Chapter XII: CIVIC Banquets (2)

The soup, of course, on this occasion, was turtle, of which, in accordance with immemorial custom, each guest was allowed two platefuls, in spite of the otherwise immitigable law of table-decorum. Indeed, judging from the proceedings of the gentlemen near me, I surmised that there was no practical limit, except the appetite of the guests and the capacity of the soup-tureens. Not being fond of this civic dainty, I partook of it but once, and then only in accordance with the wise maxim, always to taste a fruit, a wine, or a celebrated dish, at its indigenous site; and the fountain-head of turtle-soup, I suppose, is in the Lord Mayor's dinner-pot. It is one of those orthodox customs which people follow for half a century without knowing why, to drink a sip of rum-punch, in a very small tumbler, after the soup. It was excellently well-brewed, and it seemed to me almost worth while to sup the soup for the sake of sipping the punch. The rest of the dinner was catalogued in a bill-of-fare printed on delicate white paper within an arabesque border of green and gold. It looked very good, not only in the English and French names of the numerous dishes, but also in the positive reality of the dishes themselves, which were all set on the table to be carved and distributed by the guests. This ancient and honest method is attended with a good deal of trouble, and a lavish effusion of gravy, yet by no means bestowed or dispensed in vain, because you have thereby the absolute assurance of a banquet actually before your eyes, instead of a shadowy promise in the bill-of-fare, and such meagre fulfillment as a single guest can contrive to get upon his individual plate. I wonder that Englishmen, who are fond of looking at prize-oxen in the shape of butcher's meat, do not generally better estimate the aesthetic gormandism of devouring the whole dinner with their eyesight, before proceeding to nibble the comparatively few morsels which, after all, the most heroic appetite and widest stomachic capacity of mere mortals can enable even an alderman really to eat. There fell to my lot three delectable things enough, which I take pains to remember, that the reader may not go away wholly unsatisfied from the Barmecide feast to which I have bidden him,--a red mullet, a plate of mushrooms, exquisitely stewed, and part of a ptarmigan, a bird of the same family as the grouse, but feeding high up towards the summit of the Scotch mountains, whence it gets a wild delicacy of flavor very superior to that of the artificially nurtured English game-fowl. All the other dainties have vanished from my memory as completely as those of Prospero's banquet after Ariel had clapped his wings over it. The band played at intervals inspiriting us to new efforts, as did likewise the sparkling wines which the footmen supplied from an inexhaustible cellar, and which the guests quaffed with little apparent reference to the disagreeable fact that there comes a to-morrow morning after every feast. As long as that shall be the case, a prudent man can never have full enjoyment of his dinner.

Nearly opposite to me, on the other side of the table, sat a young lady in white, whom I am sorely tempted to describe, but dare not, because not only the super-eminence of her beauty, but its peculiar character, would cause the sketch to be recognized, however rudely it might be drawn. I hardly thought that there existed such a woman outside of a picture-frame, or the covers of a romance: not that I had ever met with her resemblance even there, but, being so distinct and singular an apparition, she seemed likelier to find her sisterhood in poetry and picture than in real life. Let us turn away from her, lest a touch too apt should compel her stately and cold and soft and womanly grace to gleam out upon my page with a strange repulsion and unattainableness in the very spell that made her beautiful.[20] At her side, and familiarly attentive to her, sat a gentleman of whom I remember only a hard outline of the nose and forehead, and such a monstrous portent of a beard that you could discover no symptom of a mouth, except when he opened it to speak, or to put in a morsel of food. Then, indeed, you suddenly became aware of a cave hidden behind the impervious and darksome shrubbery. There could be no doubt who this gentleman and lady were. Any child would have recognized them at a glance. It was Bluebeard and a new wife (the loveliest of the series, but with already a mysterious gloom overshadowing her fair young brow) traveling in their honeymoon, and dining, among other distinguished strangers, at the Lord Mayor's table.

[20] My eyes were mostly drawn to a young lady, who sat nearly opposite me, across the table. She was, I suppose, dark, and yet not dark, but rather seemed to be of pure white marble, yet not white; but the purest and finest complexion, without a shade of color in it, yet anything but sallow or sickly. Her hair was a wonderful deep raven-black, black as night, black as death; not raven-black, for that has a shiny gloss, and hers had not, but it was hair never to be painted nor described,--wonderful hair, Jewish hair. Her nose had a beautiful outline, though I could see that it was Jewish too; and that, and all her features, were so fine that sculpture seemed a despicable art beside her, and certainly my pen is good for nothing. If any likeness could be given, however, it must be by sculpture, not painting. She was slender and youthful, and yet had a stately and cold, though soft and womanly grace; and, looking at her, I saw what were the wives of the old patriarchs in their maiden or early-married days,--what Judith was, for, womanly as she looked, I doubt not she could have slain a man in a just cause,--what Bathsheba was, only she seemed to have no sin in her,--perhaps what Eve was, though one could hardly think her weak enough to eat the apple.... Whether owing to distinctness of race, my sense that she was a Jewess, or whatever else, I felt a sort of repugnance, simultaneously with my perception that she was an admirable creature.--II. 238.

