University of Virginia Library

8. CHAP. VIII.

The more I see of the people of this country,
the more I am struck with the seeming inconsistencies
that I every day encounter. That they
are the greatest cowards in existence is clear, from
the repeated assertions of the Quarterly—yet they
are continually fighting and quarrelling. That
they are utterly destitute of every feeling of personal
honour,[1] is proved by the same authority;
and yet the young men are all duelists, and risk
their lives every day upon the point of honour.
There is no country in the world, as I have before
stated, where thieving, house-breaking, and
murder are so common, and yet the shop-keepers

hang out their richest goods at the doors
and windows; the housewives leave their clothes
out all night to bleach or dry; the country people
leave their implements in the fields without scruple,
and there is a general carelessness in this respect,
which would seem to indicate an honest and
virtuous people. But a little study and attention,
soon lets one into the secret of all this, and the explanation
becomes perfectly easy.

That quarrelsome people, and those who run
wantonly into danger, are, for the most part, cowards,
is demonstrable. He, for instance, that seeks
to quarrel, seeks to fight—he that seeks to fight,
seeks to die—he that seeks to die, seeks never to
fight more—and he that seeks never to fight more,
is a coward. To explain the seeming contradiction
to the old maxim, that knavery is always suspicious
of others, it is only necessary to refer to
the fact, that people careless of their own property,
are generally the most apt to make free with
that of others, and this constitutes the very essence
of the spirit of democracy. The people don't
mind being robbed, because they can easily reimburse
themselves by plundering their neighbours of
twice the amount. Indeed such is the inveterate
passion for pilfering, that it is no uncommon thing
for a man to rob himself, that he may have an excuse
for making reprisals upon his friends. On
one occasion I went into a jeweller's shop, which I
found deserted by every body. After staying
long enough to have filled my pockets with jew

els, the shopman came in, and glancing his eyes
round to see if all was safe, seemed very much
mortified that I had not robbed him. I heard him
mutter to himself, “one of your d—d honest
Englishmen.”

It is in this manner that the society of which the
pure spirit of democracy forms the basis is constituted;
and this is what is practically meant by
equal rights. It puzzled me at first, how a society
so constituted, could possibly subsist for any
length of time. But the wonder is easily explained.
To be free, a people must be in a state of
barbarity—to be in a state of barbarity, is to approach
to a state of nature—to approach to a state
of nature, is to come near it—to come very near
it, is to be on the verge—and to be on the verge,
is ten to one to fall in. Hence a free people must
be in a state of nature, where we know all things
are in common, and consequently all men thieves.
If it be urged, that a people in a state of nature can
have no system of laws, I answer that there is no
essential difference between a people who have no
laws, and a people who pay no regard to them.
The pure spirit of democracy is nothing but a state
of nature, as the Quarterly has sufficiently proved;
and the people of this country are all bundling,
gouging, scalping, guessing, spitting, swearing,
unbelieving democrats.[2]

