University of Virginia Library

11. CHAP. XI.

Under the protection of that Providence, which
is said to take the special guardianship of drunken
stage drivers, we proceeded on, over one of the
most rocky, rutty, and infamous roads I ever
travelled. The spirit of democracy disdains to
pay any regard to the laws for mending roads, it
being an approved maxim, that the best way to
mend the roads is to let them mend themselves.
Yet notwithstanding all this, there are turnpike
gates every two or three miles, especially in New-England,
and the other southern states, where
they take enormous toll of all strangers, especially

Englishmen, who being distinguished by a certain
air of nobility, which causes them to be all taken
for my lords by the French and Italians, are easily
detected by these cunning Yankees.

But notwithstanding the situation of the driver,
and the roughness of the roads, we proceeded on
without any accident, and rather more pleasantly
than usual. My companion turned out to be an
Englishman, which, in truth, I had not suspected
before, though I might have known it by his speaking
such pure English, and was rather inclined to
be shy of his attentions. But the moment he informed
me he was a native of Yorkshire, my suspicions
vanished, for an Englishman may be trusted
all the world over, all the world knows. By
degrees we became sociable, for I saw he was a
man of education and discernment, by his always
addressing me as my lord. One inquiry led to another,
and at length he told me his story, which I
shall set down word for word, as a warning to my
simple, credulous countrymen, who are allured to
this land of promise by the modern Moses of
transatlantic speculation, as the Quarterly says.

“I was very well hoff at ome,” said he, “aving
a good farm, with comfortable hout-ouses, and
plenty of stock, say five undred Norfolk sheep,
forty or fifty Bakewell cows, and two bulls of the
Tees-water breed. But someow hor hother, I went
beindand every year. The rents hi paid to keep
hup the dignity of the nobleman, my landlord—
the taxes hi paid to support the splendours of the

king, God bless him—the tithes hi paid for supporting
the established church, without which
hevery body knows there can be no religion—and
the poor rates which hi paid to keep hup that state
of poverty and dependence, without which no people
can be virtuous and appy—hall these put together,
pulled me down every year by little and
little. But hall these were has nothing compared
to certain hother matters. The cost of maintaining
hold England, in the igh latitude of the bulwark
of religion, fell ard upon me—then hafter
that, the putting down of Bonaparte, and securing
the liberties hoff Heurope, fleeced me pretty andsomely.
But hi might ave got hover these, but
for a plentiful arvest, which coming on the back
of hall the rest, stripped me of the fruits of my
labours, and brought me pretty deeply hin debt.

“Habout this time, Satan, who halways his hat
ha man's helbows, hin time hof distress, threw hin
my way that mischievous radical Birkbeck's book
habout the Henglish Prairie, which seduced me
hinto the hidea of selling hoff my hall and hemigrating
to Hamerrykey.”

“Did you ever read the Quarterly?” said I.

“Nay—but hi have hattended the quarter sessions
pretty regularly for many years past,” replied
he.

“Ah! what a pity—what a pity,” said I—“if
you had only read the Quarterly you'd never have
come to this land of gouging, dirking, bundling,
and guessing.”

“I guess not,” quoth he, and went on with his
story.

“Hi was ha saying, that Birkbeck's book fell
hin my way, hand gave such ha seducing picture
of the prairie, that hi sold hoff, and all the stock
hi ad saved, from the landlord, the king, the
church, the paupers, the bulwark of religion, the
securing hof the liberties hof Heurope, hand the
plentiful arvest. The proceeds hi turned into
guineas, hand quilted them into the waistband hof
my breeches.”

I shall here give the remainder of his narrative
in Yankee English, for really I have been long
enough here to find the writing of pure English
rather awkward.

“I embarked,” continued my companion, “for
Boston, which, I learned from a gentleman who
told me he superintended the geography of the
Quarterly Review, was close by English Prairie.
On landing there, which I did without being shipwrecked,
although the vessel was a Yankee, and
the captain and crew drunk all the voyage, the
first thing I did was to ask how far it was to
English Prairie? I was in a hurry, and wanted
to get there before night. The landlord, of whom
I inquired, after scratching his head some time,
replied:—

“English Prairie—are you going there?”