After an hour or two of valiant achievement with knife and fork came the dessert; and at the point of the festival where finger-glasses are usually introduced, a large silver basin was carried round to the guests, containing rose-water, into which we dipped the ends of our napkins and were conscious of a delightful fragrance, instead of that heavy and weary odor, the hateful ghost of a defunct dinner. This seems to be an ancient custom of the city, not confined to the Lord Mayor's table, but never met with westward of Temple Bar.

During all the feast, in accordance with another ancient custom, the origin or purport of which I do not remember to have heard, there stood a man in armor, with a helmet on his head, behind his Lordship's chair. When the after-dinner wine was placed on the table, still another official personage appeared behind the chair, and proceeded to make a solemn and sonorous proclamation (in which he enumerated the principal guests, comprising three or four noblemen, several baronets, and plenty of generals, members of Parliament, aldermen, and other names of the illustrious, one of which sounded strangely familiar to my ears), ending in some such style as this: "and other gentlemen and ladies, here present, the Lord Mayor drinks to you all in a loving-cup,"--giving a sort of sentimental twang to the two words,--"and sends it round among you!" And forthwith the loving-cup--several of them, indeed, on each side of the tables--came slowly down with all the antique ceremony.

The fashion of it is thus. The Lord Mayor, standing up and taking the covered cup in both hands, presents it to the guest at his elbow, who likewise rises, and removes the cover for his Lordship to drink, which being successfully accomplished, the guest replaces the cover and receives the cup into his own hands. He then presents it to his next neighbor, that the cover may be again removed for himself to take a draught, after which the third person goes through a similar manoeuvre with a fourth, and he with a fifth, until the whole company find themselves inextricably inter-twisted and entangled in one complicated chain of love. When the cup came to my hands, I examined it critically, both inside and out, and perceived it to be an antique and richly ornamented silver goblet, capable of holding about a quart of wine. Considering how much trouble we all expended in getting the cup to our lips, the guests appeared to content themselves with wonderfully moderate potations. In truth, nearly or quite the original quart of wine being still in the goblet, it seemed doubtful whether any of the company had more than barely touched the silver rim before passing it to their neighbors,--a degree of abstinence that might be accounted for by a fastidious repugnance to so many compotators in one cup, or possibly by a disapprobation of the liquor. Being curious to know all about these important matters, with a view of recommending to my countrymen whatever they might usefully adopt, I drank an honest sip from the loving-cup, and had no occasion for another,--ascertaining it to be Claret of a poor original quality, largely mingled with water, and spiced and sweetened. It was good enough, however, for a merely spectral or ceremonial drink, and could never have been intended for any better purpose.

The toasts now began in the customary order, attended with speeches neither more nor less witty and ingenious than the specimens of table eloquence which had heretofore delighted me. As preparatory to each new display, the herald, or whatever he was, behind the chair of state, gave awful notice that the Right Honorable the Lord Mayor was about to propose a toast. His Lordship being happily delivered thereof, together with some accompanying remarks, the band played an appropriate tune, and the herald again issued proclamation to the effect that such or such a nobleman, or gentleman, general, dignified clergyman, or what not, was going to respond to the Right Honorable the Lord Mayor's toast; then, if I mistake not, there was another prodigious flourish of trumpets and twanging of stringed instruments; and, finally, the doomed individual, waiting all this while to be decapitated, got up and proceeded to make a fool of himself. A bashful young earl tried his maiden oratory on the good citizens of London, and, having evidently got every word by heart (even including, however he managed it, the most seemingly casual improvisations of the moment), he really spoke like a book, and made incomparably the smoothest speech I ever heard in England.

The weight and gravity of the speakers, not only on this occasion, but all similar ones, was what impressed me as most extraordinary, not to say absurd. Why should people eat a good dinner, and put their spirits into festive trim with Champagne, and afterwards mellow themselves into a most enjoyable state of quietude with copious libations of Sherry and old Port, and then disturb the whole excellent result by listening to speeches as heavy as an after-dinner nap, and in no degree so refreshing? If the Champagne had thrown its sparkle over the surface of these effusions, or if the generous Port had shone through their substance with a ruddy glow of the old English humor, I might have seen a reason for honest gentlemen prattling in their cups, and should undoubtedly have been glad to be a listener. But there was no attempt nor impulse of the kind on the part of the orators, nor apparent expectation of such a phenomenon on that of the audience. In fact, I imagine that the latter were best pleased when the speaker embodied his ideas in the figurative language of arithmetic, or struck upon any hard matter of business or statistics, as a heavy-laden bark bumps upon a rock in mid-ocean.[21] The sad severity, the too earnest utilitarianism, of modern life, have wrought a radical and lamentable change, I am afraid, in this ancient and goodly institution of civic banquets. People used to come to them, a few hundred years ago, for the sake of being jolly; they come now with an odd notion of pouring sober wisdom into their wine by way of wormwood-bitters, and thus make such a mess of it that the wine and wisdom reciprocally spoil one another.

