I find the Englishman to be him of all men who stands firmest in his shoes. They have in themselves what they value in their horses, mettle1 and bottom. On the day of my arrival at Liverpool, a gentleman, in describing to me the Lord Lieutenant2 of Ireland, happened to say, “Lord Clarendon has pluck like a cock, and will fight till he dies;” and, what I heard first I heard last, and the one thing the English value, is pluck. The cabmen have it; the merchants have it; the bishops3 have it; the women have it; the journals have it; the Times newspaper, they say, is the pluckiest thing in England, and Sydney Smith had made it a proverb, that little Lord John Russell, the minister, would take the command of the Channel fleet to-morrow.
They require you to dare to be of your own opinion, and they hate the practical cowards who cannot in affairs answer directly yes or no. They dare to displease4, nay5, they will let you break all the commandments, if you do it natively, and with spirit. You must be somebody; then you may do this or that, as you will.
Machinery6 has been applied7 to all work, and carried to such perfection, that little is left for the men but to mind the engines and feed the furnaces. But the machines require punctual service, and, as they never tire, they prove too much for their tenders. Mines, forges, mills, breweries8, railroads, steampump, steamplough, drill of regiments9, drill of police, rule of court, and shop-rule, have operated to give a mechanical regularity10 to all the habit and action of men. A terrible machine has possessed11 itself of the ground, the air, the men and women, and hardly even thought is free.
The mechanical might and organization requires in the people constitution and answering spirits: and he who goes among them must have some weight of metal. At last, you take your hint from the fury of life you find, and say, one thing is plain, this is no country for fainthearted people: don’t creep about diffidently; make up your mind; take your own course, and you shall find respect and furtherance.
It requires, men say, a good constitution to travel in Spain. I say as much of England, for other cause, simply on account of the vigor12 and brawn13 of the people. Nothing but the most serious business, could give one any counterweight to these Baresarks, though they were only to order eggs and muffins for their breakfast. The Englishman speaks with all his body. His elocution is stomachic, — as the American’s is labial14. The Englishman is very petulant15 and precise about his accommodation at inns, and on the roads; a quiddle about his toast and his chop, and every species of convenience, and loud and pungent16 in his expressions of impatience17 at any neglect. His vivacity18 betrays itself, at all points, in his manners, in his respiration19, and the inarticulate noises he makes in clearing the throat; — all significant of burly strength. He has stamina20; he can take the initiative in emergencies. He has that aplomb21, which results from a good adjustment of the moral and physical nature, and the obedience22 of all the powers to the will; as if the axes of his eyes were united to his backbone23, and only moved with the trunk.
This vigor appears in the incuriosity, and stony24 neglect, each of every other. Each man walks, eats, drinks, shaves, dresses, gesticulates, and, in every manner, acts, and suffers without reference to the bystanders, in his own fashion, only careful not to interfere25 with them, or annoy them; not that he is trained to neglect the eyes of his neighbors, — he is really occupied with his own affair, and does not think of them. Every man in this polished country consults only his convenience, as much as a solitary26 pioneer in Wisconsin. I know not where any personal eccentricity27 is so freely allowed, and no man gives himself any concern with it. An Englishman walks in a pouring rain, swinging his closed umbrella like a walking-stick; wears a wig28, or a shawl, or a saddle, or stands on his head, and no remark is made. And as he has been doing this for several generations, it is now in the blood.
In short, every one of these islanders is an island himself, safe, tranquil29, incommunicable. In a company of strangers, you would think him deaf; his eyes never wander from his table and newspaper. He is never betrayed into any curiosity or unbecoming emotion. They have all been trained in one severe school of manners, and never put off the harness. He does not give his hand. He does not let you meet his eye. It is almost an affront30 to look a man in the face, without being introduced. In mixed or in select companies they do not introduce persons; so that a presentation is a circumstance as valid31 as a contract. Introductions are sacraments. He withholds32 his name. At the hotel, he is hardly willing to whisper it to the clerk at the book-office. If he give you his private address on a card, it is like an avowal33 of friendship; and his bearing, on being introduced, is cold, even though he is seeking your acquaintance, and is studying how he shall serve you.
It was an odd proof of this impressive energy, that, in my lectures, I hesitated to read and threw out for its impertinence many a disparaging34 phrase, which I had been accustomed to spin, about poor, thin, unable mortals; — so much had the fine physique and the personal vigor of this robust35 race worked on my imagination.
I happened to arrive in England, at the moment of a commercial crisis. But it was evident, that, let who will fail, England will not. These people have sat here a thousand years, and here will continue to sit. They will not break up, or arrive at any desperate revolution, like their neighbors; for they have as much energy, as much continence of character as they ever had. The power and possession which surround them are their own creation, and they exert the same commanding industry at this moment.
They are positive, methodical, cleanly, and formal, loving routine, and conventional ways; loving truth and religion, to be sure, but inexorable on points of form. All the world praises the comfort and private appointments of an English inn, and of English households. You are sure of neatness and of personal decorum. A Frenchman may possibly be clean; an Englishman is conscientiously36 clean. A certain order and complete propriety37 is found in his dress and in his belongings38.
