University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER II.

The entrance to New York, as it was seen by us on
16th March, is not remarkable for beauty or picturesque
scenery, and I incurred the ire of several passengers, because
I could not consistently say it was very pretty. It was
difficult to distinguish through the snow the villas and country
houses, which are said to be so charming in summer. But
beyond these rose a forest of masts close by a low shore of
brick houses and blue roofs, above the level of which again
spires of churches and domes and cupolas announced a great
city. On our left, at the narrowest part of the entrance,
there was a very powerful casemated work of fine close stone,
in three tiers, something like Fort Paul at Sebastopol, built
close to the water's edge, and armed on all the faces,—apparently
a tetragon with bastions. Extensive works were
going on at the ground above it, which rises rapidly from the
water to a height of more than a hundred feet, and the rudiments
of an extensive work and heavily armed earthen parapets
could be seen from the channel. On the right hand,
crossing its fire with that of the batteries and works on our
left, there was another regular stone fort with fortified enceinte;
and higher up the channel, as it widens to the city
on the same side, I could make out a smaller fort on the
water's edge. The situation of the city renders it susceptible
of powerful defence from the seaside; and even now it would
be hazardous to run the gauntlet of the batteries, unless in
powerful iron-clad ships favored by wind and tide, which
could hold the place at their mercy. Against a wooden fleet
New York is now all but secure, save under exceptional circumstances
in favor of the assailants.

It was dark as the steamer hauled up alongside the wharf
on the New Jersey side of the river; but ere the sun set. I

could form some idea of the activity and industry of the people
from the enormous ferry-boats moving backwards and forwards
like arks on the water, impelled by the great walking-beam
engines, the crowded stream full of merchantmen,
steamers, and small craft, the smoke of the factories, the tall
chimneys,—the net-work of boats and rafts,—all the evidences
of commercial life in full development. What a
swarming, eager crowd on the quay-wall! What a wonderful
ragged regiment of laborers and porters, hailing us in broken
or Hibernianized English! "These are all Irish and Germans,"
anxiously explained a New Yorker. "I'll bet fifty
dollars there's not a native-born American among them."

With Anglo-Saxon disregard of official insignia, American
Custom House officers dress very much like their British
brethren, without any sign of authority as faint as even the
brass button and crown, so that the stranger is somewhat uneasy
when he sees unauthorized-looking people taking liberties
with his plunder, especially after the admonitions he has
received on board ship to look sharp about his things as soon
as he lands. I was provided with an introduction to one of
the principal officers, and he facilitated my egress, and at last
I was bundled out through a gate into a dark alley, ankle
deep in melted snow and mud, where I was at once engaged
in a brisk encounter with my Irish porterhood, and, after a
long struggle, succeeded in stowing my effects in and about a
remarkable specimen of the hackney-coach of the last century,
very high in the axle, and weak in the springs, which
plashed down towards the river through a crowd of men
shouting out, "You haven't paid me yet, yer honor. You
haven't given anything to your own man that's been waiting
here the last six months for your honor!" "I'm the man
that put the lugidge up, sir," &c., &c. The coach darted on
board a great steam ferry-boat, which had on deck a number
of similar vehicles and omnibuses; and the gliding, shifting
lights, and the deep, strong breathing of the engine, told me
I was moving and afloat before I was otherwise aware of it.
A few minutes brought us over to the lights on the New York
side,—a jerk or two up a steep incline,—and we were rattling
over a most abominable pavement, plunging into mudholes,
squashing through snow-heaps in ill-lighted, narrow
streets of low, mean-looking, wooden houses, of which an unusual
proportion appeared to be lager-bier saloons, whiskey-shops,
oyster-houses, and billiard and smoking establishments.

