University of Virginia Library

5. CHAP. V.

About daylight I was roused by a most horrible
noise, which resembled nothing I had ever heard
before. On going upon deck, I perceived the
whole surface of the water, as far as the eye could
reach, covered with immense bull-frogs, who leapt
and croaked, to the infinite delight of these tasteful
democrats, who were all gathered together to
hear this charming concert, which they would prefer

to the commemoration of Handel. Some of the
largest of these frogs actually jumped upon deck,
and a canoe alongside was nearly upset by three or
four of them clambering up its sides, at one and
the same time. The place is called Frog's Neck,
and never was there a spot more aptly named.
There is a little settlement near this, called New-Rochelle,
peopled by Frenchmen, who were doubtless
attracted by the frogs. But such is the ardour
of these refined republicans, for this species of music,
that the legislature has enacted a law, making
it death to kill one of these delightful musicians.
To kill a man here is a trifle—but to kill a frog is
capital!

Shortly after leaving Frog's Neck, we came to
the famous pass of Hell Gate, as it is impiously
called by the profane spirit of democracy. It is
the Scilly and Charybdis of the new world, and
nothing but the special protection of Providence
can account for the few deliverances that happen
to these reckless republicans in passing it, which
they do every hour of the day and night. As soon
as they begin to distinguish its roaring, which can
be heard at a distance of thirty miles, except when
the frog concert intervenes, all hands, captain, pilot,
and the rest, set to and drink apple brandy,
or whiskey, so that by the time they come to the
Hog's Back, they are as drunk as swine. They
then lie down flat on their faces and let the vessel
take her course. This preparatory tippling is
what they impiously call receiving “extreme

unction,” and preparing for death, which the communicative
traveller assured me not more than one
out of three escaped on an average. I could not
help expressing my wonder, that these people
should thus recklessly sport with their lives. “O,
as to that,” replied he, “what with the curse of
democracy, the grinding oppressions of unrestrained
liberty, together with the total insecurity
of property under mob law; and the total insecurity
of person, in consequence of the universal
practice of robbery and murder, of which
you have had ample experience,—I say, what with
all this, ninety-nine in a hundred of these, my
wretched countrymen, would as soon die as not,
and some of them a great deal rather, only to escape
the blessings of democracy.” “But,” said
I, “why don't these miserable creatures say their
prayers, and make some little preparation to die
like christians, instead of thus beastifying themselves?”
“O,” answered he, with a coolness that
made me shudder, “this is what we call Dutch
courage; and I assure you, upon my credit, that I
never knew a genuine brother Jonathan who could
be brought to face an enemy, or die with decency,
unless he had his SKIN full of whiskey, and was
well `corned,' as we say. This was the way in
which we gained all our victories last war both by
sea and land.” Good, thought I, here is the testimony
of one of their own countrymen. Mr.
James shall add this to his apologies for Blue and
Buff, in his next edition.

This conversation happened after safely passing
this tremendous strait, which we did as it were by
miracle. Betwixt this and New-York, the communicative
traveller pointed out to me some two
or three of what he called magnificent country seats,
which seemed to me about the size of a pigeon-house.
I took no notice of him or them, but affected
to be in a fit of abstraction, with my eyes
fixed on vacancy. Turning the point of Sandy-Hook,
we came in full sight of the city, its bay,
and islands. I saw that several of these people
were watching to detect in me some symptoms of
surprise or admiration, so I resolved to disappoint
them, and turned my back to the city, keeping
my eyes fixed on the opposite shore. The communicative
traveller, supposing I was looking at
the Navy-Yard, where several large ships were
lying, observed: “That is the Cyane, near the
red store. Or perhaps you mean the other—that
is the Macedonian—or perhaps you mean the one
next her—that is —.” I could stand it no longer,
but was fain to turn round and look at their
detestable city.

