham. As he
did not meet with sufficient attention, and heard much talking
and many murmurs, he said, with much vehemence and a sense of
injured merit, “This is not treatment for so old a member
of Parliament as I am, and I will be heard!”—on which
there was immediately a most profound silence. After he had
said much more in praise of Rockingham, he sub-joined, that with
regard to General Conway’s remaining in the ministry, it
reminded him of a fable he had heard in his youth, of a wolf,
who, on having clothed himself as a sheep, was let into the fold
by a lamb, who indeed did say to him, “Where did you get
those long nails, and those sharp teeth, mamma?” But
nevertheless let him in; the consequence of which was he murdered
the whole flock. Now with respect to General Conway, it
appeared to him, just as though the lamb certainly did perceive
the nails and teeth of the wolf, but notwithstanding, was so
good-tempered to believe that the wolf would change his nature,
and become a lamb. By this, he did not mean to reflect on
Lord Shelburne: only of this he was certain, that the present
administration was a thousand times worse than that under Lord
North (who was present).</p>
<p>When I heard Mr. Pitt speak for the first time, I was
astonished that a man of so youthful an appearance should stand
up at all; but I was still more astonished to see how, while he
spoke, he engaged universal attention. He seems to me not
to be more than one-and-twenty. This same Pitt is now
minister, and even Chancellor of the Exchequer.</p>
<p>It is shocking to a foreigner, to see what violent satires on
men, rather than on things, daily appear in the newspapers, of
which they tell me there are at least a dozen, if not more,
published every day. Some of them side with the Ministry,
and still more I think with the Opposition. A paper that
should be quite impartial, if that were possible, I apprehend
would be deemed so insipid as to find no readers. No longer
ago than yesterday, it was mentioned in one of these newspapers,
that when Fox, who is fallen, saw so young a man as Pitt made the
minister, he exclaimed with Satan, who, in “Paradise
Lost,” on perceiving the man approved by God, called out,
“O hateful sight!”</p>
<p>On Thursday the king went with the usual solemnity to prorogue
the Parliament for a stated time. But I pass this over as a
matter that has already been so often described.</p>
<p>I have also, during this period, become acquainted with Baron
Grothaus, the famous walker, to whom I had also a letter of
recommendation from Baron Groote of Hambro’. He lives
in Chesterfield House, not far from General Paoli, to whom he has
promised to introduce me, if I have time to call on him
again.</p>
<p>I have suffered much this week from the violent cough I
brought with me from the hole in Derbyshire, so that I could not
for some days stir; during which time Messrs. Schonborn and
Leonhardi have visited me very attentively, and contributed much
to my amendment.</p>
<p>I have been obliged to relate as much about my journey out of
London here as I probably shall in Germany of all England in
general. To most people to whom I give an account of my
journey, what I have seen is quite new. I must, however,
here insert a few remarks on the elocution, or manner of
speaking, of this country, which I had forgot before to write to
you.</p>
<p>English eloquence appears to me not to be nearly so capable of
so much variety and diffusion as ours is. Add to this, in
their Parliamentary speeches, in sermons in the pulpit, in the
dialogues on the stage; nay, even in common conversation, their
periods at the end of a sentence are always accompanied by a
certain singular uniform fall of the voice, which,
notwithstanding its monotony has in it something so peculiar, and
so difficult, that I defy any foreigner ever completely to
acquire it. Mr. Leonhardi in particular seemed to me, in
some passages which he repeated out of <i>Hamlet</i>, to have
learnt to sink his voice in the true English manner; yet any one
might know from his speaking that he is not an Englishman.
The English place the accent oftener on the adjectives than they
do on the substantive, which, though undoubtedly the most
significant word in any sentence, has frequently less stress laid
on it than you hear laid on mere epithets. On the stage
they pronounce the syllables and words extremely distinct, so
that at the theatres you may always gain most instruction in
English elocution and pronunciation.</p>
<p>This kingdom is remarkable for running into dialect: even in
London they are said to have one. They say, for example,
“it a’nt” instead of “it is not;”
“I don’t know,” for “I do not
know;” “I don’t know him,” for “I
do not know him;” the latter of which phrases has often
deceived me, as I mistook a negative for an affirmative.</p>
<p>The word “sir,” in English, has a great variety of
significations. With the appellation of “sir,”
an Englishman addresses his king, his friend, his foe, his
servant, and his dog; he makes use of it when asking a question
politely; and a member of Parliament, merely to fill up a
vacancy, when he happens to be at a loss.