“Yes—I expect to be there before dark.”

“Do you?—Why then I guess you mean to
travel in a balloon—don't you?”

“Dam'me, sir,” replied I, “do you mean to
hoax me?”

“Hoax—what's that?”

“I say quiz me.”

“Quiz—what's that?”

“I say,” replied I, “can you tell me how far it
is to English Prairie?”

“Why, if you really wish to know—I can't
say exactly, for I never was there—but I should
guess it can't be less than twelve hundred miles,
or thereabouts.”

“Twelve hundred d—ls,” cried I.

“No, not devils,” said Jonathan, “but miles;
and devilish long miles, I reckon.”

“Looking about, I saw a map of the states,
which, by the way, is a usual thing all over this
country, the people being eternally travelling by
maps. On examination, I found, to my utter astonishment,
that brother Jonathan was right. I
might as well have gone to English Prairie by way
of the Cape of Good Hope, as Boston. This was
one of the first blessed effects of Birkbeck's book.
On referring to it, I found indeed that he had stated
the distance and the route, but it had escaped
my notice, confound him.

“However, since I had come so far, I thought
I would not go back with a flea in my ear, and so
I determined to seek the distant land of promise”

“What a pity—what a pity,” interrupted I,
“you never read the Quarterly.”

“I am determind to read nothing else from this

time forward—at least if I can procure a copy,”
replied he, upon which I handed him the English
copy of the fifty-eighth number, telling him it was
heartily at his service during the time we travelled
together. He thanked me, called me my lord
three times, and proceeded.

“It would be tedious to give an account of the
difficulties, mortifications, insults, dangers, and
scrapes I encountered in my journey. I was four
times robbed of all I had in the world. I was six
times gouged, eight times dirked, and several
times roasted at a log fire, before I arrived at English
Prairie. By the blessing of Providence, however,
I got there at last, and much good did it do
me. My first disappointment in not meeting the
back country close by the sea shore, was nothing to
those I encountered here. Instead of finding the backwoods
all cleared away, comfortable houses, barns,
fences, hedges, ditches, school-houses, churches,
bishops, noblemen, and kings, I found a parcel
of rude, hard-working men, with axes on one
shoulder, and guns on the other. The first thing
they told me was to cut down the trees, which
were generally about the size of a hogshead. I
laid close siege to one for three days, and found
by a pretty clear deduction, that it would take five
days more to bring it to the earth. I then counted
the trees upon my plantation, and found that if
I lived to the age of Methusaleh, I might possibly
clear a place big enough for a potato patch.

“My next inquiry was, as to how they procured

their food. `You must go into the woods,'
said a fellow in a hunting shirt and moccasons,
`there is plenty of deer and wild turkeys.' `But
I never fired a gun in my life,' answered I. `Then
what the d—l sent you here?' cried he, at the
same time gouging out one of my eyes, I suppose
to qualify me to take aim with proper accuracy.
Not being able to cut down trees, or shoot deer and
wild turkeys, I was in a fair way of starving. I
resolved, for the last resort, the poor-house.—
But in this barbarous place, there was no poor-house
to be found. I then applied to my good
neighbour, who had favoured me by gouging out
one eye, for a piece of venison. He gave me a
saddle and a wild turkey, saying, at the same time,
in the most unfeeling manner, `every body works
here friend, and every man provides for himself.
Don't come again begging.' Whereupon he gouged
out another eye. Shortly after he came to invite
me to a Barbacue, as it is called, which is a
sort of fea t, where they generally serve up a baked
Indian or two, whom they have hunted and
shot in the course of the morning. I expressed my
abhorrence of this cannibal feast, and declined going,
upon which he gouged out another eye, and
swore he'd not leave a single eye in my head if I
did'nt go. Thinking it better to eat Indians than
be blind, I signified my consent, and accompanied
this hospitable person.