[21] I rather think that Englishmen would purposely avoid eloquence or neatness in after-dinner speeches. It seems to be no part of their object. Yet any Englishman almost, much more generally than Americans, will stand up and talk on in a plain way, uttering one rough, ragged, and shapeless sentence after another, and will have expressed himself sensibly, though in a very rude manner, before he sits down. And this is quite satisfactory to his audience, who, indeed, are rather prejudiced against the man who speaks too glibly.--I. 540.

Possibly, the foregoing sentiments have taken a spice of acridity from a circumstance that happened about this stage of the feast, and very much interrupted my own further enjoyment of it. Up to this time, my condition had been exceedingly felicitous, both on account of the brilliancy of the scene, and because I was in close proximity with three very pleasant English friends. One of them was a lady, whose honored name my readers would recognize as a household word, if I dared write it; another, a gentleman, likewise well known to them, whose fine taste, kind heart, and genial cultivation are qualities seldom mixed in such happy proportion as in him. The third was the man to whom I owed most in England, the warm benignity of whose nature was never weary of doing me good, who led me to many scenes of life, in town, camp, and country, which I never could have found out for myself, who knew precisely the kind of help a stranger needs, and gave it as freely as if he had not had a thousand more important things to live for. Thus I never felt safer or cosier at anybody's fireside, even my own, than at the dinner-table of the Lord Mayor.

Out of this serene sky came a thunderbolt. His Lordship got up and proceeded to make some very eulogistic remarks upon "the literary and commercial"--I question whether those two adjectives were ever before married by a copulative conjunction, and they certainly would not live together in illicit intercourse, of their own accord--"the literary and commercial attainments of an eminent gentleman there present," and then went on to speak of the relations of blood and interest between Great Britain and the aforesaid eminent gentleman's native country. Those bonds were more intimate than had ever before existed between two great nations, throughout all history, and his Lordship felt assured that that whole honorable company would join him in the expression of a fervent wish that they might be held inviolably sacred, on both sides of the Atlantic, now and forever. Then came the same wearisome old toast, dry and hard to chew upon as a musty sea-biscuit, which had been the text of nearly all the oratory of my public career. The herald sonorously announced that Mr. So-and-so would now respond to his Right Honorable Lordship's toast and speech, the trumpets sounded the customary flourish for the onset, there was a thunderous rumble of anticipatory applause, and finally a deep silence sank upon the festive hall.

All this was a horrid piece of treachery on the Lord Mayor's part, after beguiling me within his lines on a pledge of safe-conduct; and it seemed very strange that he could not let an unobtrusive individual eat his dinner in peace, drink a small sample of the Mansion House wine, and go away grateful at heart for the old English hospitality. If his Lordship had sent me an infusion of ratsbane in the loving-cup, I should have taken it much more kindly at his hands. But I suppose the secret of the matter to have been somewhat as follows.

All England, just then, was in one of those singular fits of panic excitement (not fear, though as sensitive and tremulous as that emotion), which, in consequence of the homogeneous character of the people, their intense patriotism, and their dependence for their ideas in public affairs on other sources than their own examination and individual thought, are more sudden, pervasive, and unreasoning than any similar mood of our own public. In truth, I have never seen the American public in a state at all similar, and believe that we are incapable of it. Our excitements are not impulsive, like theirs, but, right or wrong, are moral and intellectual. For example, the grand rising of the North, at the commencement of this war, bore the aspect of impulse and passion only because it was so universal, and necessarily done in a moment, just as the quiet and simultaneous getting-up of a thousand people out of their chairs would cause a tumult that might be mistaken for a storm. We were cool then, and have been cool ever since, and shall remain cool to the end, which we shall take coolly, whatever it may be. There is nothing which the English find it so difficult to understand in us as this characteristic. They imagine us, in our collective capacity, a kind of wild beast, whose normal condition is savage fury, and are always looking for the moment when we shall break through the slender barriers of international law and comity, and compel the reasonable part of the world, with themselves at the head, to combine for the purpose of putting us into a stronger cage. At times this apprehension becomes so powerful (and when one man feels it, a million do) that it resembles the passage of the wind over a broad field of grain, where you see the whole crop bending and swaying beneath one impulse, and each separate stalk tossing with the self-same disturbance as its myriad companions. At such periods all Englishmen talk with a terrible identity of sentiment and expression. You have the whole country in each man; and not one of them all, if you put him strictly to the question, can give a reasonable ground for his alarm. There are but two nations in the world--our own country and France--that can put England into this singular state. It is the united sensitiveness of a people extremely well-to-do, careful of their country's honor, most anxious for the preservation of the cumbrous and moss-grown prosperity which they have been so long in consolidating, and incompetent (owing to the national half-sightedness, and their habit of trusting to a few leading minds for their public opinion) to judge when that prosperity is really threatened.

