The International Monthly Magazine Volume V to No II

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[Illustration: FOX'S ARBOR.]

FOX'S ARBOR.

At St. Anne's Hill he enjoyed as many intervals of repose and tranquillity
as could fall to a statesman's lot; in the time of wars and tumults, how
he must have luxuriated in its delicious quiet, surrounded by friends who
dearly loved him; and swayed only for good by the wife who (although it is
known that her early intimacy with him was such as prevented her general
recognition in society) according to the evidence of all who knew her, was
the minister only to his better thoughts and nobler ambitions, and who
weaned him from nearly all the follies and vices which stained his youth
and earlier manhood. Various causes led to his death, before age had added
infirmities to disease. He died at Chiswick House, and his last words,
addressed to Mrs. Fox were, "I die happy." It is said he wished to be
buried at Chertsey, but his remains were interred in Westminister Abbey.

The brilliant Sheridan pronounced so elegant an eulogium on his character,
that it is pleasant to think of it in those shades where, as we have said,
he so often sought and found repose: "When Mr. Fox ceased to live, the
cause of private honor and friendship lost its highest glory, public
liberty its most undaunted champion, and general humanity its most active
and ardent assertor. In him was united the most amiable disposition with
the most firm and resolute spirit; the mildest manners, with the most
exalted mind. With regard to that great man it might, indeed, be well
said, that in him the bravest heart and most exalted mind sat upon the
seat of gentleness."

[Illustration: COWLEY'S SEAT.]

COWLEY'S SEAT.

[Illustration: COWLEY'S HOUSE--STREET FRONT.]

COWLEY'S HOUSE--STREET FRONT.

There is, at all events, an imaginary pleasure in turning from the wearing
out turmoil of a statesman's life, to what the world believes the tranquil
dreams of a poet's existence. But there are few things the worldling so
little understands as literary industry, or so little sympathizes with as
literary care. We have no inclination to over-rate either its toils or its
pleasures, and perhaps no life is more abundantly supplied with both. Its
toils must be evident to any who have noted the increasing literary labor
which is necessary to produce the ordinary sources of comforts; but its
high and holy enjoyments are not so apparent; they are so different from
those of almost all others as not to be easily explained or understood;
but above all other gifts, the marvellous gift of poesy is a distinction
conferred by the Almighty, and should be acknowledged and treasured as
such. We know little of a poet's studies except by their imperishable
produce, and it is a common but ill-founded prejudice to imagine
regularity or diligence incompatible with high genius. Genius is neither
above law, nor opposed to it; but as many have a poetic taste and
temperament _without_ the inspiration, the world is apt to mistake the
eccentricity of the pretender for the outward and visible sign of genius.
Whether or not the poet of the Porch-house of Chertsey had the actual
poetic fire we do not venture to determine. Abraham Cowley takes a
prominent position, amongst the poets of our land, and the eventful times
in which he lived, and his participation in their tumults give him
additional interest in all the relations of his anxious and not over-happy
life. It is recorded of him that he became a poet in consequence of
reading the Faery Queene, which chance threw in his way while yet a child.
In allusion to this, Dr. Johnson gave his well-known definition of genius:
"A mind of large general powers, accidentally determined to some
particular direction." We had almost dared to say this is rather the
definition of a philosopher than of one who comprehended the spirituality
of a marvellous gift. Abraham Cowley--the posthumous son of a London
grocer--owed much to his mother. She, by her exertions, procured him a
classical education at Westminster School. She lived to see him loved,
honored, and great, and what was better still, and more uncommon,
grateful. At the age of fifteen he published a volume called "Poetic
Blossoms," which he afterwards described as "commendable extravagancies in
a boy." He obtained a scholarship in Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1686,
and there took his degree; but was ejected by the Parliament, and thence
removed to Oxford. Shortly after, he followed the Queen Henrietta to
Paris, as Secretary to the Earl of St. Albans, and was employed in the
court of the exiles in the most confidential capacity. In 1656 he returned
to England, and was immediately arrested as a suspected spy. He submitted
quietly--the royalists thought too quietly--to the dominion of the
Protector, but his whole life proved that he was no traitor. At the
Restoration, that great national disappointment, his claims upon the
ungrateful monarch were met by a taunt and a false insinuation--he was told
that his pardon was his reward! Wood said, "he lost the place by certain
enemies of the Muses;" certain "friends of the Muses," however, procured
for him the lease of the Porch-house and farm at Chertsey, held under the
Queen, and the great desire of his life--solitude--was obtained.

