The Englishwoman in America

I >> Isabella Lucy Bird >> The Englishwoman in America

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There are a few very remarkable and somewhat fantastic monuments. There is
a beautiful one in white marble to the memory of a sea-captain's wife,
with an exact likeness of himself, in the attitude of taking an
observation, on the top. An inscription to himself is likewise upon it,
leaving only the date of his death to be added. It is said that, when this
poor man returns from a voyage, he spends one whole day in the tomb,
lamenting his bereavement.

There is a superb monument, erected by a fireman's company to the memory
of one of their brethren, who lost his life while nobly rescuing an infant
from a burning dwelling. His statue is on the top, with an infant in his
arms, and the implements of his profession lie below. But by far the most
extraordinary, and certainly one of the lions of New York, is to a young
lady who was killed in coming home from a ball. The carriage-horses ran
away, she jumped out, and was crushed under the wheels. She stands under a
marble canopy supported by angels, and is represented in her ball-dress,
with a mantle thrown over it. This monument has numerous pillars and
representations of celestial beings, and is said to have cost about
6000_l._ Several of the marble mausoleums cost from 4000_l._ to 5000_l._
Yet all the powerful, the wealthy, and the poor have descended to the dust
from whence they sprung; and here, as everywhere else, nothing can
disguise the fact that man, the feeble sport of passion and infirmity, can
only claim for his inheritance at last the gloom of a silent grave, where
he must sleep with the dust of his fathers. I observed only one verse of
Scripture on a tombstone, and it contained the appropriate prayer, "_So
teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom_."

Having seen the emigrants bid adieu to the Old World, in the flurry of
grief, hope, and excitement, I was curious to see what difference a five-
weeks' voyage would have produced in them, and in what condition they
would land upon the shores of America. In a city where emigrants land at
the rate of a thousand a-day, I was not long of finding an opportunity. I
witnessed the debarkation upon the shore of the New World of between 600
and 700 English emigrants, who had just arrived from Liverpool. If they
looked tearful, flurried, and anxious when they left Liverpool, they
looked tearful, pallid, dirty, and squalid when they reached New York. The
necessary discomforts which such a number of persons must experience when
huddled together in a close, damp, and ill-ventilated steerage, with very
little change of clothing, and an allowance of water insufficient for the
purposes of cleanliness, had been increased in this instance by the
presence of cholera on board of the ship.

The wharfs at New York are necessarily dirty, and are a scene of
indescribable bustle from morning to night, with ships arriving and
sailing, ships loading and unloading, and emigrants pouring into the town
in an almost incessant stream. They look as if no existing power could
bring order out of such a chaos. In this crowd, on the shores of a strange
land, the emigrants found themselves. Many were deplorably emaciated,
others looked vacant and stupified. Some were ill, and some were
penniless; but poverty and sickness are among the best recommendations
which an emigrant can bring with him, for they place him under the
immediate notice of those estimable and overworked men, the Emigration
Commissioners, whose humanity is above all praise. These find him an
asylum in the Emigrants' Hospital, on Ward's Island, and despatch him from
thence in health, with advice and assistance for his future career. If he
be in health, and have a few dollars in his pocket, he becomes the
instantaneous prey of emigrant runners, sharpers, and keepers of
groggeries; but of this more will be said hereafter.

A great many of these immigrants were evidently from country districts,
and some from Ireland; there were a few Germans among them, and these
appeared the least affected by the discomforts of the voyage, and by the
novel and rather bewildering position in which they found themselves. They
probably would feel more at home on first landing at New York than any of
the others, for the lower part of the city is to a great extent inhabited
by Germans, and at that time there were about 2000 houses where their
favourite beverage, _lager-beer_, could be procured.

The goods and chattels of the Irish appeared to consist principally of
numerous red-haired, unruly children, and ragged-looking bundles tied
round with rope. The Germans were generally ruddy and stout, and took as
much care of their substantial-looking, well-corded, heavy chests as
though they contained gold. The English appeared pale and debilitated, and
sat helpless and weary-looking on their large blue boxes. Here they found
themselves in the chaotic confusion of this million-peopled city, not
knowing whither to betake themselves, and bewildered by cries of "Cheap
hacks!" "All aboard!" "Come to the cheapest house in all the world!" and
invitations of a similar description. There were lodging-touters of every
grade of dishonesty, and men with large placards were hurrying among the
crowd, offering "palace" steamboats and "lightning express" trains, to
whirl them at nominal rates to the Elysian Fields of the Far West. It is
stated that six-tenths of these emigrants are attacked by fever soon after
their arrival in the New World, but the provision for the sick is
commensurate with the wealth and benevolence of New York.