If the English were accustomed to look at the foreign side of any international dispute, they might easily have satisfied themselves that there was very little danger of a war at that particular crisis, from the simple circumstance that their own Government had positively not an inch of honest ground to stand upon, and could not fail to be aware of the fact. Neither could they have met Parliament with any show of a justification for incurring war. It was no such perilous juncture as exists now, when law and right are really controverted on sustainable or plausible grounds, and a naval commander may at any moment fire off the first cannon of a terrible contest. If I remember it correctly, it was a mere diplomatic squabble, in which the British ministers, with the politic generosity which they are in the habit of showing towards their official subordinates, had tried to browbeat us for the purpose of sustaining an ambassador in an indefensible proceeding; and the American Government (for God had not denied us an administration of statesmen then) had retaliated with stanch courage and exquisite skill, putting inevitably a cruel mortification upon their opponents, but indulging them with no pretense whatever for active resentment.

Now the Lord Mayor, like any other Englishman, probably fancied that War was on the western gale, and was glad to lay hold of even so insignificant an American as myself, who might be made to harp on the rusty old strings of national sympathies, identity of blood and interest, and community of language and literature, and whisper peace where there was no peace, in however weak an utterance. And possibly his Lordship thought, in his wisdom, that the good feeling which was sure to be expressed by a company of well-bred Englishmen, at his august and far-famed dinner-table, might have an appreciable influence on the grand result. Thus, when the Lord Mayor invited me to his feast, it was a piece of strategy. He wanted to induce me to fling myself, like a lesser Curtius, with a larger object of self-sacrifice, into the chasm of discord between England and America, and, on my ignominious demur, had resolved to shove me in with his own right-honorable hands, in the hope of closing up the horrible pit forever. On the whole, I forgive his Lordship. He meant well by all parties,--himself, who would share the glory, and me, who ought to have desired nothing better than such an heroic opportunity,--his own country, which would continue to get cotton and bread-stuffs, and mine, which would get everything that men work with and wear.

As soon as the Lord Mayor began to speak, I rapped upon my mind, and it gave forth a hollow sound, being absolutely empty of appropriate ideas. I never thought of listening to the speech, because I knew it all beforehand in twenty repetitions from other lips, and was aware that it would not offer a single suggestive point. In this dilemma, I turned to one of my three friends, a gentleman whom I knew to possess an enviable flow of silver speech, and obtested him, by whatever he deemed holiest, to give me at least an available thought or two to start with, and, once afloat, I would trust my guardian-angel for enabling me to flounder ashore again. He advised me to begin with some remarks complimentary to the Lord Mayor, and expressive of the hereditary reverence in which his office was held,--at least, my friend thought that there would be no harm in giving his Lordship this little sugar-plum, whether quite the fact or no,--was held by the descendants of the Puritan forefathers. Thence, if I liked, getting flexible with the oil of my own eloquence, I might easily slide off into the momentous subject of the relations between England and America, to which his Lordship had made such weighty allusion.

Seizing this handful of straw with a death-grip, and bidding my three friends bury me honorably, I got upon my legs to save both countries, or perish in the attempt. The tables roared and thundered at me, and suddenly were silent again. But, as I have never happened to stand in a position of greater dignity and peril, I deem it a stratagem of sage policy here to close these Sketches, leaving myself still erect in so heroic an attitude.

INDEX

Actress, an, in an almshouse, 507;
starving for admiration, 508.

Addison, early home of, 215;
buried among the men of rank, 456.

Advice, as to giving, 42.

Ailsa Craig, 358.

Alexander, Miss, the Lass of Ballochmyle, 344.

Almshouse, a great English, 498-522.

American flags, captured, displayed in Chelsea Hospital, 435.

American mercantile marine, misrepresented at Liverpool, 2, 3, 46;
its vicious system, 45, 48.

American shipmasters, cruelties of, 44-49.

Americans, national characteristics of, as seen by a consul, 9, 10;
vagabond habits of, 11, 12;
as claimants of English estates, 18, 22-31;
growth and change the law of their existence, 93;
their scholars and critics, 190;
their light regard for the President, 553.

Andre, Major, at Lichfield, 216.

Anne, Queen, statue of, at Blenheim, 295.

Antiquity, hoar, in English scenes, 90.