Born in a harsh and wet climate, which keeps him in doors whenever he is at rest, and being of an affectionate and loyal temper, he dearly loves his house. If he is rich, he buys a demesne39, and builds a hall; if he is in middle condition, he spares no expense on his house. Without, it is all planted: within, it is wainscoted, carved, curtained, hung with pictures, and filled with good furniture. ‘Tis a passion which survives all others, to deck and improve it. Hither he brings all that is rare and costly40, and with the national tendency to sit fast in the same spot for many generations, it comes to be, in the course of time, a museum of heirlooms, gifts, and trophies41 of the adventures and exploits of the family. He is very fond of silver plate, and, though he have no gallery of portraits of his ancestors, he has of their punch-bowls and porringers. Incredible amounts of plate are found in good houses, and the poorest have some spoon or saucepan, gift of a godmother, saved out of better times.
An English family consists of a few persons, who, from youth to age, are found revolving42 within a few feet of each other, as if tied by some invisible ligature, tense as that cartilage which we have seen attaching the two Siamese. England produces under favorable conditions of ease and culture the finest women in the world. And, as the men are affectionate and true-hearted, the women inspire and refine them. Nothing can be more delicate without being fantastical, nothing more firm and based in nature and sentiment, than the courtship and mutual44 carriage of the sexes. The song of 1596 says, “The wife of every Englishman is counted blest.” The sentiment of Imogen in Cymbeline is copied from English nature; and not less the Portia of Brutus, the Kate Percy, and the Desdemona. The romance does not exceed the height of noble passion in Mrs. Lucy Hutchinson, or in Lady Russell, or even as one discerns through the plain prose of Pepys’s Diary, the sacred habit of an English wife. Sir Samuel Romilly could not bear the death of his wife. Every class has its noble and tender examples.
Domesticity is the taproot which enables the nation to branch wide and high. The motive45 and end of their trade and empire is to guard the independence and privacy of their homes. Nothing so much marks their manners as the concentration on their household ties. This domesticity is carried into court and camp. Wellington governed India and Spain and his own troops, and fought battles like a good family-man, paid his debts, and, though general of an army in Spain could not stir abroad for fear of public creditors46. This taste for house and parish merits has of course its doting47 and foolish side. Mr. Cobbett attributes the huge popularity of Perceval, prime minister in 1810, to the fact that he was wont48 to go to church, every Sunday, with a large quarto gilt49 prayer-book under one arm, his wife hanging on the other, and followed by a long brood of children.
They keep their old customs, costumes, and pomps, their wig and mace50, sceptre and crown. The middle ages still lurk51 in the streets of London. The Knights52 of the Bath take oath to defend injured ladies; the gold-stick-in-waiting survives. They repeated the ceremonies of the eleventh century in the coronation of the present Queen. A hereditary53 tenure54 is natural to them. Offices, farms, trades, and traditions descend55 so. Their leases run for a hundred and a thousand years. Terms of service and partnership56 are lifelong, or are inherited. “Holdship has been with me,” said Lord Eldon, “eight-and-twenty years, knows all my business and books.” Antiquity57 of usage is sanction enough. Wordsworth says of the small freeholders of Westmoreland, “Many of these humble58 sons of the hills had a consciousness that the land which they tilled had for more than five hundred years been possessed by men of the same name and blood.” The ship-carpenter in the public yards, my lord’s gardener and porter, have been there for more than a hundred years, grandfather, father, and son.
The English power resides also in their dislike of change. They have difficulty in bringing their reason to act, and on all occasions use their memory first. As soon as they have rid themselves of some grievance59, and settled the better practice, they make haste to fix it as a finality, and never wish to hear of alteration60 more.
Every Englishman is an embryonic61 chancellor62: His instinct is to search for a precedent63. The favorite phrase of their law, is, “a custom whereof the memory of man runneth not back to the contrary.” The barons64 say, “Nolumus mutari;” and the cockneys stifle65 the curiosity of the foreigner on the reason of any practice, with “Lord, sir, it was always so.” They hate innovation. Bacon told them, Time was the right reformer; Chatham, that “confidence was a plant of slow growth;” Canning, to “advance with the times;” and Wellington, that “habit was ten times nature.” All their statesmen learn the irresistibility66 of the tide of custom, and have invented many fine phrases to cover this slowness of perception, and prehensility67 of tail.
A seashell should be the crest68 of England, not only because it represents a power built on the waves, but also the hard finish of the men. The Englishman is finished like a cowry or a murex. After the spire43 and the spines69 are formed, or, with the formation, a juice exudes70, and a hard enamel71 varnishes72 every part. The keeping of the proprieties73 is as indispensable as clean linen74. No merit quite countervails the want of this, whilst this sometimes stands in lieu of all. “’Tis in bad taste,” is the most formidable word an Englishman can pronounce. But this japan costs them dear. There is a prose in certain Englishmen, which exceeds in wooden deadness all rivalry75 with other countrymen. There is a knell76 in the conceit77 and externality of their voice, which seems to say, Leave all hope behind. In this Gibraltar of propriety, mediocrity gets intrenched, and consolidated78, and founded in adamant79. An Englishman of fashion is like one of those souvenirs, bound in gold vellum, enriched with delicate engravings, on thick hot-pressed paper, fit for the hands of ladies and princes, but with nothing in it worth reading or remembering.