Before leaving the city I was desirous to see some of the dwellings of the
poor; I was therefore taken to what was termed a poor quarter. One house
which I visited was approached from an entry, and contained ten rooms,
which were let to different individuals and families. On the lowest floor
was an old Irish widow, who had a cataract in one eye, and, being without
any means of supporting herself, subsisted upon a small allowance made to
her by her son, who was a carter. She was clean, but poorly dressed, and
the room was scantily furnished. Except those who are rendered poor by
their idleness and vices, it might have been difficult to find a poorer
person in the city, I was told. Much sympathy was expressed for her, and
for those who, like her, lived in this poor quarter. Yet the room was
tolerably large, lofty, and airy, and had a window of the ordinary size of
those in English dwelling-houses. For this room she paid four dollars or
16_s._ per month, a very high rent. It was such a room as in London many a
respectable clerk, with an income of 150_l._ a year, would think himself
fortunate in possessing.

I could not enter into the feelings of the benevolent people of New York
when they sympathised with the denizens of this locality. I only wished
that these generous people could have seen the dens in which thousands of
our English poor live, with little light and less water, huddled together,
without respect to sex or numbers, in small, ill-ventilated rooms. Yet New
York has a district called the Five Points, fertile in crime, fever, and
misery, which would scarcely yield the palm for vice and squalor to St.
Giles's in London, or the Saltmarket in Glasgow. A collection of dwellings
called the Mud Huts, where many coloured people reside, is also an
unpleasing feature connected with the city. But with abundant employment,
high wages, and charities on a princely scale for those who from
accidental circumstances may occasionally require assistance, there is no
excuse for the squalid wretchedness in which a considerable number of
persons have chosen to sink themselves.

It is a fact that no Golden Age exists on the other side of the water;
that vice and crime have their penalties in America as well as in Europe;
and that some of the worst features of the Old World are reproduced in the
New. With all the desire that we may possess to take a sanguine view of
things, there is something peculiarly hopeless about the condition of this
class at New York, which in such a favourable state of society, and at
such an early period of American history, has sunk so very low. The
existence of a "dangerous class" at New York is now no longer denied. One
person in seven of the whole population came under the notice of the
authorities, either in the ranks of criminals or paupers, in 1852; and it
is stated that last year the numbers reached an alarming magnitude,
threatening danger to the peace of society. This is scarcely surprising
when we take into consideration the numbers of persons who land in this
city who have been expatriated for their vices, who are flying from the
vengeance of outraged law, or who expect in the New World to be able to do
evil without fear of punishment.

There are the idle and the visionary, who expect to eat without working;
penniless demagogues, unprincipled adventurers, and the renegade
outpourings of all Christendom; together with those who are enervated and
demoralised by sickness and evil associates on board ship. I could not
help thinking, as I saw many of the newly-arrived emigrants saunter
helplessly into the groggeries, that, after spending their money, they
would remain at New York, and help to swell the numbers of this class.
These people live by their wits, and lose the little they have in drink.
This life is worth very little to them; and in spite of Bible and Tract
societies, and church missions, they know very little of the life to come;
consequently they are ready for any mischief, and will imperil their
existence for a small bribe. Many or most of them are Irish Roman
Catholics, who, having obtained the franchise in many instances by making
false affidavits, consider themselves at liberty to use the club also.