In my various walks about the city I visited the

Park, as it is called, and the Battery, the pride and
boast of these modest republicans. The Park is
situated at the intersection of Hudson and Duane-streets,
and is very nearly, or quite, large enough
for bleaching a pair of sheets and a pillowease all
at once. Judging from newspaper puffs, you would
suppose it was an elegant promenade, encompassed
with iron railing; but I may hope to be believed
when I assure my readers that no one walks
there but pigs and washerwomen, and that the part
of the fence which still remains, is nothing but
pine. There is no other Park in the city.—But
the Battery! O, you should see the Battery—for
seeing is believing. I visited it on Sunday afternoon,
when I was told I should see it in all its glory.
I saw what we should call a wharf jutting
out into a sluggish puddle, about half a quarter of
a mile wide, which they call a bay. On this wharf
were a few poles stuck up—they had no leaves or
limbs, but I was assured they would grow in time.
The place stunk intolerably, but whether owing to
the stagnant pool, called, in the republican vernacular
the bay, or to the filthy nastiness of the people
walking there, I cannot say. Here I saw hundreds,
not to say thousands of people, strutting, or
rather staggering, about in dirty finery. Some hugging
and kissing each other with the most nauseating
gusto of lust, heated by whiskey—others
singing indecent and impious songs—but the majority
of them, in the true spirit of democracy,
gouging and dirking each other for amusement.
In one corner might be seen a group wallowing
and rolling about in the mud like drunken swine
—in another, half a dozen poor wretches gouged
or dirked, writhing in agony amid the shouts
of the people—and in a third, a heap of miserable
victims in the last stage of yellow fever.
Nobody discovered the least sympathy for them,
and here no doubt they perished with a burning
fever, exposed to a broiling sun, with the thermometer
at 110 degrees, the usual temperature of this
climate, winter and summer. Here they remained
to have their eyes stung out by moschetoes
while living, and to be devoured by flies when
dead. I shuddered at the scene, and turned to
another quarter in hopes of seeing a boxing match,
or some polite, refined exhibition, but in vain.
Such is the celebrated promenade of the Battery
at New-York; such the Sunday amusements of
enlightened and virtuous democracy! Nothing
could equal the gross and vulgar impiety of their
conversation, of which the following specimens
will furnish examples:

No. 1.—“Well, neighbour, how d'ye get on?”

“O, by degrees, as lawyers go to
heaven!”

No. 2.—“When do you go out of town?”

“Why, I think of going to-morrow,
God willing.”

No. 3.—“Bless my soul, neighbour, where
have you sprung from?”

“Why, God love you, I sprung from
the clouds, like Methusaleh!”

No. 4.—“Well, friend, how does the good woman
to-day?”

“Why thank you, she complains of
being a little better!”

Enough of this. One's blood runs cold at such
impious profanity. Indeed, the people are, one
and all, grossly indelicate and impious in conversation,
as the Quarterly says.[3]

To vary the scene, and to obliterate in some degree
the painful impressions occasioned by the
groups I have attempted to describe, I strolled into
the play-house, which is always open on Sundays,
from ten in the morning till any time the next
morning. But I only got out of the frying pan
into the fire, for such a bear-garden never christian
man unluckily entered. The theatre is nothing
more than a barn, abandoned by the owner, as not
worth being rebuilt, with a thatched roof, and stalls
for a good number of cattle, which are now converted
into boxes for the beau monde. The haymow
is now the gallery, and the rest is all boxes.
Shakspeare being considered anti-republican, and
the English dramatists generally unpopular, the
exhibition consisted of a drama, the production of
a first rate republican genius. The plot cannot be
unravelled by mortal man; but the catastrophe
consisted in the heroine of the piece being drank

for by some three or four admirers. It is to be
understood that there is no sham here. All is real
drinking; the audience will endure nothing less,
and the pleasure consists in the actors all getting
really and substantially drunk. This is what the
best republican critics call copying life and manners,
of which the aggregate here consists in drunkenness,
impiety, and debauchery.[4] The successful
hero, who carried off the lady, swallowed three
quarts of whiskey, the only liquor considered classical,
and such was the delight of the audience,
that one and all cried out, “Encore! encore! let
him drink three more!” The hero, however, hiccupped
an apology, hoping the audience would
excuse the repetition. He is considered the Roscius
of the age, and thought far superior to Kean,
or Cooke, though the latter was rather a favourite,
on account of his once having paid court to the national
taste, by performing the character of Cato,
elegantly drunk. This they called the true conception
of the part, it being utterly impossible to
admit the idea of a sober patriot or republican.
The notion savours of aristocracy, and one would
run the risk of being tarred and feathered, by suggesting
such a heterodoxy in politics.