“Sir?” in an inquiring tone of voice, signifies what
is your desire? “Sir!” in a humble
tone—gracious Sovereign!—“Sir!” in surly
tone, a box on the ear at your service! To a dog it means a
good beating. And in a speech in Parliament, accompanied by
a pause, it signifies, I cannot now recollect what it is I wish
to say farther.</p>
<p>I do not recollect to have heard any expression repeated
oftener than this, “Never mind it!” A porter
one day fell down, and cut his head on the pavement: “O,
never mind it!” said an Englishman who happened to be
passing by. When I had my trunk fetched from the ship in a
boat, the waterman rowed among the boats, and his boy, who stood
at the head of his boat, got a sound drubbing, because the others
would not let him pass: “O, never mind it!” said the
old one, and kept rowing on.</p>
<p>The Germans who have been here any time almost constantly make
use of Anglicisms, such as “<i>es will nicht
thun</i>” (it will not do), instead of <i>es ist nicht
hinlänglich</i> (it is not sufficient), and many such.
Nay, some even say, “<i>Ich habe es nicht
geminded</i>” (I did not mind it), instead of <i>ich habe
mich nicht daran errinnert</i>, oder <i>daran gedacht</i> (I did
not recollect it, or I did not think of it).</p>
<p>You can immediately distinguish Englishmen when they speak
German, by their pronunciation according to the English manner;
instead of <i>Ich befinde mich wohl</i>, they say <i>Ich
befirmich u’hol</i> (I am very well), the <i>w</i> being as
little noticed as <i>u</i> quickly sounded.</p>
<p>I have often heard, when directing any one in the street, the
phrase, “Go down the street as far as ever you can go, and
ask anybody.” Just as we say, “Every child can
direct you.”</p>
<p>I have already noticed in England they learn to write a much
finer hand than with us. This probably arises from their
making use of only one kind of writing, in which the letters are
all so exact that you would take it for print.</p>
<p>In general, in speaking, reading, in their expressions, and in
writing, they seem, in England, to have more decided rules than
we have. The lowest man expresses himself in proper
phrases, and he who publishes a book, at least writes correctly,
though the matter be ever so ordinary. In point of style,
when they write, they seem to be all of the same country,
profession, rank, and station.</p>
<p>The printed English sermons are beyond all question the best
in the world; yet I have sometimes heard sad, miserable stuff
from their pulpits. I have been in some churches where the
sermons seem to have been transcribed or compiled from essays and
pamphlets; and the motley composition, after all, very badly put
together. It is said that there are a few in London, by
whom some of the English clergy are supposed to get their sermons
made for money.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XIV.</h2>
<p style="text-align: right"><i>London</i>, 18th <i>July</i>.</p>
<p>I <span class="smcap">write</span> to you now for the last
time from London; and, what is still more, from St.
Catherine’s, one of the most execrable holes in all this
great city, where I am obliged to stay, because the great ships
arrive in the Thames here, and go from hence, and we shall sail
as soon as the wind changes. This it has just now done, yet
still it seems we shall not sail till to-morrow. To-day
therefore I can still relate to you all the little that I have
farther noticed.</p>
<p>On Monday morning I moved from the Freemasons’ Tavern to
a public-house here, of which the master is a German; and where
all the Hambro’ captains lodge. At the
Freemasons’ Tavern, the bill for eight days’ lodging,
breakfast, and dinner came to one guinea and nine shillings and
nine pence. Breakfast, dinner, and coffee were always, with
distinction, reckoned a shilling each. For my lodging I
paid only twelve shillings a week, which was certainly cheap
enough.</p>
<p>At the German’s house in St. Catherine’s, on the
contrary, everything is more reasonable, and you here eat, drink,
and lodge for half-a-guinea a week. Notwithstanding,
however, I would not advise anybody who wishes to see London, to
lodge here long; for St. Catherine’s is one of the most
out-of-the-way and inconvenient places in the whole town.</p>
<p>He who lands here first sees this miserable, narrow, dirty
street, and this mass of ill-built, old, ruinous houses; and of
course forms, at first sight, no very favourable idea of this
beautiful and renowned city.</p>
<p>From Bullstrode Street, or Cavendish Square, to St.