“It would be impossible to describe this feast.
Suffice it to say, that it ended in a scene of drunk

enness and bloodshed, that was enough to sicken a
pirate or a republican. The conclusion was, that
every soul present was either murdered or left insensible
on the ground—after which they threw
me upon a log-fire, and burnt me to a cinder, because
I wouldn't drink “confusion to the Holy
Alliance.” My misfortunes did not end here; in
one night they robbed me of twenty or thirty
pigs, it being their maxim that it is more convenient
to steal than buy, which constitutes the quintessence
of republican ethics,[1] as the Quarterly
says. I was on my way to the judge, to complain
of this theft, when I met my gouging friend, to
whom I related my misfortune. He burst into a
horse-laugh, which resolved itself into a yell, and
tapered off with the Indian war-whoop. When
he had done, he solemnly assured me that my pigs
were now in the judge's pen; that his honour was
the most noted pig-stealer in the place, and had
been elevated to the bench solely on that account,
it being shrewdly suspected that he would let off
all the pig-stealers, who constitute the majority of
the people, from a fellow feeling. `It is of no use,'
said he, `to go to the judge. The only remedy
you have is to try and steal somebody else's pigs.
If you can rob the judge, you will get his place to
a certainty.' I expressed an abhorrence of this
mode of righting myself; upon which he swore I
had reflected upon the native character, and gouged
out one of my eyes.

“Soon after, it was buzzed about that I had been

on the point of appealing to the laws for redress,
and moreover demurred to the Indian law of retaliation,
the only law in force at English Prairie.
For these heinous offences, I was informed privately,
by a worthy English settler, who had been like
me seduced by Mr. Birkbeck, that they had hired
a man to dirk me for ten dollars, the usual price of
blood in this country, as Mr. Chichester says.[2]
Thinking it high time to take care of myself, I
sold my land at less than half price, to the worthy
English settler, and made off, with all the speed in
my power, for a civilized Christian land. I had
almost forgot to tell you, that just on the skirt of
the Prairie, I met a party of ladies, belonging to
the settlement, who roasted me alive, at a log-fire.
It was a mercy that I escaped.”

“Pray,” said I, when he had finished, “do they
ever read the Quarterly at English Prairie?”

“The Quarterly! Lord bless you—they read
nothing but Tom Paine. I never saw any other
book in all the Western country.”

“Not read the Quarterly!” exclaimed I—“Ah,
that accounts for their barbarity.”

We now entered a dense, smoky, drizzling atmosphere,
which succeeded so suddenly to a bright
cloudless day, that we did not know what to make
of it. As we proceeded, the density and drizzling
increased, so that it became impossible to distinguish
the road, which, however, was of the less
consequence, as our driver had been for some time
nodding on his seat fast asleep. Suddenly the

horses stopped of themselves, at what after a considerable
degree of peering about, I discovered to
be a house, on the long piazza of which were seated
an immense number of fat fellows, with broad-brimmed
hats, smoking and spitting in the true
republican style, that is to say, in every one's faces.[3]
This circumstance accounted for the smoky and
drizzling atmosphere, which extended upwards of
three miles in circumference, and obscured the
whole city, which was called Communipaw. Such
is the extent of this practice of smoking tobacco,
that at a certain period of the year, during the autumn,
when the people of the country have finished
gathering in the products of their fields, and
their leisure time comes, they commence a smoking
festival, in which every man, woman, and
child partakes. This festival lasts five or six weeks,
during which time the atmosphere throughout the
whole extent of the country becomes so hazy, and
obscure, that they are obliged to burn candles all
day, and a perpetual drizzling prevails, owing to
the unseemly habit of spitting, which all our English
travellers have heretofore noticed among
these immaculate republicans. This season is called
the Indian summer, and the people pretend to
ascribe it to the Indian custom of burning the
long grass of the immense Prairies in the west. But
the above is the true solution, I can assure my
readers.