I was at New York at the time of the elections, and those of 1854 were
attended with unusual excitement, owing to the red-hot strife between the
Irish Roman Catholics and the "Know-nothings." This society, established
with the object of changing the naturalisation laws, and curbing the power
of popery, had at this period obtained a very large share of the public
attention, as much from the mystery which attended it as from the
principles which it avowed. To the minds of all there was something
attractive in a secret organisation, unknown oaths, and nocturnal
meetings; and the success which had attended the efforts of the Know-
nothings in Massachusetts, and others of the States, led many to watch
with deep interest the result of the elections for the Empire State. Their
candidates were not elected, but the avowed contest between Protestantism
and Popery led to considerable loss of life. Very little notice of the
riots on this occasion has been taken by the English journalists, though
the local papers varied in their accounts of the numbers of killed and
wounded from 45 to 700! It was known that an _emeute_ was expected,
therefore I was not surprised, one evening early in November, to hear the
alarm-bells ringing in all directions throughout the city. It was stated
that a Know-nothing assemblage of about 10,000 persons had been held in
the Park, and that, in dispersing, they had been fired upon by some
Irishmen called the Brigade. This was the commencement of a sanguinary
struggle for the preservation of order. For three days a dropping fire of
musketry was continually to be heard in New York and Williamsburgh, and
reports of great loss of life on both sides were circulated. It was stated
that the hospital received 170 wounded men, and that many more were
carried off by their friends. The military were called out, and, as it was
five days before quiet was restored, it is to be supposed that many lives
were lost. I saw two dead bodies myself; and in one street or alley by the
Five Points, both the side walks and the roadway were slippery with blood.
Yet very little sensation was excited in the upper part of the town;
people went out and came in as usual; business was not interrupted; and to
questions upon the subject the reply was frequently made, "Oh, it's only
an election riot," showing how painfully common such disturbances had
become.

There are many objects of interest in New York and its neighbourhood,
among others, the Croton aqueduct, a work worthy of a great people. It
cost about 5,000,000_l._ sterling, and by it about 60,000,000 gallons of
water are daily conveyed into the city. Then there are the prisons on
Blackwell's Island, the lunatic asylums, the orphan asylums, the docks,
and many other things; but I willingly leave these untouched, as they have
been described by other writers. In concluding this brief and incomplete
account of New York, I may be allowed to refer to the preface of this
work, and repeat that any descriptions which I have given of things or
society are merely "sketches," and, as such, are liable to the errors
which always attend upon hasty observation.

New York, with its novel, varied, and ever-changing features, is
calculated to leave a very marked impression on a stranger's mind. In one
part one can suppose it to be a negro town; in another, a German city;
while a strange dreamy resemblance to Liverpool pervades the whole. In it
there is little repose for the mind, and less for the eye, except on the
Sabbath-day, which is very well observed, considering the widely-differing
creeds and nationalities of the inhabitants. The streets are alive with
business, retail and wholesale, and present an aspect of universal bustle.
Flags are to be seen in every direction, the tall masts of ships appear
above the houses; large square pieces of calico, with names in scarlet or
black letters upon them, hang across the streets, to denote the
whereabouts of some popular candidate or "puffing" storekeeper; and hosts
of omnibuses, hacks, drays, and railway cars at full speed, ringing bells,
terrify unaccustomed foot-passengers. There are stores of the magnitude of
bazaars, "daguerrean galleries" by hundreds, crowded groggeries and
subterranean oyster-saloons, huge hotels, coffee-houses, and places of
amusement; while the pavements present men of every land and colour, red,
black, yellow, and white, in every variety of costume and beard, and
ladies, beautiful and ugly, richly dressed. Then there are mud huts, and
palatial residences, and streets of stately dwelling-houses, shaded by
avenues of ilanthus-trees; waggons discharging goods across the pavements;
shops above and cellars below; railway whistles and steamboat bells,
telegraph-wires, eight and ten to a post, all converging towards Wall
Street--the Lombard Street of New York; militia regiments in many-coloured
uniforms, marching in and out of the city all day; groups of emigrants
bewildered and amazed, emaciated with dysentery and sea-sickness, looking
in at the shop-windows; representatives of every nation under heaven,
speaking in all earth's Babel languages; and as if to render this
ceaseless pageant of business, gaiety, and change, as far removed from
monotony as possible, the quick toll of the fire alarm-bells may be daily
heard, and the huge engines, with their burnished equipments and well-
trained companies, may be seen to dash at full speed along the streets to
the scene of some brilliant conflagration. New York is calculated to
present as imposing an appearance to an Englishman as its antiquated
namesake does to an American, with its age, silence, stateliness, and
decay.

The Indian summer had come and gone, and bright frosty weather had
succeeded it, when I left this city, in which I had received kindness and
hospitality which I can never forget. Mr. Amy, the kind friend who had
first welcomed me to the States, was my travelling companion, and at his
house near Boston, in the midst of a happy family-circle, I spent the
short remnant of my time before returning to England.