Archdeacon ale, 300.

Armour, Jean, 329, 330, 346.

Auchinleck, estate of, 343.

Avon, the, arched bridge at Warwick, 105;
a sluggish river, 166.

Ayr, ride to, 347;
its two bridges, 348.

Bacon, Lord, his Letters, 176.

Bacon, Miss, a very remarkable woman, 172;
her Shakespearean theory, 172, 173, 176-178;
her personal appearance, 174;
her book, 179, 189, 192;
an admirable talker, 180;
at Stratford, 181-191;
her plans for searching Shakespeare's grave, 182-184;
Hawthorne incurs her displeasure, 188;
her insanity, 191;
her death, 192.

Ballochmyle, the Lass of, 344.

Banquets, civic, 527-588.

Barber Surgeons' Hall, in London, 537-539.

Bear and Ragged Staff, the, cognizance of the Warwick Earldom, 109;
silver badge of, 113;
representations of, at Leicester's Hospital, 116, 118, 133.

Beauchamp, Richard, Earl of Warwick, memorial of, 138;
strange accident to, 139.

Beauchamp Chapel, at Warwick, 137-140.

Bebbington, monuments at, 85, _note_;
old village church of, 98, _note_.

Beggar, a true Englishman's dislike of a, 491;
hardening the heart against, 492;
a phenomenal, 493-495.

Belmont, August, minister at the Hague, 29.

Ben Lomond, 358.

Black Swan inn, Lichfield, 199.

Blackheath, the wide waste of, 370-373;
amusements at, 373-375.

Blenheim, excursion to, 281, 282;
its park, 283-289;
Marlborough's Triumphal Pillar at, 289;
its palace, 289-296;
its gardens, 296-298.

Bolton, 231.

Boston, old, trip to, by steamer from Lincoln, 255-259;
the river side of, 260;
antique-looking houses at, 263;
a bookseller's shop at, 264, 265;
its crooked and narrow streets, 275;
its Charity School scholars, 277;
market-day in, 278.

Boswell, Sir James, grandson of Johnson's friend, 343.

Brooke, Lord, shot near the Minster Pool, 206.

Brown, Capability, his lake at Blenheim, 284;
grounds at Nuneham Courtney, 321.

Buchanan, James, in London, 20;
receives Hawthorne's resignation, 55;
calls on Miss Bacon, 178.

Buckland, Dean, swallows part of Louis XIV.'s heart, 270.

Bull, John, too intensely English, 101.

Bunker Hill, England, 279.

Burleigh, Lord, waistcoat of, 266.

Burns, Robert, his house at Dumfries, 325-327;
his mausoleum, 329, 330;
marble statue of, 329;
his outward life, 331;
his family pew in St. Michael's Church, 334;
his farm of Moss Giel, 337-342;
his birthplace, 349-351;
his monument, 351-353.

Butchers' shops, in poor streets of London, 474.

Carfax, the, 320.

Caskets, burial, "a vile modern phrase," 140.

Cass, Lewis, responds to interference of British Minister, 46.

Catrine, "the clean village of Scotland," 345.

Ceylon, wild men of, 28.

Charlecote Hall, 195-198.

Charlecote Park, 193; deer in, 194, 195.

Charles, the Martyr, king, 270.

Charles I., Vandyck's picture of, 292.

Chelsea, 433.

Chelsea Hospital, 433-437.

Chester, most curious town in England, 59.

Children in an English almshouse, 509-519.

Children, poor, in London streets, 487-489.

Church of the Holy Trinity, Stratford, 155.

Climate, English, unfavorable to open-air memorials, 83, 84.

Cockneys, in Greenwich Park, 379.

Coffee-room, English, ponderous gloom of, 200.

Combe, John a', boon-companion of Shakespeare, 164;
buried near Shakespeare, 168;
marble figure of, 170;
Shakespeare's squib on, 170.

Concord River, compared with the Leam, 67.

Connecticut shopkeeper, a, seeking interview with the Queen, 17-21.

Conner, Mr., an American patron of Leicester's Hospital, 133.

Consul, as general adviser and helper, 31, 32, 42, 43;
as arbiter between seamen and their officers, 44-49;
not a favorite with shipmasters, 49;
necessary qualifications, 51, 52;
wrong system of appointment and removal, 52;
important duties, 53;
emoluments, 55,
_note_.

Consulate, American, in Liverpool, its location, 1;
its approaches, 1, 2;
its furnishings, 3-6;
visitors at, 7-21;
faithful English subordinates, 50, 51;
Hawthorne's successor at, 56.

Cook, Captain, present from Queen of Otaheite to, 266.

Cornwall, Barry, 469.

Cottages, rustic laborers', 79-81.

Cotton, Rev. John, in Old Boston, 263, 270, 271.

Crystal Palace, the, 438.