Being resolved not to sit still in the stage, and
be spitten to death, for all the stages here are

without covering, for the convenience of letting in
the rain, I jumped out and sheltered myself under
a neighbouring shed. By-and-by I heard the driver
calling for his passengers, but I was determined
not to be hurried, and took no notice of his insolence.
Presently I heard the cracking of the whip
and the rumbling of the wheels, when I thought to
myself I had better condescend to call and stop him.
Accordingly I sallied forth in the fog and drizzle,
calling out to stop as loud as I could bawl, and
running every now and then against a long pipe,
invisible in the obscurity. The sound of the wheels
served as a sort of guide through the cimmerian
shades; but as ill luck would have it, just as I
came up with the stage, which I afterwards discovered
had been stopped at the pressing instances of
my companion, I unfortunately fell into a ditch by
the road side, where I was grievously annoyed by
a concert of frogs, which mistaking me, I suppose,
for king Log, jumped upon me, and sung with
true republican melody.

“You democratic rascal,” cried I to the driver,
“what business had you to go off without me?”

“Why,” replied the impudent scoundrel, “I
thought you had gone off without me. I hollowed
till my throat was so dry, that I was obliged to
call for a pint of whiskey to whet my whistle.”

“But why didn't you stop, when I called?”

“Why,” replied the villain, “it was so foggy
I couldn't see which way the sound came from.”

Upon this I was going to thrash him soundly for
his insolence, when my companion advised me
not. `If you attempt it,' said he, `ten to one
you will lose both eyes, and the better part of your
nose, for this fellow has exactly the look of a firstrate
gouger.' I thereupon determined to put up
with the affair, considering it a portion of that series
of imposition, impudence, rudeness, and barbarity
which constitutes the basis of the republican
character.[4]

It is in truth impossible to be in this country a
day without being thoroughly convinced of the
fact, that the possession of freedom necessarily
brings with it an overwhelming mass of ignorance,
corruption, and barbarity.[5] This position is supported
by the history of the world, and the example
of all nations. The republics of Greece were
little better than nests of barbarous libertines, as is
proved by the licentious freedoms which Terence,
and other comic writers, took with persons in authority
at Athens; their banishment of Grotius,
and others, the most illustrious of their citizens.
Their whole claim to learning consisted in being
able to talk Greek; and as to their excellence in
the mechanical arts, such as sculpture and painting,
they are far excelled by the manufactories of Birmingham
and Sheffield, in skill, and by the pot-bakers
of Staffordshire, in the art of painting. And
how can it be otherwise, since it is morally impossible
it should be otherwise in all free states.

The great and universal stimulus to excellence
of every kind, is a desire to please those above us.
To the applauses of our equals we are indifferent,
and the admiration of our inferiors only excites
our contempt. A conquering general, followed
by thousands of people shouting at his heels, throwing
up their caps, and giving way to all the extravagances
of vulgar enthusiasm, looks with indifference
at the crowd, and sighs for the glorious
privilege of being permitted to kneel at the footstool
of his most august and gracious sovereign,
and to kiss his hand. What is the applause and
admiration of a whole people compared to being
made a knight companion of Bath, and called sir?
This noble desire to please the great, is founded on
the conviction, that they alone are worth pleasing,
because they only have the power of rewarding. It
is by their approbation and influence alone, that
merit can hope to attain to its reward in the possession
of titles, the only object of honourable ambition;
and of wealth, the sole means of rational
enjoyment.

But where there is no distinction of rank, and
all men are equal, the universal stimulus is wanting.
There is nobody to please worth pleasing, because
there are no kings, or nobility, whose smile
alone confers distinction; and there is nothing
worth asking our genius to attain, because there
are neither titles, ribbons, nor pensions. Hence
arises the lamentable lack of illustrious men, in
ancient as well as modern republics, and the de

plorable contrast they exhibit compared with the
splendours of Sesostris, Xerxes, Alaric, and prince
Esterhazy in his diamond coat. It is unnecessary
to multiply examples to prove that the human
mind can never attain to its highest elevation in a
republic, and that as the United States never have,
so it is probable they never will produce a truly
great man until their government has titles, pensions,
and ribbons to bestow.

