Three Years in Europe by William Wells Brown

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The dwelling is a cottage of moderate size, built after Miss M.'s own
plan, upon a rise of land from which it derives the name of "The Knoll."
The Library is the largest room in the building, and upon the walls of
it were hung some beautiful engravings and a continental map. On a long
table which occupied the centre of the room, were the busts of
Shakspere, Newton, Milton, and a few other literary characters of the
past. One side of the room was taken up with a large case, filled with a
choice collection of books, and everything indicated that it was the
home of genius and of taste.

The room usually occupied by Miss M., and where we found her on the
evening of our arrival, is rather small and lighted by two large
windows. The walls of this room were also decorated with prints and
pictures, and on the mantle-shelf were some models in _terra cottia_ of
Italian groups. On a circular table lay casts, medallions, and some very
choice water-colour drawings. Under the south window stood a small table
covered with newly opened letters, a portfolio and several new books,
with here and there a page turned down, and one with a paper knife
between its leaves as if it had only been half read. I took up the last
mentioned, and it proved to be the "Life and Poetry of Hartly
Coleridge," son of S.T. Coleridge. It was just from the press, and had,
a day or two before, been forwarded to her by the publisher. Miss M. is
very deaf and always carries in her left hand a trumpet; and I was not a
little surprised on learning from her that she had never enjoyed the
sense of smell, and only on one occasion the sense of taste, and that
for a single moment. Miss M. is loved with a sort of idolatry by the
people of Ambleside, and especially the poor, to whom she gives a
course of lectures every winter gratuitously. She finished her last
course the day before our arrival. She was much pleased with Ellen
Craft, and appeared delighted with the story of herself and husband's
escape from slavery, as related by the latter--during the recital of
which I several times saw the silent tear stealing down her cheek, and
which she tried in vain to hide from us.

When Craft had finished, she exclaimed, "I would that every woman in the
British Empire, could hear that tale as I have, so that they might know
how their own sex was treated in that boasted land of liberty." It seems
strange to the people of this county, that one so white and so lady-like
as Mrs. Craft, should have been a slave and forced to leave the land of
her nativity and seek an asylum in a foreign country. The morning after
our arrival, I took a stroll by a circuitous pathway to the top of
Loughrigg Fell. At the foot of the mount I met a peasant, who very
kindly offered to lend me his donkey, upon which to ascend the mountain.
Never having been upon the back of one of these long eared animals, I
felt some hesitation about trusting myself upon so diminutive looking a
creature. But being assured that if I would only resign myself to his
care and let him have his own way, I would be perfectly safe, I mounted,
and off we set. We had, however, scarcely gone fifty rods, when, in
passing over a narrow part of the path and overlooking a deep chasm, one
of the hind feet of the donkey slipped, and with an involuntary shudder,
I shut my eyes to meet my expected doom; but fortunately the little
fellow gained his foothold, and in all probability saved us both from a
premature death. After we had passed over this dangerous place, I
dismounted, and as soon as my feet had once more gained _terra firma_, I
resolved that I would never again yield my own judgment to that of any
one, not even to a donkey.

It seems as if Nature has amused herself in throwing these mountains
together. From the top of the Loughrigg Fell, the eye loses its power in
gazing upon the objects below. On our left, lay Rydal Mount, the
beautiful seat of the late poet Wordsworth. While to the right, and away
in the dim distance, almost hidden by the native trees, was the cottage
where once resided Mrs. Hemans. And below us lay Windermere, looking
more like a river than a lake, and which, if placed by the side of our
own Ontario, Erie or Huron, would be lost in the fog. But here it looks
beautiful in the extreme, surrounded as it is by a range of mountains
that have no parallel in the United States for beauty. Amid a sun of
uncommon splendour, dazzling the eye with the reflection upon the water
below, we descended into the valley, and I was soon again seated by the
fireside of our hospitable hostess. In the afternoon of the same day, we
took a drive to the "Dove's Nest," the home of the late Mrs. Hemans.

We did not see the inside of the house, on account of its being occupied
by a very eccentric man, who will not permit a woman to enter the house,
and it is said that he has been known to run when a female had
unconsciously intruded herself upon his premises. And as our company was
in part composed of ladies, we had to share their fate, and therefore
were prevented from seeing the interior of the Dove's Nest. The
exhibitor of such a man would be almost sure of a prize at the great
Exhibition.