We left New York just as the sun was setting, frosty and red, and ere we
had reached Newhaven it was one of the finest winter evenings that I had
ever seen. The moisture upon the windows of the cars froze into
innumerable fairy shapes; the crescent moon and a thousand stars shone
brilliantly from a deep blue sky; auroras flashed and meteors flamed, and,
as the fitful light glittered on many rushing gurgling streams, I had but
to remember how very beautiful New England was, to give form and
distinctness to the numerous shapes which we were hurrying past. I was
recalling the sunny south to mind, with its vineyards and magnolia groves,
and the many scenes of beauty that I had witnessed in America, with all
the genial kindness which I had experienced from many who but a few months
ago were strangers, when a tipsy Scotch fiddler broke in upon my reveries
by an attempt to play 'Yankee Doodle.' It is curious how such a thing can
instantly change the nature of the thoughts. I remembered speculations,
'cute notions, guesses, and calculations; "All aboard," and "Go ahead,"
and "Pile on, skipper;" sharp eager faces, diversities of beards,
duellists, pickpockets, and every species of adventurer.

Such recollections were not out of place in Connecticut, the centre and
soul of what we denominate _Yankeeism_. This state has one of the most
celebrated educational establishments in the States, Yale College at
Newhaven, or the City of Elms, famous for its toleration of an annual
fight between the citizens and the students, at a nocturnal _fete_ in
celebration of the burial of Euclid. The phraseology and some of the moral
characteristics of Connecticut are quite peculiar. It is remarkable for
learning, the useful arts, successful and energetic merchants and farmers;
the mythical Sam Slick, the prince of pedlars; and his living equal,
Barnum, the prince of showmen. A love of good order and a pervading
religious sentiment appear to accompany great simplicity of manners in its
rural population, though the Southerners, jealous of the virtues of these
New Englanders, charge upon them the manufacture of wooden nutmegs. This
state supplies the world with wooden clocks, for which the inhabitants of
our colonies appear to have a peculiar fancy, though at home they are
called "Yankee clocks what won't go." I have seen pedlars with curiously
constructed waggons toiling along even among the Canadian clearings, who
are stated to belong to a race "raised" in Connecticut. They are extremely
amusing individuals, and it is impossible to resist making an investment
in their goods, as their importunities are urged in such ludicrous
phraseology. The pedlar can accommodate you with everything, from a clock
or bible to a pennyworth of pins, and takes rags, rabbit and squirrel
skins, at two cents each, in payment. His knowledge of "soft sawder and
human natur" is as great as that of Sam Slick, his inimitable
representative; and many a shoeless Irish girl is induced to change a
dollar for some trumpery ornament, by his artful compliments to her
personal attractions. He seems at home everywhere; talks politics, guesses
your needs, cracks a joke, or condoles with you on your misfortunes with
an elongated face. He always contrives to drop in at dinner or tea time,
for which he always apologises, but in distant settlements the apologetic
formulary might be left alone, for the visit of the cosmopolitan pedlar is
ever welcome, even though he leaves you a few dollars poorer. There is
some fear of the extinction of the race, as railways are now bringing the
most distant localities within reach of resplendent stores with plate-
glass windows.

It wanted six hours to dawn when we reached Boston; and the ashes of an
extinguished fire in the cheerless waiting-room at the _depot_ gave an
idea of even greater cold than really existed. We drove through the silent
streets of Boston, and out into the country, in an open carriage, with the
thermometer many degrees below the freezing-point, yet the dryness of the
atmosphere prevented any feeling of cold. The air was pure, still, and
perfectly elastic; a fitful aurora lighted our way, and the iron hoofs of
the fast-trotting ponies rattled cheerily along the frozen ground. I
almost regretted the termination of the drive, even though the pleasant
villa of ----, and a room lighted by a blazing wood fire, awaited me.

