Diary in America, Series Two. Фредерик Марриет

ry in America, Series Two

      Volume One—Chapter One

Travelling

      I believe that the remarks of a traveller in any country not his own, let his work be ever so trifling or badly written, will point out some peculiarity which will have escaped the notice of those who were born and reside in that country, unless they happen to be natives of that portion of it in which the circumstance alluded to was observed. It is a fact that no one knows his own country; from assuetude and, perhaps, from the feelings of regard which we naturally have for our native land, we pass over what nevertheless does not escape the eye of a foreigner. Indeed, from the consciousness that we can always see such and such objects of interest whenever we please, we very often procrastinate until we never see them at all. I knew an old gentleman who having always resided in London, every year declared his intention of seeing the Tower of London with its Curiosities. He renewed this declaration every year, put it off until the next, and has since left the world without having ever put his intention into execution.

      That the Americans would cavil at portions of the first part of my work, I was fully convinced, and as there are many observations quite new to most of them, they are by them considered to be false; but the United States, as I have before observed, comprehend an immense extent of territory, with a population running from a state of refinement down to one of positive barbarism; and although the Americans travel much, they travel the well beaten paths, in which that which is peculiar is not so likely to meet the eye or even the ear. It does not, therefore, follow that because what I remark is new to many of them, that therefore it is false. The inhabitants of the cities in the United States, (and it is those who principally visit this country), know as little of what is passing in Arkansas and Alabama as a cockney does of the manners and customs of Guernsey, Jersey, and the Isle of Man.

      The other day, one American lady observed that, “it was too bad of Captain Marryat to assert that ladies in America carried pigtail in their work-boxes to present to the gentlemen;” adding, “I never heard or saw such a thing in all my life.” Very possible; and had I stated that at New York, Philadelphia, Boston, or Charleston, such was the practice, she then might have been justifiably indignant. But I have been very particular in my localities, both in justice to myself and the Americans, and if they will be content to confine their animadversions to the observations upon the State to which they belong, or my general observations upon the country and government, I shall then be content; if, on the contrary, their natural vanity will not allow any remarks to be made upon the peculiarities of one portion of society without considering them as a reflection upon the whole of the Union, all I can say is that they must, and will be annoyed.

      The answer made to the lady who was “wrathy” about the pigtail was, “Captain M has stated it to be a custom in one State. Have you ever been in that State?”

      “No, I have not,” replied the lady, “but I have never heard of it.” So then, on a vast continent, extending almost from the Poles to the Equator, because one individual, one mere mite of creation among the millions (who are but a fraction of the population which the country will support), has not heard of what passes thousands of miles from her abode, therefore it cannot be true! Instead of cavilling, let the American read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest all that I have already said, and all that I intend to say in these volumes; and although the work was not written for them, but for my own countrymen, they will find that I have done them friendly service.

      There is much comprehended in the simple word “travelling” which heads this chapter, and it is by no means an unimportant subject, as the degree of civilisation of a country, and many important peculiarities, bearing strongly upon the state of society, are to be gathered from the high road, and the variety of entertainment for man and horse; and I think that my remarks on this subject will throw as much light upon American society as will be found in any chapter which I have written.

      In a country abounding as America does with rivers and railroads, and where locomotion by steam, wherever it can be applied, supersedes every other means of conveyance, it is not to be expected that the roads will be remarkably good; they are, however, in consequence of the excellent arrangements of the townships and counties, in the Eastern States, as good, and much better, than could be expected. The great objection to them is that they are not levelled, but follow the undulations of the country, so that you have a variety of short, steep ascents and descents which are very trying to the carriage-springs and very fatiguing to the traveller. Of course in a new country you must expect to fall in with the delightful varieties of Corduroy, etcetera, but wherever the country is settled, and the population sufficient to pay the expense, the roads in America may be said to be as good as under circumstances could possibly be expected. There are one or two roads, I believe, not more, which are government roads; but, in general, the expense of the roads is defrayed by the States.

      But, before I enter into any remarks upon the various modes of travelling in America, it may be as well to say a few words upon the horses, which are remarkably good in the United States: they appear to be more hardy, and have much better hoofs, than ours in England; throwing a shoe therefore is not of the same consequence as it is with us, for a horse will go twenty miles afterwards with little injury. In Virginia and Kentucky the horses are almost all thorough-bred, and from the best English stock.—The distances run in racing are much longer than ours, and speed without bottom is useless.