At the head of Grassmere Lake, and surrounded by a few cottages, stands
an old gray, antique-looking Parish Church, venerable with the lapse of
centuries, and the walls partly covered with ivy, and in the rear of
which is the parish burial-ground. After leaving the Dove's Nest, and
having a pleasant ride over the hills and between the mountains, and
just as the sun was disappearing behind them, we arrived at the gate of
Grassmere Church; and alighting and following Miss M., we soon found
ourselves standing over a grave, marked by a single stone, and that,
too, very plain, with a name deeply cut. This announced to us that we
were standing over the grave of William Wordsworth. He chose his own
grave, and often visited the spot before his death. He lies in the most
sequestered spot in the whole grounds, and the simplicity and beauty of
the place was enough to make one in love with it, to be laid so far from
the bustle of the world, and in so sweet a place. The more one becomes
acquainted with the literature of the old world, the more he must love
her poets. Among the teachers of men, none are more worthy of study than
the poets; and, as teachers, they should receive far more credit than is
yielded to them. No one can look back upon the lives of Dante,
Shakspere, Milton, Goethe, Cowper, and many others that we might name,
without being reminded of the sacrifices which they made for mankind,
and which were not appreciated until long after their deaths. We need
look no farther than our own country to find men and women wielding the
pen practically and powerfully for the right. It is acknowledged on all
hands in this country, that England has the greatest dead poets, and
America the greatest living ones. The poet and the true Christian have
alike a hidden life. Worship is the vital element of each. Poetry has in
it that kind of utility which good men find in their Bible, rather than
such convenience as bad men often profess to draw from it. It ennobles
the sentiments, enlarges the affections, kindles the imagination, and
gives to us the enjoyment of a life in the past, and in the future, as
well as in the present. Under its light and warmth, we wake from our
torpidity and coldness, to a sense of our capabilities. This impulse
once given, a great object is gained. Schiller has truly said, "Poetry
can be to a man, what love is to a hero. It can neither counsel him nor
smite him, nor perform any labour for him, but it can bring him up to be
a hero, can summon him to deeds, and arm him with strength for all he
ought to be." I have often read with pleasure the sweet poetry of our
own Whitfield of Buffalo, which has appeared from time to time in the
columns of the _North Star_. I have always felt ashamed of the fact that
he should be compelled to wield the razor instead of the pen for a
living. Meaner poets than James M. Whitfield, are now living by their
compositions; and were he a white man he would occupy a different
position.

After remaining a short time, and reading the epitaphs of the departed,
we again returned to "The Knoll." Nothing can be more imposing than the
beauty of English park scenery, and especially in the vicinity of the
lakes. Magnificent lawns that extend like sheets of vivid green, with
here and there a sprinkling of fine trees, heaping up rich piles of
foliage, and then the forests with the hare, the deer, and the rabbit,
bounding away to the covert, or the pheasant suddenly bursting upon the
wing--the artificial stream, the brook taught to wind in natural
meanderings, or expand into the glassy lake, with the yellow leaf
sleeping upon its bright waters, and occasionally a rustic temple or
sylvan statue grown green and dark with age, give an air of sanctity and
picturesque beauty to English scenery that is unknown in the United
States. The very labourer with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of
ground-plot before the door, the little flower-bed, the woodbine trimmed
against the wall, and hanging its blossoms about the windows, and the
peasant seen trudging home at nightfall with the avails of the toil of
the day upon his back--all this tells us of the happiness both of rich
and poor in this country. And yet there are those who would have the
world believe that the labourer of England is in a far worse condition
than the slaves of America. Such persons know nothing of the real
condition of the working classes of this country. At any rate, the poor
here, as well as the rich, are upon a level, as far as the laws of the
country are concerned. The more one becomes acquainted with the English
people, the more one has to admire them. They are so different from the
people of our own country. Hospitality, frankness, and good humour, are
always to be found in an Englishman. After a ramble of three days about
the lakes, we mounted the coach, bidding Miss Martineau farewell, and
quitted the lake district.

LETTER XVII.

_A Day in the Crystal Palace._

LONDON, _June 27th, 1851_.