The crowd on the pavement were very much what a stranger

would be likely to see in a very bad part of London,
Antwerp, or Hamburg, with a dash of the noisy exuberance
which proceeds from the high animal spirits that defy police
regulations and are superior to police force, called "rowdyism."
The drive was long and tortuous; but by degrees the
character of the thoroughfares and streets improved. At
last we turned into a wide street with very tall houses, alternating
with far humbler erections, blazing with lights, gay
with shop-windows, thronged in spite of the mud with well-dressed
people, and pervaded by strings of omnibuses,—Oxford
Street was nothing to it for length. At intervals there
towered up a block of brickwork and stucco, with long rows
of windows lighted up tier above tier, and a swarming crowd
passing in and out of the portals, which were recognized as
the barrack-like glory of American civilization,—a Broadway
monster hotel. More oyster-shops, lager-bier saloons,
concert-rooms of astounding denominations, with external
decorations very much in the style of the booths at Bartholomew
Fair,—churches, restaurants, confectioners, private
houses! again another series,—they cannot go on expanding
forever. The coach at last drives into a large square, and
lands me at the Clarendon Hotel.

Whilst I was crossing the sea, the President's Inaugural
Message, the composition of which is generally attributed to
Mr. Seward, had been delivered, and had reached Europe,
and the causes which were at work in destroying the cohesion
of the Union had acquired greater strength and violence.

Whatever force "the declaration of causes which induced
the Secession of South Carolina" might have for Carolinians,
it could not influence a foreigner who knew nothing at all of
the rights, sovereignty, and individual independence of a state,
which, however, had no right to make war or peace, to coin
money, or enter into treaty obligations with any other country.
The South Carolinian was nothing to us, quoad South
Carolina—he was merely a citizen of the United States, and
we knew no more of him in any other capacity than a French
authority would know of a British subject as a Yorkshireman
or a Munsterman.

But the moving force of revolution is neither reason nor
justice—it is most frequently passion—it is often interest.
The American, when he seeks to prove that the Southern
States have no right to revolt from a confederacy of states
created by revolt, has by the principles on which he justifies

his own revolution, placed between himself and the European
a great gulf in the level of argument. According to the deeds
and words of Americans, it is difficult to see why South Carolina
should not use the rights claimed for each of the thirteen
colonies, "to alter and abolish a form of government when it
becomes destructive of the ends for which it is established,
and to institute a new one." And the people must be left to
decide the question as regards their own government for themselves,
or the principle is worthless. The arguments, however,
which are now going on are fast tending towards the
ultima ratio regum. At present I find public attention is concentrated
on the two Federal forts, Pickens and Sumter, called
after two officers of the revolutionary armies in the old war.
As Alabama and South Carolina have gone out, they now demand
the possession of these forts, as of the soil of their several
states and attached to their sovereignty. On the other
hand, the Government of Mr. Lincoln considers it has no right
to give up anything belonging to the Federal Government,
but evidently desires to temporize and evade any decision
which might precipitate an attack on the forts by the batteries
and forces prepared to act against them. There is not sufficient
garrison in either for an adequate defence, and the difficulty
of procuring supplies is very great. Under the circumstances
every one is asking what the Government is going to
do? The Southern people have declared they will resist any
attempt to supply or reinforce the garrisons, and in Charleston,
at least, have shown they mean to keep their word. It
is a strange situation. The Federal Government, afraid to
speak, and unable to act, is leaving its soldiers to do as they
please. In some instances, officers of rank, such as General
Twiggs, have surrendered everything to the State authorities,
and the treachery and secession of many officers in the army
and navy no doubt paralyze and intimidate the civilians at the
head of affairs.