[Illustration: COWLEY'S HOUSE--GARDEN FRONT.]

COWLEY'S HOUSE--GARDEN FRONT.

The place still seems a meet dwelling for a poet, and is, perhaps, even
more attractive to strangers than St. Anne's hill. The porch, which caused
his residence to be called "The Porch-house," was taken down during the
last century by the father of its present proprietor, the Rev. John Crosby
Clarke, and the house is now known as "Cowley House."(1) It is situated
near the bridge which crosses a narrow and rapid stream, in a lonely part
of Guildford Street; a latticed window which overhangs the road is the
window of the room in which the poet expired; on the outside wall Mr.
Clarke has recorded his reason for removing the porch. "The porch of this
house, which projected ten feet into the highway, was taken down in the
year 1786, for the safety and accommodation of the public."

"Here the last accents flowed from Cowley's tongue."

[Illustration: STAIRCASE--COWLEY'S HOUSE.]

STAIRCASE--COWLEY'S HOUSE.

The appearance of the house from Guildford Street, is no index to its size
or conveniences.(2) You enter by a side gate, and the new front of the
dwelling is that of a comfortable and gentlemanly home; the old part it is
said was built in the reign of James the First, and what remains is
sufficiently quaint to bear out the legend; the old and new are much
mingled, and the modern part consists of one or two bed-rooms, a large
dining-room, and a drawing-room, commanding a delicious garden view, the
meanderings of the stream, and a long tract of luxuriant meadows,
terminated by the high and richly timbered ground of St. Anne's Hill. A
portion of the old stairway is preserved, the wood is not as has been
stated oak, but sweet chestnut. One of the rooms is panelled with oak, and
Cowley's study is a small closet-like chamber, the window looking towards
St. Anne's Hill. It is never difficult to imagine a poet in a _small
chamber_, particularly when his mind may imbibe inspiration from so rich
and lovely a landscape. Beside the group of trees, beneath whose shadow
the poet frequently sat, there is a horse chestnut of such exceeding size
and beauty, that it is worthy a pilgrimage, and no lover of nature could
look upon it without mingled feelings of reverence and affection.

Here then amid such tranquil scenes, and such placid beauty, the
"melancholy Cowley," passed the later days of big anxious existence; here
we may fancy him receiving Evelyn and Denham, the poets and men of letters
of his troubled day, who found the disappointments of courtly life more
than their philosophy could endure. Here his friendly biographer, Doctor
Spratt, cheered his lonely hours.

Cowley was one of those fortunate bards who obtain fame and honor during
life. His learning was deep, his reading extensive, his acquaintance with
mankind large. "To him," says Denham in his famous elegy,

"To him no author was unknown,
Yet what he wrote was all his own."

His biographer adds, "There was nothing affected or singular in his habit,
or person, or gesture; _he understood the forms of good breeding enough to
practise them without burdening himself or others_." This indeed is the
perfection of good breeding and good sense.

Having obtained, as we have said, the Porch-house at Chertsey, his mind
dwelt with pleasure--a philosophic pleasure--upon the hereafter, which he
hoped for in this life of tranquillity, and the silent labor he so dearly
loved; but he was destined to prove the reality of his own poesy:

"Oh life, thou _Nothing's_ younger brother,
So _like_ that one might take one for the other."

The career of Abraham Cowley was never sullied by vice,(3) he was loyal
without being servile, and at once modest, independent and sincere. His
character is eloquently drawn by Doctor Spratt. "He governed his passions
with great moderation, his virtues were never troublesome or uneasy to
any, whatever he disliked in others he only corrected by the silent
reproof of a better practice."