Presuming that you will expect from me some account of the great World's
Fair, I take my pen to give you my own impressions, although I am afraid
that anything which I may say about this "Lion of the day," will fall
far short of a description. On Monday last, I quitted my lodgings at an
early hour, and started for the Crystal Palace. This day was fine, such
as we seldom experience in London, with a clear sky, and invigorating
air, whose vitality was as rousing to the spirits as a blast from the
"horn of Astolpho." Although it was not yet 10 o'clock when I entered
Piccadilly, every omnibus was full, inside and out, and the street was
lined with one living stream, as far as the eye could reach, all wending
their way to the "Glass-House." No metropolis in the world presents such
facilities as London for the reception of the Great Exhibition, now
collected within its walls. Throughout its myriads of veins, the stream
of industry and toil pulses with sleepless energy. Every one seems to
feel that this great Capital of the world, is the fittest place wherein
they might offer homage to the dignity of toil. I had already begun to
feel fatigued by my pedestrian excursion as I passed "Apsley House," the
residence of the Duke of Wellington, and emerged into Hyde Park.

I had hoped that on getting into the Park, I would be out of the crowd
that seemed to press so heavily in the street. But in this I was
mistaken. I here found myself surrounded by and moving with an
overwhelming mass, such as I had never before witnessed. And, away in
the distance, I beheld a dense crowd, and above every other object, was
seen the lofty summit of the Crystal Palace. The drive in the Park was
lined with princely-looking vehicles of every description. The drivers
in their bright red and gold uniforms, the pages and footmen in their
blue trousers and white silk stockings, and the horses dressed up in
their neat, silver-mounted harness, made the scene altogether one of
great splendour. I was soon at the door, paid my shilling, and entered
the building at the south end of the Transept. For the first ten or
twenty minutes I was so lost in astonishment, and absorbed in pleasing
wonder, that I could do nothing but gaze up and down the vista of the
noble building. The Crystal Palace resembles in some respects, the
interior of the cathedrals of this country. One long avenue from east to
west is intersected by a Transept, which divides the building into two
nearly equal parts. This is the greatest building the world ever saw,
before which the Pyramids of Egypt, and the Colossus of Rhodes must
hide their diminished heads. The palace was not full at any time during
the day, there being only 64,000 persons present. Those who love to
study the human countenance in all its infinite varieties, can find
ample scope for the indulgence of their taste, by a visit to the World's
Fair. All countries are there represented--Europeans, Asiatics,
Americans and Africans, with their numerous subdivisions. Even the
exclusive Chinese, with his hair braided, and hanging down his back, has
left the land of his nativity, and is seen making long strides through
the Crystal Palace, in his wooden-bottomed shoes. Of all places of
curious costumes and different fashions, none has ever yet presented
such a variety as this Exhibition. No dress is too absurd to be worn in
this place.

There is a great deal of freedom in the Exhibition. The servant who
walks behind his mistress through the Park feels that he can crowd
against her in the Exhibition. The Queen and the day labourer, the
Prince and the merchant, the peer and the pauper, the Celt and the
Saxon, the Greek and the Frank, the Hebrew and the Russ, all meet here
upon terms of perfect equality. This amalgamation of rank, this kindly
blending of interests, and forgetfulness of the cold formalities of
ranks and grades, cannot but be attended with the very best results. I
was pleased to see such a goodly sprinkling of my own countrymen in the
Exhibition--I mean coloured men and women--well-dressed, and moving
about with their fairer brethren. This, some of our pro-slavery
Americans did not seem to relish very well. There was no help for it. As
I walked through the American part of the Crystal Palace, some of our
Virginian neighbours eyed me closely and with jealous looks, especially
as an English lady was leaning on my arm. But their sneering looks did
not disturb me in the least. I remained the longer in their department,
and criticised the bad appearance of their goods the more. Indeed, the
Americans, as far as appearance goes, are behind every other country in
the Exhibition. The "Greek Slave" is the only production of Art which
the United States has sent. And it would have been more to their credit
had they kept that at home. In so vast a place as the Great Exhibition
one scarcely knows what to visit first, or what to look upon last. After
wandering about through the building for five hours, I sat down in one
of the galleries and looked at the fine marble statue of Virginius, with
the knife in his hand and about to take the life of his beloved and
beautiful daughter, to save her from the hands of Appius Claudius. The
admirer of genius will linger for hours among the great variety of
statues in the long avenue. Large statues of Lords Eldon and Stowell,
carved out of solid marble, each weighing above twenty tons, are among
the most gigantic in the building.