Sunday, 17th March.—The first thing I saw this morning,
after a vision of a waiter pretending to brush my clothes with
a feeble twitch composed of fine fibre had vanished, was a procession
of men, forty or fifty perhaps, preceded by a small
band (by no excess of compliment can I say, of music), trudging
through the cold and slush two and two: they wore shamrocks,
or the best resemblance thereto which the American
soil can produce, in their hats, and green silk sashes emblazoned
with crownless harp upon their coats, but it needed not

these insignia to tell they were Irishmen, and their solemn mien
indicated that they were going to mass. It was agreeable to
see them so well clad and respectable looking, though occasional
hats seemed as if they had just recovered from severe
contusions, and others had the picturesque irregularity of outline
now and then observable in the old country. The aspect
of the street was irregular, and its abnormal look was increased
by the air of the passers-by, who at that hour were domestics
—very finely dressed negroes, Irish, or German. The colored
ladies made most elaborate toilets, and as they held up
their broad crinolines over the mud looked not unlike double-stemmed
mushrooms. "They're concayted poor craythures
them niggirs, male and faymale," was the remark of the waiter
as he saw me watching them. "There seem to be no sparrows
in the streets," said I. "Sparras!" he exclaimed; "and
then how did you think a little baste of a sparra could fly
across the ochean?" I felt rather ashamed of myself.

And so down-stairs where there was a table d'hôte room,
with great long tables covered with cloths, plates, and breakfast
apparatus, and a smaller room inside, to which I was directed
by one of the white-jacketed waiters. Breakfast over,
visitors began to drop in. At the "office" of the hotel, as it
is styled, there is a tray of blank cards and a big pencil, whereby
the cardless man who is visiting is enabled to send you his
name and title. There is a comfortable "reception room," in
which he can remain and read the papers, if you are engaged,
so that there is little chance of your ultimately escaping him.
And, indeed, not one of those who came had any but most hospitable
intents.

Out of doors the weather was not tempting. The snow lay
in irregular layers and discolored mounds along the streets,
and the gutters gorged with "snow-bree" flooded the broken
pavement. But after a time the crowds began to issue from
the churches, and it was announced as the necessity of the
day, that we were to walk up and down the Fifth Avenue and
look at each other. This is the west-end of London—its
Belgravia and Grosvenoria represented in one long street, with
offshoots of inferior dignity at right angles to it. Some of the
houses are handsome, but the greater number have a compressed,
squeezed-up aspect, which arises from the compulsory
narrowness of frontage in proportion to the height of the
building, and all of them are bright and new, as if they were
just finished to order,—a most astonishing proof of the rapid

development of the city. As the hall-door is made an important
feature in the residence, the front parlor is generally a
narrow, lanky apartment, struggling for existence between the
hall and the partition of the next house. The outer door,
which is always provided with fine carved panels and mouldings,
is of some rich varnished wood, and looks much better
than our painted doors. It is generously thrown open so as
to show an inner door with curtains and plate plass. The
windows, which are double on account of the climate, are frequently
of plate glass also. Some of the doors are on the
same level as the street, with a basement story beneath;
others are approached by flights of steps, the basement for
servants having the entrance below the steps, and this, I believe,
is the old Dutch fashion, and the name of "stoop" is
still retained for it.

No liveried servants are to be seen about the streets, the
door-ways, or the area-steps. Black faces in gaudy caps, or
an unmistakable "Biddy" in crinoline are their substitutes.
The chief charm of the street was the living ornature which
moved up and down the trottoirs. The costumes of Paris,
adapted to the severity of this wintry weather, were draped
round pretty, graceful figures which, if wanting somewhat in
that rounded fulness of the Medicean Venus, or in height,
were svelte and well poised. The French boot has been
driven off the field by the Balmoral, better suited to the snow;
and one must at once admit—all prejudices notwithstanding
—that the American woman is not only well shod and well
gloved, but that she has no reason to fear comparisons, in
foot or hand with any daughter of Eve, except, perhaps,
the Hindoo.