When we came near the wharf, the little Frenchman
came up to me with a low bow and the offer
of his box as usual. “I hope Monsieur, my friend
and myself shall take lodgings together. As we
are strangers in a strange place, 'tis pity we should
part. I assure you I shall not rob Monsieur,”
said he, with an impertinent, significant smile.
I told him at last I should lodge that night on

board, and depart the next day in the same boat
I came. “What!” replied he, “is Monsieur
going to New-Orleans again? But in truth we
are sorry to lose your very agreeable company,
Monsieur, and hope we shall meet again when you
come back from New-Orleans.” So saying, he
bowed profoundly low and departed, accompanied
by his friend, and by my most devout wishes
never to set eyes upon either of them again.

Desirous to avoid any public attentions, and
most especially to escape the honour of being made
a citizen of New-York, which the corporation insist
upon bestowing upon every stranger of distinction,
in order to add some little respectability to
their sty of democracy, I took a private lodging
with a respectable man of colour who kept the Hotel
des Huitres in Water-street. According to the
fashionable London mode, I intended to direct all
those who asked my address, to the City Hotel,
where there is generally such a concourse of people
that the bar-keeper never knows the names of half
the boarders. My first business after taking possession
of my lodgings, was to present a bill of exchange,
drawn on one of the most respectable merchants
here, (if such a term can be applied to a
Yankee peddler,) by one of our first London bankers.

I found him in his counting-room with a jug,
as I presume of whiskey, at his side, and pretty
well “corned,” as the communicative traveller
says, though it was hardly nine o'clock. He received
me with a sort of bear-like republican civility,

which I ascribed to the awe in which they
stand of Englishmen, to whom they are one and
all indebted more than they ever mean to pay.
He read my letter, looked very deliberately at the
bill of exchange, then folding them both up carefully,
offered them to me. “Is it convenient
for you,” said I, “to cash the bill at once?”
“No sir, not very convenient.” “I suppose,
then, I must be content with your acceptance at
the usual sight.” “My good friend, I don't mean
to accept it, I assure you.” “No, sir?” said I,
bristling up, for I began to suspect some Yankee
trick—“and pray may I take the liberty of asking
the reason of this extraordinary conduct?” “Certainly.
The banker who drew this bill, by my last
advices is a bankrupt and a swindler. He has no
effects in my hands, nor is he ever likely to have.
I am sorry for your disappointment, but I cannot
accept your bill of exchange.” I snatched the letter
out of his hand and hurried out of the room, and
my disappointment was almost balanced by the
pleasure I felt at this early confirmation of my impressions
with regard to the character of these
republican merchants, who I was satisfied, from
reading the Quarterly Review, never paid a debt
of any kind, there being no law in this country to
oblige them. I had no doubt but the story of the
drawer of my bill, (no less a man than Mr. Henry
Fauntleroy, who keeps two mistresses, and
three splendid establishments,) being a bankrupt
and swindler, was a fabrication, invented to evade
the payment. Such is the universal practice here,
and thus is the reputation of half the merchants of
Britain ruined in this country. The genuine republican
merchant never stops payment and compounds
with his creditors, (which they generally
do twice or thrice a year,) without putting it all
upon his correspondents in England, who are, in
fact, always the greatest sufferers. This story
they all make a point of believing, because they
are all, or soon expect to be, in the same predicament.
It is a proof of the generous credulity of honest
John Bull that he still continues to trust, and
be cheated by the turbulent spirit of democracy,
as the editors of the Quarterly Review justly style
it, in their usual strain of genteel irony.

Relating the story of my disappointment to my
worthy landlord, I thought he looked rather shy,
as if he expected it to be the prelude to a long
score. But I at once satisfied his doubts by showing
him a few guineas, and telling him I always
paid my bill every Saturday night. He then resumed
his confidence, and proceeded to let me into
the secrets of this unprincipled and profligate city,
which being the general rendezvous of people from
all parts of this puissant and polished republic, (as
the Quarterly calls it,) presents at one view a picture
of the blessings of pure and undefiled democracy.
That my readers may have the clearer
idea of a genuine republican city, I shall be more
particular in my description, especially as this is

considered as the very pink of all the cities of the
new world.

New-York, the capital of the state of New-Jersey,
so called from being originally settled by
Yorkshire horse jockies, is situated on the main
land, between two rivers, about the size of the
Thames, though not quite so large, that being unquestionably
the greatest river in the world. That
on the east they call the north, and that on the
west, the east river, by a very pardonable blunder,
as it would be taxing the spirit of democracy too
severely to preserve the least acquaintance with
such aristocratic trumpery as the points of the
compass. The blessings of ignorance, constitute
the basis of republicanism, as the Quarterly says,
with its characteristic wit and humour.