The same causes lie at the root of that coarseness,
rudeness, and forwardness of manner, for
which these immaculate republicans (as the Quarterly
says[6] ) are so infamously distinguished. All
the regulations of polite life, and all refinements of
manners, are the result of imitation, and people
never think of imitating their equals, much less
their inferiors. Now nothing can be clearer than
that where all are equal, as in this immaculate republic,
there can be nobody to be imitated, and
consequently no refinement of manners, and no
judicious perception of what is due to themselves
or to others. People unacquainted with the divine
majesty of a king, the splendours of his
nobility, and the wealth of his bishops, cannot
possibly have any proper idea of the dignity
of human nature. Having no standard among
them, it is plain they must degenerate into barbarism,
merely for want of a proper example. That
awe which seizes the mind in the presence of a

king, runs through all the gradations of life. In
the presence of a nobleman, it becomes a due respect
for rank—in that of a bishop, a proper sense
of religion—and finally, by degrees, it settles down
into that refined sentiment of politeness, which
proportions its attentions to the dress, equipage,
and general appearance of wealth a man exhibits to
the world.

Here, on the contrary, where the vulgar system
of equality extends to all classes, there exists a certain
low emulation of the pretensions of every man
who carries any appearance of superiority or holds
himself aloof from the crowd. If he does not sit
at table with tag, rag, and bobtail, and condescend
to sleep three in a bed with any body the landlord
pleases to select for his companions, he may reckon
himself fortunate in escaping without the loss
of an eye and a piece of his nose. An instance of
this barbarous antipathy to broad-cloth coats occurred
in the steam-boat, coming from Boston, which
I omitted to notice at the time. I was dressed in
a blue frock of Shepherd's best regent cloth, handsomely
embroidered, and every thing else in the
first London style, leaning over the side railing,
when I felt some one almost touch my elbow.
On turning round, there was a fellow in a gray
suit of domestic manufacture, a half-worn hat
that smacked of the last century, and shoes with
soles at least an inch thick. If the truth was
known, I verily believe he wore hob-nails in
them. I gave him a look which would have sent

a peasant in any civilized country, about his business
in a hurry. But the creature remained
hanging over the railing, close at my elbow, and
on our passing a fir-built vessel with a bit of striped
bunting at her mast-head, had the impudence to
speak to me. “That I believe is Old Ironsides,”
said he. I looked at him with a vacant stare, and
said nothing. “I was saying,” resumed the homespun
creature, “that ship is the United States frigate
Constitution. What a fine old ship!”—and
then his eyes sparkled most intolerably. I looked
at him with my quizzing glass, dropt my under
lip, and turned on my heel, without taking any
further notice of him or Old Ironides, and walked
to another part of the boat. In about half a minute
he followed me.

“Pray, sir,” said he, “have you the misfortune
to be deaf?” No answer.

“Are you dumb, sir?” No answer, but a persevering
reconnoitre through the quizzing glass.

“If you can neither speak nor hear, may be you
can feel,” said the turbulent spawn of democracy,
raising his fist which was luckily arrested by the
little Frenchman, who, I suppose, was resolved that
nobody should murder me but himself. “Diable!”
cried the little man, “what is the matter—
what has Monsieur John Bull done, that you will
knock him down, eh?” A Frenchman, somehow
or other, can do any thing with barbarians. The
homespun monster dropped his huge paw, and
resumed a perfect good humour.

“I am wrong,” said he, “because he is a stranger
I perceive. Had he been one of my own countrymen,
I would have licked him for his ill manners.”

“Why, what did Monsieur do?” asked the little
Frenchman.

“I spoke to him twice, and he would not answer
me. It is the duty of every gentleman to
answer a civil question. He was a stranger and
alone, and I thought I would speak to him.”

“Diable!” said the little man, “don't you
know this is the great Monsieur John Bull, the
bulwark of religion, the grand restorer of the
liberties of Europe, who gained the battle of Waterloo
all by himself, and who is the most learned,
polite, and refined gentleman, in the whole world?
Eh bien—it is lucky he did not look you stone
dead. Don't you see his coat cost ten times as
much as yours?—Diable! it was great courage to
speak to him once, much more twice.”

Here all the company burst into a coarse republican
laugh, I could never tell at what, and the
homespun monster departed with something on
his tongue which sounded very much like “a dumbfounded
potato.” From this little anecdote the
reader may form some faint idea of the gross freedom
which pervades the manners of these republicans,
who pay no more respect to regent's cloth,
than they would to the regent himself.