He died at Chertsey on the 28th of July, 1667, and was interred in
Westminster Abbey. A throng of nobles followed him to his grave, and the
worthless king who had deserted him is reported to have said, that Mr.
Cowley had not left a better man behind him in England.

It is said the body of Cowley was removed from Chertsey by water, thus
making the Thames he loved so well, the highway to his grave; there is
something highly poetic in this idea of a funeral, so still and solemn,
with the oars dropping noiselessly in the blue water. Pope in allusion to
it, says:

"What tears the river shed,
When the sad pomp along his banks was led;"

which rather inclines us to the belief, that in this, as in many other
instances, the poetic reading is not the true one,

"The muses oft in lands of vision play:"

but the fact that he died at Chertsey, as much respected as a man, as he
was admired as a poet, is certain, and his house is often visited by
strangers, who are permitted to see his favorite haunts by the kindness of
its proprietor, who honors the spot so hallowed by memories of "the
melancholy Cowley:"--he who considered and described "business" as:

"The contradiction to his fate."

But we must postpone our farther rambles for the present.

[Illustration: TREES ON ST ANNE'S HILL.]

TREES ON ST ANNE'S HILL.

Chertsey loses half its romantic interest by the intrusion of the
progressive agents of our time--our noisy time, of which the spirit
willingly brooks no souvenirs of monastic repose. The old quaint quiet
town has now its railroad, and the shades of its heroes have departed.

TRAUGOTT BROMME ON THE UNITED STATES OF NORTH AMERICA, TEXAS AND THE
COLONIES.

We have at different times, by reviews or translations, endeavored to give
our readers some idea of what people think of us, in continental Europe.
But there are two sides to every thing--or there is an universal dualism,
as Emerson declares--which is perfectly true as to the method which might
be adopted in the execution of this self-imposed task. One class of
readers understand by the word _people_ the _beau monde_, and would have
us invariably follow the school of the Countesses Hahn-Hahn or Ladies
Blessington or Milords Fitz-Flummery, contented if we have but a fair name
in society. Another and more reasonable class would be satisfied to know
the opinion of the literati, or perhaps the poets, particularly when they
do fit homage to our "grand old woods," and to Niagara. Others regard with
most respect a plain literal account of our branches of industry--our
railroads, factories, and canals. They would have the country judged
purely from a mechanical or practical point of view--contenting themselves
as to other matters with the reflection. "Oh, sensible people care very
little about any thing else. If they know what we produce, and what our
resources are, they'll understand and respect us sufficiently."

Now the opinion of each of these classes has its weight, and though not of
the _greatest_ ultimate importance, is always to be respected. If we were
questioned as to the views of which of them we yielded full regard, we
should candidly say, "to none." It is the general, universal opinion, of a
nation at large that we deem authoritative, and none other. It is that
popular opinion so readily yet often so falsely formed (at times from
trifles of almost incredible levity), and which when once fairly
developed, is well-nigh ineradicable. In a word, it is to the views of the
people.

We propose, as opportunity shall offer, to make our readers familiar with
the writings of all these different classes of travellers--and in the
present article, we shall make a few extracts from a work interesting, as
having probably contributed more than any other to a general knowledge of
the United States in Germany. It is the book which has had the greatest
currency among all classes, but particularly with the lower order of
readers and emigrants.

Before proceeding, however, to the work itself, it may be as well to
answer a question which has perhaps been suggested to the minds of a
certain class of readers. Of what great use, after all, is this nervous
regard as to the opinion of the world? Is not our character
established--are not our characteristics known, to the uttermost corners of
the earth? To which question we may answer, _Not quite_. In avoiding that
ridiculous sensitiveness which prompts so many Americans to feel
personally insulted by the weak remarks of every wandering ignoramus, we
would by no means fall into the opposite error of attaching no importance
whatever to the good opinion or the degree of consciousness as to our
existence entertained by the world at large.