I was sitting with my 400 paged guide-book before me, and looking down
upon the moving mass, when my attention was called to a small group of
gentlemen standing near the statue of Shakspere, one of whom wore a
white coat and hat, and had flaxen hair, and trousers rather short in
the legs. The lady by my side, and who had called my attention to the
group, asked if I could tell what country this odd-looking gentleman was
from? Not wishing to run the risk of a mistake, I was about declining
to venture an opinion, when the reflection of the sun against a mirror,
on the opposite side, threw a brilliant light upon the group, and
especially on the face of the gentleman in the white coat, and I
immediately recognized under the brim of the white hat, the features of
Horace Greeley, Esq., of the New York "Tribune." His general appearance
was as much out of the English style as that of the Turk whom I had seen
but a moment before--in his bag-like trousers, shuffling along in his
slippers. But oddness in dress, is one of the characteristics of the
Great Exhibition.

Among the many things in the Crystal Palace, there are some which
receive greater attention than others, around which may always be seen
large groups of the visitors. The first of these is the Koh-i-noor, the
"Mountain of Light." This is the largest and most valuable diamond in
the world, said to be worth L2,000,000 sterling. It is indeed a great
source of attraction to those who go to the Exhibition for the first
time, but it is doubtful whether it obtains such admiration afterwards.
We saw more than one spectator turn away with the idea that after all
it was only a piece of glass. After some jamming, I got a look at the
precious jewel, and although in a brass-grated cage, strong enough to
hold a lion, I found it to be no larger than the third of a hen's egg.
Two policemen remain by its side day and night.

The finest thing in the Exhibition, is the "Veiled Vestal," a statue of
a woman carved in marble, with a veil over her face, and so neatly done,
that it looks as if it had been thrown over after it was finished. The
Exhibition presents many things which appeal to the eye and touch the
heart, and altogether, it is so decorated and furnished, as to excite
the dullest mind, and satisfy the most fastidious.

England has contributed the most useful and substantial articles;
France, the most beautiful; while Russia, Turkey, and the West Indies,
seem to vie with each other in richness. China and Persia are not
behind. Austria has also contributed a rich and beautiful stock. Sweden,
Norway, Denmark, and the smaller states of Europe, have all tried to
outdo themselves in sending goods to the World's Fair. In Machinery,
England has no competitor. In Art, France is almost alone in the
Exhibition, setting aside England.

In natural productions and provisions, America stands alone in her
glory. There lies her pile of canvassed hams; whether they were wood or
real, we could not tell. There are her barrels of salt, beef, and pork,
her beautiful white lard, her Indian-corn and corn-meal, her rice and
tobacco, her beef tongues, dried peas, and a few bags of cotton. The
contributors from the United States seemed to have forgotten that this
was an exhibition of Art, or they most certainly would not have sent
provisions. But the United States takes the lead in the contributions,
as no other country has sent in provisions. The finest thing contributed
by our countrymen, is a large piece of silk with an eagle painted upon
it, surrounded by stars and stripes.

After remaining more than five hours in the great temple, I turned my
back upon the richly laden stalls and left the Crystal Palace. On my
return home I was more fortunate than in the morning, inasmuch as I
found a seat for my friend and myself in an omnibus. And even my ride
in the close omnibus was not without interest. For I had scarcely taken
my seat, when my friend, who was seated opposite me, with looks and
gesture informed me that we were in the presence of some distinguished
person. I eyed the countenances of the different persons, but in vain,
to see if I could find any one who by his appearance showed signs of
superiority over his fellow-passengers. I had given up the hope of
selecting the person of note when another look from my friend directed
my attention to a gentlemen seated in the corner of the omnibus. He was
a tall man with strongly marked features, hair dark and coarse. There
was a slight stoop of the shoulder--that bend which is almost always a
characteristic of studious men. But he wore upon his countenance a
forbidding and disdainful frown, that seemed to tell one that he thought
himself better than those about him. His dress did not indicate a man of
high rank; and had we been in America, I would have taken him for an
Ohio farmer.