A severe decorum rules the court and the cottage. When Thalberg, the pianist, was one evening performing before the Queen, at Windsor, in a private party, the Queen accompanied him with her voice. The circumstance took air, and all England shuddered80 from sea to sea. The indecorum was never repeated. Cold, repressive manners prevail. No enthusiasm is permitted except at the opera. They avoid every thing marked. They require a tone of voice that excites no attention in the room. Sir Philip Sydney is one of the patron saints of England, of whom Wotton said, “His wit was the measure of congruity81.”
Pretension82 and vaporing83 are once for all distasteful. They keep to the other extreme of low tone in dress and manners. They avoid pretension and go right to the heart of the thing. They hate nonsense, sentimentalism, and highflown expression; they use a studied plainness. Even Brummel their fop was marked by the severest simplicity84 in dress. They value themselves on the absence of every thing theatrical85 in the public business, and on conciseness86 and going to the point, in private affairs.
In an aristocratical country, like England, not the Trial by Jury, but the dinner is the capital institution. It is the mode of doing honor to a stranger, to invite him to eat, — and has been for many hundred years. “And they think,” says the Venetian traveller of 1500, “no greater honor can be conferred or received, than to invite others to eat with them, or to be invited themselves, and they would sooner give five or six ducats to provide an entertainment for a person, than a groat to assist him in any distress87.” 7 It is reserved to the end of the day, the family-hour being generally six, in London, and, if any company is expected, one or two hours later. Every one dresses for dinner, in his own house, or in another man’s. The guests are expected to arrive within half an hour of the time fixed88 by card of invitation, and nothing but death or mutilation is permitted to detain them. The English dinner is precisely89 the model on which our own are constructed in the Atlantic cities. The company sit one or two hours, before the ladies leave the table. The gentlemen remain over their wine an hour longer, and rejoin the ladies in the drawing-room, and take coffee. The dress-dinner generates a talent of table-talk, which reaches great perfection: the stories are so good, that one is sure they must have been often told before, to have got such happy turns. Hither come all manner of clever projects, bits of popular science, of practical invention, of miscellaneous humor; political, literary, and personal news; railroads, horses, diamonds, agriculture, horticulture, pisciculture, and wine.
7 “Relation of England.”
English stories, bon-mots, and the recorded table-talk of their wits, are as good as the best of the French. In America, we are apt scholars, but have not yet attained90 the same perfection: for the range of nations from which London draws, and the steep contrasts of condition create the picturesque91 in society, as broken country makes picturesque landscape, whilst our prevailing92 equality makes a prairie tameness: and secondly93, because the usage of a dress-dinner every day at dark, has a tendency to hive and produce to advantage every thing good. Much attrition has worn every sentence into a bullet. Also one meets now and then with polished men, who know every thing, have tried every thing, can do every thing, and are quite superior to letters and science. What could they not, if only they would?
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mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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breweries
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| 酿造厂，啤酒厂( brewery的名词复数 ) | |
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regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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brawn
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| n.体力 | |
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labial
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| adj.唇的；唇音的；n.唇音，风琴管 | |
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petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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stamina
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| n.体力；精力；耐力 | |
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aplomb
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| n.沉着，镇静 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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eccentricity
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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valid
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| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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withholds
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| v.扣留( withhold的第三人称单数 )；拒绝给予；抑制（某事物）；制止 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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disparaging
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| adj.轻蔑的，毁谤的v.轻视( disparage的现在分词 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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demesne
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| n.领域，私有土地 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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mace
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| n.狼牙棒，豆蔻干皮 | |
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lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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embryonic
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| adj.胚胎的 | |
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chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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barons
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| 男爵( baron的名词复数 )； 巨头； 大王； 大亨 | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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irresistibility
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| n.不能抵抗，难敌 | |
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prehensility
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| Prehensility | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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spines
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| n.脊柱( spine的名词复数 )；脊椎；（动植物的）刺；书脊 | |
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exudes
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| v.缓慢流出，渗出，分泌出( exude的第三人称单数 )；流露出对（某物）的神态或感情 | |
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71
enamel
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| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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72
varnishes
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| 清漆的面（尤指木器或金属制品上的）( varnish的名词复数 )； 光泽面； 罩光漆 | |
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73
proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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76
knell
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| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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consolidated
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| a.联合的 | |
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adamant
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| adj.坚硬的，固执的 | |
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80
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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81
congruity
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| n.全等，一致 | |
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82
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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83
vaporing
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| n.说大话，吹牛adj.蒸发的，自夸的v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的现在分词 ) | |
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84
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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85
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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conciseness
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| n.简洁，简短 | |
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87
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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90
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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91
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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