It is one of the most unanswerable proofs of that
total want of genius, invention, and originality,
with which these people have been justly charged,
that the plays represented at this theatre, and
throughout the whole of the United States, are entirely
of British manufacture. Were it not for

Shakspeare, Milton, Newton, Locke, Bacon, Professor
Porson, and a few more illustrious English
dramatic writers, the theatres in this country could
not exist. Shakspeare's Tom and Jerry is played
over and over again, night after night; and Bacon's
Abridgement as often, if not oftener. Another
proof is, that they import all their actors from England,
it being a singular fact, that although the people
are actually drunk two-thirds of the time, such
is their poverty of intellect, that they cannot play
the character of a tippler with any remote resemblance
to nature. They seem, indeed, destined to
put all old maxims to the route, and among the rest
that of “Practice makes perfect;” since none are
so frequently intoxicated, and yet none play the
character with so little discrimination.

While indulging in comparisons connected with
the superiority of Englishmen, English horses,
dogs, beer, beef, statesmen, various reviewers, travellers,
poets, pick-pockets, philanthropists, tipplers,
and tragedians, over all people, and more
especially this wretched scum of democracy,[5] I
was roused by a sneeze, which went to my very
heart. A horrid presentiment came over me;
I dared not look in that direction, but remained
torpid and inanimate, till I saw an open snuff-box
reached over from behind, and slowly approach my
nose. 'Twas the little Frenchman, with his mahogany
face, gold ear-rings, and dimity breeches!

“Ah! monsieur—monsieur—is it you? I am so
happy! Are you going to New-Orleans yet? I
hope monsieur has not been robbed and murdered
above once or twice, since I had the pleasure to
part from his agreeable company?” I received
him, as usual, with a look of freezing contempt;
but this had no effect upon the creature, who continued
to chatter away and bore me with his confounded
snuff, till I was out of all patience. I
should, most certainly, have tweaked his nose, had
I not been previously warned by the communicative
traveller, that he was a professed duellist, who
minded dirking a man no more than a genuine republican,
and that he had been long enough in the
country to become very expert in gouging. I
could have got him killed outright for ten dollars,
that being the usual rate in this country;[6] and
people jump at a job so congenial to their habits
and feelings. Besides, those who favour the profession
for a livelihood have not much employment
at present, as almost every genuine democrat prefers
killing for himself. But upon the whole I
concluded to let the fellow off, not being as yet sufficient
of a republican to relish the killing of a
man, either in person or by deputy.

The little Frenchman insisted upon knowing
where I put up, no doubt with a view of consummating
his plan of robbing me; but I was resolved
to keep that secret to myself. The more shy I

was, the more curious he became, so that I had no
other way of escaping his inquiries than leaving
the box, under pretence of getting some refreshment.
The moment I got clear of him, I bolted
out of the house, and made the best of my way to
my lodgings. Just as I entered the door, however,
I heard the well-known sneeze, and glancing round
beheld the little Frenchman, and the communicative
traveller, watching me from the opposite side
of the way. The thing was now quite plain; no
one could mistake their object, and no time was to
be lost. I determined to change my lodgings that
very night. So calling my worthy landlord out of
bed I paid his bill, took my portmanteau under
my arm, and proceeded to the city-hotel, where I
asked for a room, with a double lock to it, which
was shown me by the waiter, who by the way looked
very much like a bandit; and eyed me with a
most alarming expression of curiosity.

“Thank heaven,” said I, after double-locking
the door, “I think I've distanced that little diabolical
French cut-throat, and his accomplice, for
this night, at least.” Carefully loading my pistols,
and placing them on a chair at the bed side, I sat
down to refresh my memory with the 58th number
of the Quarterly. After poring over the disgusting
detail of the gougings, drinkings, roastings,
and impieties of republicanism, till my blood
ran cold, and my hair stood on end, I retired
to bed. Somehow or other I could not sleep. The
moment I attempted to close my eyes, visions of

horror arose, and my imagination teemed with the
most appalling, vague, and indefinite dangers that
seemed to beset me, I knew not where or how. As
I lay thus under the influence of this providential
restlessness, I heard in the next room that appalling
and never to be forgotten sneeze, which never
failed to announce the proximity of the little
Frenchman. I started up, seized my pistols, and
stood upon the defensive, determined to sell my
life as dearly as possible. Presently some one
tried the lock of my door, and I was just on the
point of firing, when I heard a voice saying, “This
is not the room, sir—you sleep in No. 40,”—and
they passed onward.