The great and most frequent fault of the stranger in
any land is that of generalizing from a few facts. Everyone
must feel there are "pretty days" and "ugly days" in
the world, and that his experience on the one would lead him
to conclusions very different from that to which he would
arrive on the other. To-day I am quite satisfied that if
the American women are deficient in stature and in that
which makes us say, "There is a fine woman," they are easy,
well formed, and full of grace and prettiness. Admitting a
certain pallor—which the Russians, by the by, were wont
to admire so much that they took vinegar to produce it—the
face is not only pretty, but sometimes of extraordinary
beauty, the features fine, delicate, well defined. Ruby lips,

indeed, are seldom to be seen, but now and then the flashing
of snowy-white evenly-set ivory teeth dispels the delusion
that the Americans are—though the excellence of their dentists
be granted—naturally ill provided with what they take
so much pains, by eating bon-bons and confectionery, to deprive
of their purity and color.

My friend R—, with whom I was walking, knew every
one in the Fifth Avenue, and we worked our way through a
succession of small talk nearly as far as the end of the street
which runs out among divers places in the State of New
York, through a débris of unfinished conceptions in masonry.
The abrupt transition of the city into the country is not unfavorable
to an idea that the Fifth Avenue might have been
transported from some great workshop, where it had been built
to order by a despot, and dropped among the Red men: indeed,
the immense growth of New York in this direction,
although far inferior to that of many parts of London, is remarkable
as the work of eighteen or twenty years, and is
rendered more conspicuous by being developed in this elongated
street, and its contingents. I was introduced to many
persons to-day, and was only once or twice asked how I liked
New York; perhaps I anticipated the question by expressing
my high opinion of the Fifth Avenue. Those to whom I
spoke had generally something to say in reference to the
troubled condition of the country, but it was principally of a
self-complacent nature. "I suppose, sir, you are rather surprised,
coming from Europe, to find us so quiet here in New
York: we are a peculiar people, and you don't understand us
in Europe."

In the afternoon I called on Mr. Bancroft, formerly minister
to England, whose work on America must be rather rudely
interrupted by this crisis. Anything with an "ex" to it in
America is of little weight—ex-presidents are nobodies,
though they have had the advantage, during their four years'
tenure of office, of being prayed for as long as they live. So
it is of ex-ministers, whom nobody prays for at all. Mr.
Bancroft conversed for some time on the aspect of affairs, but
he appeared to be unable to arrive at any settled conclusion,
except that the republic, though in danger, was the most
stable and beneficial form of government in the world, and
that as a Goverment it had no power to coerce the people of
the South or to save itself from the danger. I was indeed
astonished to hear from him and others so much philosophical

abstract reasoning as to the right of seceding, or, what is next
to it, the want of any power in the Government to prevent
it.

Returning home in order to dress for dinner, I got into a
street-railway-car, a long low omnibus drawn by horses over a
strada ferrata in the middle of the street. It was filled with
people of all classes, and at every crossing some one or other
rang the bell, and the driver stopped to let out or to take in
passengers, whereby the unoffending traveller became possessed
of much snow-droppings and mud on boots and clothing.
I found that by far a greater inconvenience caused by
these street-railways was the destruction of all comfort or
rapidity in ordinary carriages.

I dined with a New York banker, who gave such a dinner
as bankers generally give all over the world. He is a man
still young, very kindly, hospitable, well-informed, with a most
charming household—an American by theory, an Englishman
in instincts and tastes—educated in Europe, and sprung
from British stock. Considering the enormous interests he
has at stake, I was astonished to perceive how calmly he
spoke of the impending troubles. His friends, all men of position
in New York society, had the same dilettante tone, and
were as little anxious for the future, or excited by the present,
as a party of savans chronicling the movements of a "magnetic
storm."

On going back to the hotel, I heard that Judge Daly and
some gentlemen had called to request that I would dine with
the Friendly Society of St. Patrick to-morrow at Astor
House. In what is called "the bar," I met several gentlemen,
one of whom said, "the majority of the people of New
York, and all the respectable people, were disgusted at the
election of such a fellow as Lincoln to be President, and
would back the Southern States, if it came to a split."