While I was scanning the features and general appearance of the
gentleman, the Omnibus stopped and put down three or four of the
passengers, which gave me an opportunity of getting a seat by the side
of my friend, who, in a low whisper, informed me that the gentleman whom
I had been eyeing so closely, was no less a person than Thomas Carlyle.
I had read his "Hero-worship," and "Past and Present," and had formed a
high opinion of his literary abilities. But his recent attack upon the
emancipated people of the West Indies, and his laborious article in
favour of the re-establishment of the lash and slavery, had created in
my mind a dislike for the man, and I almost regretted that we were in
the same Omnibus. In some things, Mr. Carlyle is right: but in many, he
is entirely wrong. As a writer, Mr. Carlyle is often monotonous and
extravagant. He does not exhibit a new view of nature, or raise
insignificant objects into importance, but generally takes commonplace
thoughts and events, and tries to express them in stronger and statelier
language than others. He holds no communion with his kind, but stands
alone without mate or fellow. He is like a solitary peak, all access to
which is cut off. He exists not by sympathy but by antipathy. Mr.
Carlyle seems chiefly to try how he shall display his own powers, and
astonish mankind, by starting new trains of speculation or by expressing
old ones so as not to be understood. He cares little what he says, so as
he can say it differently from others. To read his works, is one thing;
to understand them, is another. If any one thinks that I exaggerate, let
him sit for an hour over "Sartor Resartus," and if he does not rise from
its pages, place his three or four dictionaries on the shelf, and say I
am right, I promise never again to say a word against Thomas Carlyle. He
writes one page in favour of Reform, and ten against it. He would hang
all prisoners to get rid of them, yet the inmates of the prisons and
"work-houses are better off than the poor." His heart is with the poor;
yet the blacks of the West Indies should be taught, that if they will
not raise sugar and cotton by their own free will, "Quashy should have
the whip applied to him." He frowns upon the Reformatory speakers upon
the boards of Exeter Hall, yet he is the prince of reformers. He hates
heroes and assassins, yet Cromwell was an angel, and Charlotte Corday a
saint. He scorns everything, and seems to be tired of what he is by
nature, and tries to be what he is not. But you will ask, what has
Thomas Carlyle to do with a visit to the Crystal Palace? My only reply
is, "Nothing," and if my remarks upon him have taken up the space that
should have been devoted to the Exhibition, and what I have written not
prove too burdensome to read, my next will be "a week in the Crystal
Palace."

LETTER XVIII.

_The London Peace Congress--Meeting of Fugitive Slaves--Temperance
Demonstration--The Great Exhibition: last visit._

LONDON, _August 20_.

The past six weeks have been of a stirring nature in this great
metropolis. It commenced with the Peace Congress, the proceedings of
which have long since reached you. And although that event has passed
off, it may not be out of place here to venture a remark or two upon its
deliberations.

A meeting upon the subject of Peace, with the support of the monied and
influential men who rally around the Peace standard, could scarcely have
been held in Exeter Hall without creating some sensation. From all parts
of the world flocked delegates to this practical protest against war.
And among those who took part in the proceedings, were many men whose
names alone would, even on ordinary occasions, have filled the great
hall. The speakers were chosen from among the representatives of the
various countries, without regard to dialect or complexion; and the only
fault which seemed to be found with the Committee's arrangement was,
that in their desire to get foreigners and Londoners, they forgot the
country delegates, so that none of the large provincial towns were at
all represented in the Congress, so far as speaking was concerned.
Manchester, Leeds, Newcastle, and all the important towns in Scotland
and Ireland, were silenced in the great meeting. I need not say that
this was an oversight of the Committee, and one, too, that has done some
injury. Such men as the able Chairman of the late Anti-Corn Law League,
cannot be forgotten in such a meeting, without giving offence to those
who sent him, especially when the Committee brought forward, day after
day, the same speakers, chosen from amongst the metropolitan delegation.
However, the meeting was a glorious one, and will long be remembered
with delight as a step onward in the cause of Peace. Burritt's
Brotherhood Bazaar followed close upon the heels of the Peace Congress;
and this had scarcely closed, when that ever-memorable meeting of the
American Fugitive Slaves took place in the Hall of Commerce.

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