Cumnor, village of, 301; its church, 302, 303.

Cymbeline, King, founder of Warwick, 103, 129;
one of his original gateways, 112.

Deluge, necessity of a new, 472, 518.

Dinner, the English idea of, 527;
Milton on, 528;
a perfect work of art, 530, 531;
an English mayor's, 539-560;
Lord Mayor's, at the Mansion House, 563.

Doctor of Divinity, an erring, 33-41.

Doon, the bridge of, 357.

Dowager, an English, 73-75.

Dudley, Earl of Leicester, establishes Leicester's Hospital, 115;
a grim sinner, 127;
his monument in Beauchamp Chapel, 137;
his long-enduring kindness, 138.

Dumfries, excursion to, 325-334.

Dutch government, an American under the ban of, 29.

East winds, English, 257.

Edward IV., King, a lock of his hair, 140.

Edward the Confessor, shrine of, 455.

Elizabeth, Queen, Secret-Book of, 269.

Elm, the beautiful Warwickshire, 69.

England, conservative, 141;
yet the foundations of its aristocracy crumbling, 141.

English, the, forgetful of defeats, 4;
their character, massive materiality of, 23;
secret of their practical success, 42;
impostors betrayed by pronunciation of "been," 44;
their integrity, 51;
their love of high stone fences and shrubbery, 69, 371;
curious infelicity of, 100;
like to feel the weight of the past, 111;
the very kindest people on earth, 305;
their insular narrowness, 306;
their inability to enjoy summer, 367;
original simplicity of, 379;
eager to know their weight, 402;
women not beautiful, 406;
their contempt for fine-strained purity, 408, 409;
their tendency to batter one another's persons, 482.

English crowds, unfragrant, 397, 398.

English post-prandial oratory, 555, 579.

English village, fossilized life of an, 93.

English weather, 5, 366-368.

Englishman, a middle-aged, personal appearance of, 542.

Epitaphs: illegible, on English gravestones, 84;
moss-embossed, 85;
forlorn one on John Treeo, 86, 87.

Eugene, Prince, tapestry portraits of, 294.

Feeing, in England, 161, 162, _note_.

Feminine character among the London poor, 481-487.

Fences, English stone, adorned by Nature, 151, 152, _note_.

Forster, Anthony, buried in Cumnor Church, 303.

Fruit, English, poor flavor of, 364.

Fun of the Fair, the, 399.

Garrick, David, boyish days at Lichfield, 216.

Gin-shops, London, 472.

Girls, English and American, contrasted, 72, 75, 406.

Godiva, Countess, picture of, 535.

Godstowe, old nunnery of, 317.

Gravestones, English, successive crops of, 83;
illegible inscriptions on, 84;
moss-embossed inscriptions on, 85.

Greenwich, its park, 376, 377, 379, 380, 383;
its observatory, the centre of Time and Space, 376;
its hospital, 385-396;
its fair, 396-408.

Hatton, a community of old settlers, 95;
its church, 96, 97.

Hawthorne responds to toasts at civic banquets, 558-560, 582-588.

Hedges, English, 149.

Henry V., his helmet and war-saddle displayed in
Westminster Abbey, 455.

Highland Mary, the pocket Bible that Burns gave her, 353.

Holbein, masterpiece of, in Barber Surgeons' Hall, 537.

Home, a genuine British, 359-364.

Hotels and hotel bills, English, 162, _note_.

Houses of Parliament, the, 431.

Hunt, Leigh, interview with, 459-468;
final recollection of, 468.

Imogen, Shakespeare's womanliest woman, 129.

Jackson, General, bust of, 4.

James, G. P. R., never saw London Tower, 428.

James I., King, feasted by an Earl of Warwick, 119, 134.

Jephson, Dr., discoverer of chalybeate well at Leamington, 63.

Jephson Garden, on the Leam, 65-67.

Johnson, Dr., born at Lichfield, 201;
as a man, a talker, and a humorist, 202;
the great English moralist, 203;
his birthplace, 216, 217;
his statue, by Lucas, 218;
statue in St. Paul's Cathedral, 219, _note_;
doing penance in the market-place, 220, 223, 228, 229, 230;
his faith in beef and mutton, 225.

Johnson, Michael, selling books on market-day, 221;
his book-stall, 222;
at the Nag's Head inn, 226, 227.

Jolly Beggars, the, at Posie Nansie's inn, 336.

Jonson, Ben, buried standing upright, 451.

Judges, social standing of, 549.

Kemble, John, statue of, in Westminster Abbey, 445.

Kirk Alloway, 354-356.

"Kissing in the Ring," 404.

Kneller, Sir Godfrey, his objection to being buried in
Westminster Abbey, 449.

Lambeth Palace, 432.

Lancashire, a dreary county, 231.

