Burns.
The city of Boston, as may be known to many of my readers, is only approachable by water and a long narrow isthmus, called “the neck.” For this reason it is said to be “the head of New England;” but the people in the country, who are extremely jealous of the prerogatives of “the townsfolks,” merely call it “the great metropolis.” When it was first settled, which is more than two hundred years ago,—for which reason it is termed “an ancient and honourable city,” and the families descended from those settlers “ancient and honourable families,”—it contained, somewhere in the neighbourhood of what is now called “Beacon-street,” three large promising bumps, which however, entirely disappeared as the baby grew older, and are now smoothed down almost to a flat.
The neck forms a large well-paved causeway, lined chiefly with wooden houses, (in the principal streets the buildings are of stone or brick,) and connects the city with the borough of Roxbury, which contains alone above ten thousand inhabitants. Coming from New York, this is the regular entrance to the town; and through it therefore I arrived, driving straight up to the Tremont House. This is a large, massive building with a granite front and a brick back, situated in the most eligible part of the city, and considered as the crack house of the place.
I found the interior very comfortable, and could have procured a parlour and chamber for the modicum of thirty-six dollars (about seven guineas) a week, if an acquaintance of mine, whom I accidentally met at the bar, had not advised me to content myself with a bedchamber, and dine at the ordinary; which, he said, would reduce my expenses to about one-third, without diminishing very materially my respectability. “Our first people,” said he, “are satisfied with similar accommodations: they little care how and where they sleep, provided they live in a fashionable quarter; and prefer dining at an ordinary, because at a public table they get more to eat for less money. We are republicans,” added he, “especially in this city, which is called the cradle of liberty.”
Not knowing whether he meant this as a satire, I proposed to take a walk with him before dinner, in order that I might have a cicerone to direct my first impressions of so classical a place; and accordingly we sallied forth, taking the direction down Tremont-street towards the Common.
“You see here at once the finest place in the whole city,” said my cicerone; “one which might be enjoyed by all classes, if we had not already outgrown the cradle. The people who live in these houses, and who, with very few exceptions, have all been to England, do not like to be seen in public. They hate the arrogance of our grocers and mechanics, who would be apt to stare them out of countenance if they were to show themselves at a public walk. ‘Humility,’ they say, ‘is not the besetting sin of the American people: on the contrary, the lower classes think themselves just as good as we are; and, what is worse, they know that they are our political masters.’ This, they argue, is absolute madness, as a man may learn by a single trip to Europe. ‘There must be a heaven’s aristocracy of talent and knowledge, ‘as one of our great men[1] used to say,’ and consequently also a h—ll’s democracy of ignorance and prejudice. The latter must not be encouraged in any way, and, least of all, by suffering ourselves to be confounded with it in private or public.’
“It was with the greatest difficulty,” continued he, “that our aristocratic inhabitants of Beacon and Park streets[2] could be prevailed upon to suffer benches to be placed in the Mall. They had two reasons for opposing this popular measure: first, because it encouraged idleness, inducing people who ought to be at work or at home to come here and bask themselves in the sun; and, secondly, because it was possible from those benches either to see the people at the windows of the houses, which would be inconvenient,—or from the windows of those houses to see the people on the benches, which, as the sight of poverty and idleness does not particularly enhance the beauty of a landscape, would be ‘shocking.’ Malicious persons say that there are yet other reasons for opposing the benches; but I could never bring myself to believe them.”
As we were ascending the little eminence on which stands the State-house, we were met by a lawyer, who, learning that I was a stranger come on purpose to see the capital of New England,—the ideal capital, namely, because New England is divided into six States, each of which has its own metropolis,—accompanied us, in order probably to become acquainted with my opinions, and in the evening report them to his friends.
For the information of my readers I must observe, that the Boston State-house is a heavy, clumsy piece of architecture, the style and arrangement of which are neither striking nor convenient. I was told that the building was originally intended to be erected on a much larger scale; but that, from motives of republican economy, its wings were afterwards clipped to their present dimensions,—the main body, for which there were sufficient funds on hand, remaining full as large as in the first design. The whole is crowned by a wooden cupola, of such enormous height as not even to leave the possibility of an illusion of its being made of stone, as in this case the walls would not be strong enough to support it. These are confessions which, in Boston, would not only render me unpopular, but actually expose me to being mobbed; but, at a distance of two hundred miles, (I write this in the city of New York,) one does feel less afraid of expressing one’s opinions and sentiments. The interior of the house contains a statue of Washington, by Chantrey; a broad staircase; a large hall of representatives; and a number of smaller rooms for committees, and the several offices of the departments of state.
“This house,” said the lawyer, after heaving a deep sigh, “once the receptacle of a noble body of men, is now open to every gingerbread man from the country; or you would see it built in a different style, worthy of the legislative assembly hall of a powerful republic, like that of Massachusetts! But the fact is, instead of great men, our house of representatives is now composed of members who advocate ‘mackerel inspection,’ cider-presses, fences, raising potatoes, and brewing small beer. Having no general ticket, each town or village must send its quota of advocates of its own particular industry; who, moreover, come here for no other purpose than to oppose the more elevated measures proposed by the more enlightened members for Boston.”