The weather was perfectly delightful. Cloudless and golden the sun set at
night; cloudless and rosy he rose in the morning; sharp and defined in
outline the leafless trees rose against the piercing blue of the sky; the
frozen ground rang to every footstep; thin patches of snow diversified the
landscape; and the healthful air braced even invalid nerves. Boston is a
very fine city, and the whole of it, spread out as a panorama, can be seen
from several neighbouring eminences. The rosy flush of a winter dawn had
scarcely left the sky when I saw the town from Dorchester Heights. Below
lay the city, an aggregate of handsome streets lined with trees, stately
public buildings, and church-spires, with the lofty State House crowning
the whole. Bright blue water and forests of masts appeared to intersect
the town; green, wooded, swelling elevations, dotted over with white villa
residences, environed it in every direction; blue hills rose far in the
distance; while to the right the bright waters of Massachusett's bay,
enlivened by the white sails of ships and pilot-boats, completed this
attractive panorama.

Boston is built on a collection of peninsulas; and as certain shipowners
possess wharfs far up in the town, to which their ships must find their
way, the virtue of patience is frequently inculcated by a long detention
at drawbridges, while heavily-laden vessels are slowly warped through the
openings. The equanimity of the American character surprised me here, as
it often had before; for, while I was devising various means of saving
time, by taking various circuitous routes, about 100 _detenus_ submitted
to the delay without evincing any symptoms of impatience. Part of Boston
is built on ground reclaimed from the sea, and the active inhabitants
continually keep encroaching on the water for building purposes.

This fine city appeared to greater advantage on my second visit, after
seeing New York, Cincinnati, Chicago, and other of the American towns. In
them their progress is evidenced by a ceaseless building up and pulling
down, the consequences of which are heaps of rubbish and unsightly
hoardings covered with bills and advertisements, giving to the towns thus
circumstanced an unfinished, mobile, or temporary look. This is still
further increased where many of the houses are of wood, and can be moved
without being taken to pieces. I was riding through an American town one
afternoon, when, to my surprise, I had to turn off upon the side walk, to
avoid a house which was coming down the street, drawn by ten horses, and
assisted by as many men with levers. My horse was so perfectly unconcerned
at what was such a novel spectacle to me, that I supposed he was used to
these migratory dwellings.

Boston has nothing of all this. Stately, substantial, and handsome, it
looks as if it had been begun and completed in a day. There is a most
pleasing air of respectability about the large stone and brick houses; the
stores are spacious and very handsome; and the public buildings are
durably and tastefully built. Scientific institutions, music halls, and
the splendid stores possessed by the booksellers and philosophical
instrument makers, proclaim the literary and refined tastes of the
inhabitants, which have earned for their city the name of the "American
Athens." There is an air of repose about Boston; here, if anywhere, one
would suppose that large fortunes were realised and enjoyed. The sleek
horses do not appear to be hurried over the pavements; there are few
placards, and fewer puffs; the very carts are built rather to carry weight
than for speed. Yet no place which I visited looked more thriving than
Boston. Its streets are literally crammed with vehicles, and the side
walks are thronged with passengers, but these latter are principally New
Englanders, of respectable appearance. These walks are bordered by acacia
and elm trees, which seem to flourish in the most crowded thoroughfares,
and, besides protecting both men and horses from the intense heat, their
greenness, which they retain till the fall, is most refreshing to the eye.
There are a great many private carriages to be seen, as well as people on
horseback. The dwelling-houses have plate-glass windows and bright green
jalousies; the side walks are of granite, and the whole has an English
air. The common, or rather the park, at Boston, is the finest public
promenade that I ever saw, about fifty acres in extent, and ornamented
with avenues of very fine trees. This slopes to the south, and the highest
part of the slope is crowned by the State House and the handsomest private
residences in the city. Boston is very clean and orderly, and smoking is
not permitted in the streets. There is a highly aristocratic air about it,
and those who look for objects of historical interest will not be
disappointed. There is the old Faneuil Hall, which once echoed to the
stormy arguments and spirit-stirring harangues of the leaders of the
Revolution. A few antiquated, many-gabled houses, remain in its
neighbourhood, each associated with some tradition dear to the Americans.
Then there is a dark-coloured stone church, which still in common parlance
bears the name of King's Chapel. It is fitted with high pews of dark
varnished oak, and the English liturgy, slightly altered, is still used as
the form of worship. Then there is the Old South Meeting house, where the
inhabitants remonstrated with the governor for bringing in the king's
troops; and, lastly, Griffin's Wharf, where, under the impulse of the
stern concentrated will of the New England character, the "Sons of
Liberty" boarded the English ships, and slowly and deliberately threw the
tea which they contained into the water of the harbour.

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