Lansdowne Circus, 60;
its houses, 61;
its inhabitants, 62.

Leam, the river, 63, 65;
the laziest in the world, 67.

Leamington Spa, 60;
a permanent watering-place, 63, 64;
the business portion of the town, 68;
beautiful in street and suburb, 69;
but pretentious, 70;
its aristocratic names, 71;
the throng on its principal Parade, 71, 72.

Lear, West's dreary picture of, 390.

Leicester's Hospital at Warwick:
an assemblage of edifices, 112;
the twelve brethren of, 113, 115, 116, 118, 125, 131, 134, 135;
a perfect specimen, 116;
a jolly old domicile, 121;
system of life in, 123;
the porter at, 124-126.

Lestrange, Sir Nicholas, first proprietor of Leicester's Hospital
buildings, 114, 115.

Lichfield, 199;
origin of the name, 201;
birthplace of Dr. Johnson, 201, 216;
its people old-fashioned, 204;
its cathedral, 206-214.

Lillington, the village, 78;
its church, 81, 82;
its churchyard, 83-87.

Lincoln, cabs unknown there, 236;
its narrow principal street, 237;
its cathedral, 236, 239-249, 253, 254;
Roman remains at, 250;
Norman ruins at, 251.

Linkwater, Sir John, fines himself for drunkenness, 548.

Liquor, varieties of hop and malt, in England, 299, 300.

Liverpool, a convenient starting-point for excursions, 58.

Lodgings, English custom of, 70, _note_.

London, suburb, a, 359;
a distant view of, 373;
grimy, 375.

Lord Mayor's dinner, at the Mansion House, 563-588.

Lovers' Grove, at Leamington, 77.

Loving-cup, the Lord Mayor's, 575-577.

Lucy, Sir Thomas, and Shakespeare, 196.

Malay pirates, delightful qualities of, 28.

Mansfield, Lord, statue of, in Westminster Abbey, 445.

Mansion House, the, in London, 563.

Marlborough, Duke of, Triumphal Pillar of, 288.

Mary Queen of Scots, quilt embroidered by, 265, 271.

Mauchline, redolent of Burns, 335;
rusty and time-worn, 336;
its chief business, 346.

Maury, Mr., appointed consul at Liverpool by Washington, 50.

McClellan, General, before Richmond, 43.

Melville, Herman, his "Israel Potter" referred to, 13.

"Memory green, keep his," possible origin of the phrase, 86.

Methodist open-air preaching in Greenwich Park, 380-383.

Minster Pool, the, at Lichfield, 205.

Montagu, Lady Mary Wortley, monument to, in Lichfield
Cathedral, 211.

Moss Giel, Burns's farm of, 337-342.

Museum, the British, too many materials for knowledge in, 384,
_note_.

Nag's Head inn, the, at Uttoxeter, 226.

Nelson, Admiral, his highest ambition, 391;
not a representative man, 392-394;
Southey's biography of, 393;
pictures of his exploits, 394;
two of his coats preserved at Greenwich Hospital, 395.

Newcastle, Duke and Duchess of, 444.

New Orleans, battle of, forgotten by Englishmen, 4.

Nuneham Courtney, 314, 320-322.

Old age, cheerful and genial in England, 277.

Open-air life of the London poor, 476-481.

Otaheite, Queen of, her present to Captain Cook, 266, 271.

Oxford, barges at, 318;
indescribable, 322, 323.

Painted Hall, the, at Greenwich Hospital, 390, 391.

Parliament, British, and American sailors, 45, 46.

Parr, Dr., once vicar of Hatton, 95;
a misplaced man, 97;
a guest at Leicester's Hospital, 130.

Peacock hotel, Old Boston, 259.

Pearce, Mr., vice-consul at Liverpool, 50.

Peel, Sir Robert, and Holbein's masterpiece in Barber Surgeons'
Hall, 537.

Philadelphia printer, a, wandering about England, 13-17.

Poets' Corner, in Westminster Abbey, 451-459.

Pope, Alexander, his account of Stanton Harcourt, 308;
translation of Homer, 314.

Porter, Mr., bookseller at Old Boston, 265-271.

Posie Nansie's inn at Mauchline, 336.

Posthumus and Imogen, 129.

Poverty, glimpses of English, 470-524.

Procter, Bryan Waller, 469.

Raleigh, Sir Walter, and the Thames Tunnel, 420-422.

"Red Letter A," author of, 306.

Redfern's Old Curiosity Shop, at Warwick, 142, 143.

Regatta of the Free Watermen of Greenwich, a, 413.

Remorse, tragedy of, 40.

Robsart, Amy, embroidery by, at Leicester's Hospital, 133;
monument of her avenger, 137.

Rosamond, Fair, at the nunnery of Godstowe, 317.

Rosamond's Well, Blenheim, 287.