What rendered my situation the more critical,
was the circumstance of there being an additional
door to my room, communicating with that of the
French bandit, which I had not observed before.
Cautiously approaching it with a pistol cocked in
either hand, I found it locked indeed, but words
cannot describe my sensations when I discovered
the key was on the other side. However, a few
moments restored me to the courage of desperation,
and I ventured to peep through the key-hole,
where I saw a sight that froze my blood. The
little Frenchman, with his dark mahogany aspect,
was sitting at a table with a case, not of pistols,
but of razors, one of which he was carefully strapping.
Ever and anon, as he tried it upon the palm
of his hand, he observed to the communicative
traveller: “Diable!—it will not do yet—'tis certainly

made of lead.” At last, however, it seemed
to satisfy him, and he exclaimed with diabolical
exultation—“Ah, ha! he will do now—here is
an edge to cut off a man's head without his feeling
it.” I instinctively drew my hand across my
neck to ascertain if my head was safe on my shoulders,
and at that moment heard the voice of the
communicative traveller; “Had not you better
wait till to-morrow morning?” “Diable, no—
we shall not have time—now or never—I will not
spare a single hair a minute longer.” A slight
movement followed this, and the little Frenchman
observed in reply to something which escaped me
in the bustle: “Do—do—one don't want any assistance
in these matters—I can do it very well myself.”
The bloody-minded villain, thought I,
he wants to have all the pleasure of killing me to
himself. Some one got up, moved towards the
door, tried the lock, and seemed just on the point
of opening it, when, thinking no time was to be
lost, I fired my pistol bang against the door. “Diable!”
exclaimed the little Frenchman, “here is
our old friend, Monsieur John Bull, the agreeable
gentleman, come again. Somebody must be robbing
him beyond doubt. Let us rescue him by all
means.” They then attempted to unlock the door,
under pretence of rescue, but I cried out in a tone
of deep solemnity, “Stand off, villains! I have still
another loaded pistol, and the first of you that approaches
is a dead man. Enter at your peril!”
By this time the whole house was in an uproar,
the lodgers bundled out of their rooms half dressed—the
servant maids ran about squeaking, and
several ladies fell into fits. I am safe enough for
the present, thought I, but nevertheless there is
nothing like being prepared; so I held fast my
loaded pistol, while the crowd, which at length
collected at my door, attracted by the smell of the
powder, called out to know what was the matter.
“There has been an attempt to rob and murder
me,” answered I. “By whom?” inquired the
voices. “By a little mahogany-faced Frenchman
and a communicative traveller,” answered I.
“Monsieur is under a grand mistake,” cried the
little Frenchman. “He was going to cut my
throat,” cried I. “I was going to cut off my
beard,” answered the little Frenchman—upon
which the pure spirit of democracy burst out into
a loud laugh. “He must have been dreaming,”
said one. “He has had the nightmare,” said
another. “He must be drunk,” cried a fourth.
“He must be mad,” cried a fifth. “By no means,”
cried the little Frenchman—“Monsieur has only
been reading the Quarterly Review, and is a little
afraid of the spirit of democracy. He shall shoot
him one day with a silver bullet.” Hereupon
they all burst into a hideous democratic laugh,
which is ten times worse than a horse laugh, and
scampered off to bed leaving me at the mercy of
the two banditti. Such is the protection afforded
a stranger, and particularly an Englishman, in this
bundling, gouging, dirking, spitting, chewing,
swearing, blaspheming den of democracy.[7]