Should any feel disposed to smile at such an expression, as "the
consciousness of our existence," we will take the liberty of citing a few
curious instances, for the authenticity of which we assume the entire
responsibility--instances which may perhaps astonish a few even of the
better informed. There are in many districts (not altogether provincial)
of Italy and France great numbers, who would not even in America be
classed as _ignorant_ in regard to other matters, who have not the
remotest idea as to the nature or geography of our country. An instance
has come to our knowledge of an intelligent Hungarian who, by intercourse
with the world, had acquired a fluency in five languages, and who inquired
of an American gentleman if his country were not situated somewhere in
England. The late Mr. Cooper, when placing his daughters at a celebrated
seminary on the continent, found a great curiosity had been created by the
rumor that they were coming, some supposing they were black, some that
they were copper-colored, and all unprepared to see American girls looking
for all the world like the young German ladies. We have heard of a similar
instance in which an English _gentleman_--a Cambridge graduate--inquired of
an American what was the current language of the United States. Lastly, we
may cite the case of an English author, well known to our own public, and
favorably mentioned not long since in these pages, who was under the
impression that owing to the great emigration from Germany, the English
language must with us, in a very few years, yield to that of the
_Vaterland_. Now our commercial and industrial relations are seriously
hindered by this absurd ignorance of America, which in a word prevails to
such an extent, that we have known an American, who--probably from having
been over-questioned and speered at in New England--had imbibed such a
wholesome hatred of inquisitiveness, that he wished the French government
would hang up, for the benefit of all concerned, the following list of
questions, with satisfactory answers annexed, in all the _cafes_ of the
politest nation in Europe:

Whether America is an island or a continent?
What is the color of its inhabitants?
What language do they speak?
Have they a religion and what is it?
What is the state of their morals and cookery?
Have they a correct state of feeling as regards the opera?

The reader is not to infer that this is the general state of knowledge
regarding our country. But it is worth nothing as a curious illustration
of the vast number of individuals who derive their ideas, not from what is
going on at the present day, or from available sources of information, but
from the antiquated views of a by-gone generation. And we trust it will
not be deemed inappropriate that we here speak a word of the want of
opportunities of acquiring very general information under which the
ordinary readers of continental Europe suffer. With all their libraries,
all their immense arrays of magazines and journals, we find among them an
apathy in regard to the world without (to the Fan-Qui), which appears
incredible until we reflect on the deadening influences of the censorship,
which views with distrust all information in regard to the Land of
Liberty. We are not aware, throughout the whole of continental Europe, of
a single publication so thoroughly cosmopolite in its character, so
general in the scope of its information, or which is so universally
disseminated among _all_ classes of readers, as _The International_; and
we trust we do not go too far when we assert, that it is to an extended
sale of periodical publications somewhat approaching it in the
concentration and dissemination of news from the world at large, that our
countrymen owe that superior intelligence and citizen-of-the-world
character which distinguish them from the insular Briton, self-important
Frenchman, or abstracted German.

The work from which we propose to make some extracts, is TRAUGOTT BROMME's
_Hand und Reisebuch fuer Auswanderer nach den Vereinigten Staaten_ (or
Traugott Bromme's Journey and Handbook for Emigrants to the United
States). As we have already stated, no work on America is at the present
day more familiarly known to that class of readers to whom it is
addressed. Certain remarks on the present condition of German emigration
with which it is prefaced, may not be devoid of interest to our readers,
though not constituting a part of such observations as we have more
particularly referred to:

"There is, it appears, implanted in every man an impulse to
advance and better his condition--an impulse caused by poverty,
dependent circumstances, or pressure from every side, vexing at
times even the highest in rank, and which is the cause why
thousands leave their fatherland, to seek afar a now home, and
hundreds of thousands cast around them disturbed and anxious
glances, restrained only by hard poverty, which imprisons them at
home. Such is very generally the case at present in our own
country, where--despite the political concessions of March in the
year 1848, of the published original privileges of the German
people, and of the promising prospect of a free and united
Germany, with a concluding general empire--emigration appears to be
by no means on the decrease." "These emigrants of the present day
consist not as formerly of poor people of the lower orders, who
turn their backs on the German fatherland, or liberal declaimers,
dreaming of an ideal of freedom which could scarcely be realized
in Utopia, but of sober excellent families of the middle class,
who, free from all delusive fancies, do not expect to find in the
western world wealth and honorable offices, but desire only to
inhabit a land, wherein they may dwell quietly and happily with
their children." "What the German wants is _room_--a new broad
field for his abilities--and this America extends to him in
unbounded space. No one at the present day hopes to obtain hills
of gold without labor, but every one knows that the far more
estimable treasure of perfect independence, or to speak more
correctly, of perfect _self-dependence_, with the prospect of a
future free from care, may in America be obtained at the cost of a
few years of earnest, honest industry. And what, to the man
oppressed in his fatherland by all the cares incident upon the
obtaining a bare subsistence, is two or three or even _four_ years
of hard work, when compared to a whole life of poverty and
misery?"