Catherine’s, is little less than half a day’s
journey. Nevertheless, Mr. Schonborn has daily visited me
since I have lived here; and I have always walked back half-way
with him. This evening we took leave of each other near St.
Paul’s, and this separation cost me not a few tears.</p>
<p>I have had a very agreeable visit this afternoon from Mr.
Hansen, one of the assistants to the “Zollner book for all
ranks of men” who brought me a letter from the Rev. Mr.
Zollner at Berlin, and just arrived at London when I was going
away. He is going on business to Liverpool. I have
these few days past, for want of better employment, walked
through several parts of London that I had not before seen.
Yesterday I endeavoured to reach the west end of the town; and I
walked several miles, when finding it was grown quite dark, I
turned back quite tired, without having accomplished my end.</p>
<p>Nothing in London makes so disgusting an appearance to a
foreigner, as the butchers’ shops, especially in the
environs of the Tower. Guts and all the nastiness are
thrown into the middle of the street, and cause an insupportable
stench.</p>
<p>I have forgot to describe the ’Change to you; this
beautiful building is a long square in the centre of which is an
open area, where the merchants assemble. All round, there
are covered walks supported by pillars on which the name of the
different commercial nations you may wish to find are written up,
that among the crowd of people you may be able to find each
other. There are also stone benches made under the covered
walks, which after a ramble from St. Catherine’s, for
example, hither, are very convenient to rest yourself.</p>
<p>On the walls all kinds of handbills are stuck up. Among
others I read one of singular contents. A clergyman
exhorted the people not to assent to the shameful Act of
Parliament for the toleration of Catholics, by suffering their
children to their eternal ruin to be instructed and educated by
them; but rather to give him, an orthodox clergyman of the Church
of England, this employ and this emolument.</p>
<p>In the middle of the area is a stone statue of Charles the
Second. As I sat here on a bench, and gazed on the immense
crowds that people London, I thought that, as to mere dress and
outward appearance, these here did not seem to be materially
different from our people at Berlin.</p>
<p>Near the ’Change is a shop where, for a penny or even a
halfpenny only, you may read as many newspapers as you
will. There are always a number of people about these
shops, who run over the paper as they stand, pay their halfpenny,
and then go on.</p>
<p>Near the ’Change there is a little steeple with a set of
bells which have a charming tone, but they only chime one or two
lively tunes, though in this part of the City you constantly hear
bells ringing in your ears.</p>
<p>It has struck me that in London there is no occasion for any
elementary works or prints, for the instruction of
children. One need only lead them into the City, and show
them the things themselves as they really are. For here it
is contrived, as much as possible, to place in view for the
public inspection every production of art, and every effort of
industry. Paintings, mechanisms, curiosities of all kinds,
are here exhibited in the large and light shop windows, in the
most advantageous manner; nor are spectators wanting, who here
and there, in the middle of the street, stand still to observe
any curious performance. Such a street seemed to me to
resemble a well regulated cabinet of curiosities.</p>
<p>But the squares, where the finest houses are, disdain and
reject all such shows and ornaments, which are adapted only to
shopkeepers’ houses. The squares, moreover, are not
nearly so crowded or so populous as the streets and the other
parts of the city. There is nearly as much difference
between these squares and the Strand in London, in point of
population and bustle, as there is between Millbank and
Fredericksstadt in Berlin.</p>
<p>I do not at present recollect anything further, my dear
friend, worth your attention, which I can now write to you,
except that everything is ready for our departure
to-morrow. I paid Captain Hilkes, with whom I came over
from Hambro’, four guineas for my passage and my board in
the cabin. But Captain Braunschweig, with whom I am to
return, charges me five guineas; because provisions, he says, are
dearer in London than at Hambro’. I now have related
to you all my adventures and all my history from the time that I
took leave of you in the street, my voyage hither with Captain
Hilkes excepted. Of this, all that I think it necessary to
mention is, that, to my great dissatisfaction, it lasted a
fortnight, and three days I was sea-sick. Of my voyage back
I will give you a personal account. And now remember me to
Biester, and farewell till I see you again.</p>
<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRAVELS IN ENGLAND IN 1782***</p>
<pre>
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