Most of the houses are built of pine boards, and
generally about half finished, the owners for the
most part stopping payment before the work is
completed. There is a great appearance of bustle,
but very little business in fact, as the spirit of democracy
impels these people to make a great
noise about nothing. To see one of their peddling
merchants staring about in Wall-street, one would
suppose he was overwhelmed with the most momentous
affairs, when, if the truth was known, his
whole morning's business consists in purchasing a
dozen birch brooms, or a pound of wafers. There
is also a great appearance of building here, but this
is partly owing to the necessity of new houses to
replace the old ones, which generally tumble to

pieces at the end of three or four years, and partly
owing to the inveterate habit of emigration characteristic
of the restless spirit of democracy, which
prevents the people remaining long in one place.
Hence they are perpetually on the move from one
part of the city to another. Sometimes whole
streets are deserted in this way, and then as new
buildings become necessary, the cry of these republican
braggarts, as the Quarterly calls them, is
about the number of houses building, and the vast
increase of the city. Sometimes they pull down
a street and build it up again, merely to impose
upon strangers an idea of its prosperity, and attract
emigrants from England, although those who have
been weak enough to come hither for the last six
or eight years, are, with the exception of a few
sent home by the British Consul, every soul of
them on the parish.

The people of New-York may be divided into
three classes, those that beg, those that borrow,
and those that steal. Not unfrequently, however,
all these professions are united in one person, as
they are a very ingenious people, and almost every
man is a sort of Jack of all trades. The beggars
constitute about one third of the population, and
are supported with great liberality by the other
two classes, who remembering that charity covers
a multitude of sins, make use of its broad mantle
in this way, and upon the strength of their alms,
claim the privilege of borrowing without ever intending
to pay, and robbing Peter to give away to

Paul. One of the most popular preachers here, is
a most notorious gambler, but, at the same time,
is considered little less than a saint, because he
professes to give all his winnings to the poor.
Another person, an alderman, generally breaks
into a neighbour's house every night, but as he
gives away all his plunder in alms, he is one of the
most popular men in the city. Another, who is a
judge of the court, generally manages to pick the
pockets of both the parties in a suit, and the jury
think themselves lucky to escape; yet he is adored
for his liberality, and the beggars who all vote
like the pigs, talk of running him for the next governor.

The borrowers consist of the most fashionable
portion of the community, the people who give
parties, ride in their coaches, and hold their heads
considerably higher than the beggars. The most
approved mode of practising this thriving business
is this: A gentleman gives a grand entertainment
to a select number of friends, each of whom he
manages to intercept as they go out, and make
them pay pretty handsomely for dinner in the
shape of a loan. When one set gets tired, he invites
another, and so on till his debts amount to
sufficient to make it worth while, when he affects
to stop payment, as he calls it, though he never
began yet; takes the benefit of the laws for encouraging
debt and extravagance, and on the score of
his numerous charities, is generally recommended
for some public office. This is the last resort of

rogues, in this pure republican system, as the
Quarterly affirms. My landlord, the gentleman of
colour, who was in the habit of waiting at many
of these great dinners, assured me he did not recollect
but a single instance in which the guests
escaped paying the piper in this way, when the entertainer
let them off, in consequence of having
picked their pockets at table. I asked him how
it happened that the guests did not resent or complain
of this treatment. “O,” replied he, “it is
diamond cut diamond—every one has his turn,
and it amounts to an equal division of property in
the end—a republican Agrarian law, as the Quarterly
says.” “What, do you read the Quarterly?”
said I. “O yes; we all read Massa Quarterly—
he love us people of colour so much.” He further
assured me the people of colour had it one time in
contemplation to send out half a dozen of their
prettiest ebony lasses to England, that the gentlemen
of the Quarterly might have their choice of
them for wives. But the ladies of colour, having
been persuaded by some of the white belles of fashion,
who envied their high destinies, that all these
gentlemen lived in Grub-street, one of the most
ungenteel places in all London, turned up their
pretty pug noses, and demurred to the proposition.