After accurately sketching the extreme misery and poverty oppressing the
inhabitants of many districts of Germany, of late years sadly increased by
the falling off in manufactures since the political disturbances, our
author proceeds to set forth the advantages offered by America:

"That most emigrants should rather look to America, than Poland,
Russia, Servia, or Siebenburgen, is natural enough, since all of
these countries together cannot offer so many attractions as
America. Where on earth is there such a vast array of unoccupied
lands, offered at such a moderate price--land so cheap that in many
districts twenty or thirty and even more acres, covered with wood,
are given at a price for which a single acre of similar land is
sold in Germany?"

The richness of the soil, the excellence of the climate, and the demand
for labor, are then described; to which, as the greatest inducement, he
adds the fact that in _America_ the fullest "liberty of labor and
mechanical calling or trade," is allowed. Also, that the taxes are so
light that an industrious man is able not only to live, but even to lay up
something for his old age, or his children, or to employ in the extension
of his business.

"For as there exists in America no standing army, its inhabitants
may retain their children, as the best possible assistants in
labor, and train, govern, and discipline them as can only properly
done under the eye of a parent. Furthermore, in that country every
one is permitted to enjoy the fullest civil and religious liberty.
These are the advantages to be expected from an emigration to
America, _and he who anticipates more will find himself bitterly
deceived_. But a man who can be content with this, and can live
actively, moderately, and frugally, will here, better than in any
other land in the world, ultimately attain to happiness and
fortune. In times like ours, when every branch of industry is
crowded, when tender parents think with grief and trouble on the
future prospects of their children, there are for the emigrant no
other resources save those held out by a full and bountiful
nature, and no means of livelihood which may be so certainly
depended upon as those afforded by agriculture. Here it is that
industry throws open the widest field, and affords the fullest
opportunity of doing good."

In the following extract, our author proceeds to set forth the national
character of the American:

"The national character of the American has been greatly
misunderstood; few travellers seem, in fact, to have understood
it, since they mention it as something as new and unfounded as the
country itself, and yet it is so well confirmed--so well
established in every elevated and noble characteristic of the
human race, that it may confidently be placed in comparison with
that of the most celebrated nations of antiquity. Springing
originally from England, they have the pride and manly confidence
of the Briton, for through their ancestry they claim an equal
share of all which gives dignity to those inheriting glory and a
great name. Their forefathers were those brave religious pilgrims
who were transferred by British laws (or rather by old German) and
British genius to the shores of the new world--to there give to
those laws and genius an immortality. Building still further on
this new land, they opened the temple of the Lord to all his
followers, and received with open arms all the unfortunate or
oppressed exiles of Europe. For the first time in reality in this
world they flung wide the flag of truth and freedom--fought under
its folds an unequal fight against the mightiest power in the
world--and overcame it. And when a second time they armed
themselves to combat with England, they again came forth
unconquered from the contest. Reason enough this for the national
pride of the American, for nothing could more naturally cause a
certain degree of self-content than to belong to a nation whose
brilliant deeds in war as in politics, in commerce as in
manufactures, have astonished the world. A second and not less
characteristic trait of the American is seen in a certain
earnestness, which appears to strangers to indicate a want of
sociable feeling--and yet perhaps in _no_ country is true noble
sociability as developed in domestic life, so much at home, as in
America.

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