It certainly appears that the motion of a steam-vessel produces more nausea than that of a sailing-vessel; and people appear to suffer in some degree in proportion to the power of the engines. This may be accounted for by the vibration of the vessel increasing in the same ratio.
We are now in a vessel of two hundred and fifty horse power, and the consequence is that the passengers are as sick as two hundred and fifty horses. The effect of the vibration of the after part of the vessel amounts to the ridiculous.
When dinner was put on the table, we had no occasion for a bell to announce it, for every glass on the table was dancing to its own jingling music. And when the covers were taken off, it was still more absurd—everything in the dishes appeared to be infected with Saint Vitus’s dance. The boiled leg of mutton shook its collops of fat at a couple of fowls which figured in a sarabande round and round their own dish,—roast beef shifted about with a slow and stately movement—a ham glisséed croisée from one side to the other—tongues wagged that were never meant to wag again—bottles reeled and fell over like drunken men, and your piece of bread constantly ran away and was to be pulled back into its proper place. It was a regular jig-a-jig—a country-dance of pousette, down the middle, and right and left.
The communication of motion was strange; the whole company seated on long forms were jig-a-jigging up and down together—your knife jigged and your fork jigged—even the morsel which was put into your mouth gave one more jump before it could be seized. However, we jigged it to some purpose; for, in eighteen hours and a half, we passed from London to Antwerp.
The English are naturally great voyageurs: the feeling is inherent from our insular position. I have been reflecting whether I can recollect, in my whole life, ever to have been three months in one place, but I cannot, nor do I believe that I ever was—not even when sent to school; for I used to run away every quarter, just to see how my family were—an amiable weakness, which even flogging could not eradicate. And then I was off to sea; there I had my wish, as Shakespeare says, borne away by “the viewless winds, and blown with restless violence about the pendent world,” north, south, east, and west; one month freezing, the next burning; all nations, all colours,—white, copper, brown, and black; all scenery, from the blasted pine towering amidst the frost and snow, to the cocoa-nut waving its leaves to the sea-breeze. Well, “homekeeping youths have homely wits,” says the same author; and he has told more truth than any man who ever wrote. I certainly did hear of one young man who did not gain much by travelling; he was a banker’s clerk, and obtained three months’ vacation to go on the Continent. He landed at Ostend, and the next day found himself in the track-schuyt that is towed by horses, from Bruges to Ghent. The cabins were magnificent, velvet and gold the down cushions luxurious, the dinner and breakfast sumptuous, the wine excellent, the bed-rooms comfortable, and the expense moderate. Moreover, the motion was imperceptible. What could a man wish more? He arrived at Ghent, and could not make his mind up to quit this barge; so he returned in her to Bruges, and then back again to Ghent; and thus he continued between the two towns, backwards and forwards, until the three months’ leave had expired, and he was obliged to return to the desk. I have never yet made up my mind whether this personage was a wise man or a fool.
But, until the opening of the Continent, the English were only voyageurs, not travellers; and that, after having been so long debarred, they should be desirous of visiting the various portions of Europe, is not only natural but praiseworthy; but that they should make the Continent their residence—should expatriate themselves altogether, is, to me, a source of astonishment as well as of regret.
The excuse offered is the cheapness. It is but an excuse, for I deny it to be the fact: I have visited most places, with and without a family; and I will positively assert, not for the benefit of others who have already expatriated themselves, but as a check to those who feel so inclined, that they will discover too soon that, at less expense, they can command more good living and substantial comforts in England, than in any part of the Continent they may fix upon as their habitation.
Let us enter a little into the subject. First, as to the capitals, Paris, Brussels, etcetera.
Let it first be remembered that we have no longer war prices in England, that almost every article has fallen from thirty-five to fifty per cent. It is true that some tradespeople who are established as fashionable keep up their prices; but it is not absolutely necessary to employ them, as there are those equally skilled who are more moderate. But even the most fashionable have been obliged, to a certain degree, to lower their prices; and their present prices, reduced as they are, will most assuredly die with them.
Everything will, by degrees, find its level; but this level is not to be found at once. Should peace continue, ten years from this date will make a great alteration in every article, not only of necessity, but of luxury; and then, after having been the dearest, England will become the cheapest residence in the world. House rent in the capitals abroad is certainly as dear, if not dearer than it is in England. There are situations more or less fashionable in every metropolis; and if you wish to reside in those quarters, you pay accordingly. It is true that, by taking a portion of a house, you to a certain degree indemnify yourself;—a first, second, or third story, with a common staircase loaded with dirt and filth; but is this equal to the comfort of a clean English house, in which you have your own servants, and are not overlooked by your neighbours? If they were to let out houses in floors in England as they do in Paris and elsewhere, a less sum would be demanded. You may procure a handsome house in a fashionable quarter, well furnished, in London, for 300 pounds per annum. Go to the Place Vendôme, or those quarters styled the English quarters, at Paris, and which are by no means the most fashionable quarters, and you will pay for a handsome front floor 700 francs per month; so that for one floor of a house in Paris you will pay 336 pounds per annum, when in London you will obtain the whole house for 300 pounds. The proprietor of the Paris house, therefore, receives much more by letting his floors separate than the English do. The common articles of necessity are as dear, if not dearer abroad; the octroi duty upon all that enters the barriers raising the price excessively. Meat at Paris or Brussels is as dear as in London, and not so good; it is as dear, because they charge you the same price all round, about 5 pence per pound, independent of its inferiority and the villainous manner in which it is cut up. Our butchers only butcher the animal, but foreign butchers butcher the meat. Poultry is as dear; game much dearer; and so is fish. Indeed, fish is not only dear, but scarce and bad. Horses and carriages are quite as dear abroad, in the capitals, as in London. Clothes are in some respects cheaper, in others dearer, especially articles of English manufacture, which are more sought after than any others.