I was delighted at this information, which not
only proved the extensive circulation of this valuable
Review, but likewise the gratitude of the people
of colour for the exertions of its conductors in
their behalf. It is enough to make the eye of philanthropy

water to hear as I have done that such
is the pride of these beggarly republicans, that
they will not admit a gentleman or lady of colour
to any intimacy of association, insomuch that it is
considered a disgrace to enter into a matrimonial
connexion with them! This is another beautiful
illustration of the beggarly pride of these upstart
republicans, as the Quarterly says.

The class of pick-pockets, shop-lifters, and
thieves of all sorts, is probably the most numerous
of the whole community. Nobody ventures
to carry money in his pocket, and when the ladies
go out shopping, they always hold their
purses in their hands. Even this is no security,
for it generally happens that they are snatched
away before they have gone a hundred yards.
One of the shop-keepers here assured me it seldom
happened that a lady came into his shop without
pocketing a piece of lace, a pair of gloves, or something
of the kind, provided they could not get at
the till. It is the universal practice to search them
before they depart; and from long habit they submit
to this as quietly as lambs. Plenty of company
to keep them in countenance, and long habit
renders them indifferent to discovery, as the shopman
assured me. Two or three ladies came in
meanwhile, and were suffered to go away without
being searched by the shopman, who, as I found
to my cost afterwards, was all this while busily
employed in emptying my pockets. Yet, for all
this, do these bragging republicans boast that it is

unnecessary for the country people to lock their
doors at night. My landlord assured me that
this was the fact, but that it arose from the conviction
that locking them would be of no service,
every man being exceedingly expert in picking
locks, both from education and habit.

“The consequence of all this,” continued the
worthy gentleman of colour, “is a general, I may
say irremediable relaxation of manners, and a total
want of prudence and principle in all classes.
Drunkenness, impiety, insolence, extravagance,
ignorance, brutality, gluttony, and every vice that
can disgrace human nature, are the ordinary characteristics
of these spawn of filthy democracy, as
the Quarterly says; and if there be any thing in
which these people are not utterly detestable, it
is their fondness for oysters, which enables me to
get a tolerable livelihood. This fondness is sharpened
by the exquisite relish of breaking the laws at
the same time that they gratify their appetites—the
corporation of the city, for the purpose of monopolizing,
having enacted that no oysters shall be
brought to market, but what they eat themselves.”
Nothing, indeed, can equal the tyranny of the laws
in this country; nor would it be possible to live
under them, did not the turbulent spirit of democracy
compound for itself, by breaking them all
without ceremony.

It is another consequence of the relaxation of
morals among these virtuous republicans, that the
relaxation of the laws, is in proportion to the relaxation

of morals. To such an extent has this
been carried, that these people may be said to have
no laws at all. All sorts of crimes are here committed
with perfect impunity; and it is a common
saying, that it requires more interest to be hanged,
than to attain to the highest dignity of the republic.
Drunkenness is here the usual and infallible
apology for crime; and as the mass of the people
are usually corned, as my friend the communicative
traveller says, this excuse is seldom out of
place. But what puzzled me, after seeing all this,
was, that the jails, bridewells, and penitentiaries,
which abound in almost every street, were full of
people. My worthy landlord, however, explained
this to my satisfaction, by assuring me that such
was the abject poverty and consequent misery of
a large portion of these patent republicans, (as the
Quarterly says,) that they actually broke into these
receptacles by force, being certain of getting board
and lodging for nothing.

I was struck with the quantity of flies and moschetoes
that infest the streets and houses all the
year round, and fly into one's nose and ears at every
convenient opportunity, where the latter sing
most melodiously. To remedy this intolerable
grievance, there is luckily a species of spider,
which spins its web across the opening of the ear,
in which these insects are caught. It is no uncommon
thing to see half a dozen or more flies and
moschetoes dangling in the ear of a fine lady.
There is a law to prevent the destruction of these

spiders, as there is against killing the turkey-buzzards,
which abound here, and are the only street
scavengers, if we except the citizen pig freeholders,
as the Quarterly calls them.