      The Americans are very fond of fast trotting horses; I do not refer to rackers, as they term horses that trot before and gallop behind, but fair trotters, and they certainly have a description of horse that we could not easily match in England. At New York, the Third Avenue, as they term it, is the general rendezvous, I once went out there mounted upon Paul Pry, who was once considered the fastest horse in America; at his full speed he performed a mile in two minutes and thirty seconds, equal to twenty-four miles per hour. He took me at this devil of a pace as far as Hell Gate; not wishing “to intrude,” I pulled up there, and went home again. A pair of horses in harness were pointed out to me who could perform the mile in two minutes fifty seconds. They use here light four-wheeled vehicles which they call wagons, with a seat in the front for two persons and room for your luggage behind; and in these wagons, with a pair of horses, they think nothing of trotting them seventy or eighty miles in a day, at the speed of twelve miles an hour; I have seen the horses come in, and they did not appear to suffer from the fatigue. You seldom see a horse bent forward, but they are all daisy cutters.

      The gentlemen of New York give very high prices for fast horses; 1,000 dollars is not by any means an uncommon price. In a country where time is every thing, they put a proportionate value upon speed. Paul Pry is a tall grey horse (now thirteen years old); to look at, he would not fetch 10 pounds,—the English omnibuses would refuse him.

      Talking about omnibuses, those of New York, and the other cities in America, are as good and as well regulated as those of Paris; the larger ones have four horses. Not only their omnibuses, but their hackney coaches are very superior to those in London; the latter are as clean as private carriages; and with the former there is no swearing, no dislocating the arms of poor females, hauling them from one omnibus to the other,—but civility without servility.

      The American stage-coaches are such as experience has found out to be most suitable to the American roads, and you have not ridden in them five miles before you long for the delightful springing of four horses upon the level roads of England. They are something between an English stage1 and a French diligence, built with all the panels open, on account of the excessive heat of the summer months. In wet weather these panels are covered with leather aprons, which are fixed on with battons, a very insufficient protection in the winter, as the wind blows through the intermediate spaces, whistling into your ears, and rendering it more piercing than if all was open. Moreover, they are no protection against the rain or snow, both of which find their way in to you. The coach has three seats, to receive nine passengers; those on the middle seat leaning back upon a strong and broad leather brace, which runs across. This is very disagreeable, as the centre passengers, when the panels are closed, deprive the others of the light and air from the windows. But the most disagreeable feeling arises from the body of the coach not being upon springs, but hung upon leather braces running under it and supporting it on each side; and when the roads are bad, or you ascend or rapidly descend the pitches (as they term short hills) the motion is

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Miss Martineau in her work speaks of that most delightful of all conveyances—an American stage-coach; but Miss M is so very peculiar in her ideas, that I am surprised at nothing that she says. I will, however, quote the Reverend Mr Reid against her:—

“I had no sooner begun to enter the coach than splash went my foot in mud and water. I exclaimed with surprise. ‘Soon be dry, sir,’ was the reply; while he withdrew the light; that I might not explore the cause of complaint. The fact was, that the vehicle, like the hotel and steam-boat, was not water-tight, and the rain had found an entrance. There was, indeed, in this coach, as in most others, a provision in the bottom, of holes, to let off both water and dirt; but here the dirt had become mud, and thickened about the orifices, so as to prevent escape. I found I was the only passenger; the morning was damp and chilly; the state of the coach added to the sensation; and I eagerly looked about for some means of protection. I drew up the wooden windows; out of five small panes of glass in the sashes three were broken. I endeavoured to secure the curtains; two of them had most of the ties broken, and flapped in one’s face. There was no help in the coach, so I looked to myself. I made the best use I could of my garments, and put myself as snugly as I could in the corner of a stage meant to accommodate nine persons. My situation just then was not among the most cheerful. I could see nothing; every where I could feel the wind drawn in upon me; and as for sounds I had the calls of the driver, the screeching of the wheels, and the song of the bull-frog for my entertainment.”—Rev. Mr Reid’s Tour, vol. I, page 100.—Very delightful, indeed!