Russell, Lord John, remonstrates against outrages on American
sailors, 46.

Sacheverell, Dr., 219.

Sacrament Sunday at Mauchline, 337.

Sailors, American, ill-usage of, 44.

St. Botolph's Church, Old Boston, 259, 262, 272-275.

St. Chad, 201.

St. Hugh, shrine of, in Lincoln Cathedral, 247.

St. John's School-House, at Warwick, 104.

St. Mary's Church, at Warwick, 136.

St. Mary's Hall, at Coventry, 533-536.

St. Mary's Square, at Lichfield, 216, 218.

St. Michael's Church, at Dumfries, 328, 332-334.

St. Paul's Cathedral, 429.

Saracen's Head hotel, Lincoln, 236.

Scenery, English, 146, 232.

Schools, English, long-established, 104.

Scott, Sir Walter, attractiveness of his name, 160;
and Anthony Forster, 303.

Seward, Miss, at Lichfield, 216.

Shakespeare: his church, 155;
his birthplace, 157-163;
his various guises, 164;
his curse on the man who should stir his bones, 165;
his burial-place, 165-171;
family monuments, 167;
his bust, in the church at Stratford, 168, 169;
Miss Bacon's theory, 175;
immeasurable depth of his plays, 175.

Sheffield, the town of razors and smoke, 235.

Sherwood Forest, 235.

Shrewsbury, pleasant walks in, 238, _note_.

Southey, Robert, his Life of Nelson, 393.

Stanton Harcourt, its hospitable parsonage, 305;
its old castle, 306, 307, 313, 314;
Pope's connection with, 308, 309, 314, 315;
its church, 309-312.

Sterne, Laurence, crayon-portrait of, 267.

Stocks, village, at Whitnash, 90.

Stratford-on-Avon, scenery near, 145;
approach to, 153, 154;
queer edifices in, 155.

Swans, aspect and movement of, 66.

Swynford, Catherine, monument of, in Lincoln Cathedral, 247.

Tam O'Shanter, statue of, 353.

Taylor, General, portrait of, 4.

Temple, the, 431.

Tennyson, and English scenery, 77.

Testament, New, consular copy of, 6, 45.

Thames, ferry near Cumnor, 305;
steamers on, 412;
its muddy tide, 414;
a summer day's voyage on, 412-435.

Thames Tunnel, the, 415-423.

Thornhill, Sir James, 291, 390.

Tickell, Thomas, his lines on Addison, 456.

Tower of London, the, 427, 428.

Traitor's Gate, the, 427.

Treeo, John, forlorn epitaph on, 86.

Trees, English and American, compared, 147-149.

Tuckerman, H. T., his "Month in England," 439.

Uttoxeter, 221;
its idle people, 223;
its abundance of public houses, 224.

Vagabonds, Yankee, abroad, 11-22.

Vandyck, his picture of Charles I., 292.

Victoria, Queen, a Connecticut shopkeeper goes to England to see
her, 18-21;
some American blood-relatives, 26.

Walmesley, Gilbert, monument to, in Lichfield Cathedral, 211.

Wapping, cold and torpid, 425.

Warren, Sir Peter, bust of, in Westminster Abbey, 444.

Warwick, founded by Cymbeline, 103, 129;
its castle, 105, 107;
its principal street, 108, 109;
military display at, 109;
the High Street, 110;
Leicester's Hospital, 112-127;
the home of Posthumus and Imogen, 129;
church of St. Mary's, 136-140;
Redfern's Old Curiosity Shop, 142, 143.

Warwickshire Elm, the beautiful, 69.

Wasps, attracted by pomatum, 319.

Wedding, of some poor English people, 522-524;
an aristocratic, in the same cathedral, 525.

Wedding, silver, as a matter of conscience, 76.

West, Benjamin, picture by, at Greenwich, 389.

Westminster Abbey, a Sunday afternoon service in, 440;
its interior, 441;
statues and tombs in, 444-447;
"they do bury fools there," 449;
Poets' Corner, 451-459.

Whitefriars, the old rowdy Alsatia, 430.

Whitnash, secluded village of, 88;
yew-tree of incalculable age at, 89;
village stocks of, 90;
change at work in, 93, 94.

Wilberforce, William, statue of, in Westminster Abbey, 446, 447.

Wilding, Mr., vice-consul at Liverpool, 51.

Wilkins, Sergeant, 550, 551, 557.

Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, 286.

Witham, the river, 255, 263.

Women, in the poorer streets of London, 479, 484;
in an English almshouse, 499;
at public dinners, 567.

Woodstock, 282.

Wren, Sir Christopher, restorer of St. Mary's Church, Warwick, 136.

Yew-tree, extraordinary age of, 89.

End of Project Gutenberg's Our Old Home, Vol. 2, by Nathaniel Hawthorne

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