Impressions of America During the Years 1833, 1834 and 1835. Volume 1 (of 2)

The Story

The narrative begins with a departure from the familiarity of England, as a seasoned performer sets out to bridge the cultural distance between his home and the American republic. His journey is marked immediately by the stark contrasts of the transatlantic crossing, moving from the expectations of a summer pleasure cruise to the reality of biting Atlantic winds. Upon landing at the Battery in New York City, he is met not with the bureaucratic hostility he anticipates from his experience with English custom-house officials, but with an unexpected, efficient civility. This initial encounter sets a tone of open-minded observation that characterizes his subsequent travels. He wanders through the bustling streets of New York, noting the Parisian echoes of Broadway, the diversity of the crowds, and the industrious nature of the immigrant families he encounters bivouacking in the city’s parks.

Moving southward to Philadelphia, he finds a city that contrasts sharply with the frantic energy of New York. He is taken by its order, cleanliness, and the ambition of its expansion, noting how the city’s founder’s original vision has been eclipsed by the sheer pace of development. His excursions through the early-morning markets reveal a society deeply invested in the "good things" of life, from fine butter to well-fed beef. Yet, beneath this veneer of tranquility, he observes the rigid social demarcations of the region, particularly the "non-intercourse" maintained between the Dutch and Irish colonies, who exist in close proximity yet refuse to mix, preserving the dialects and prejudices of their ancestors long after settling in the New World.

The journey continues toward the nation’s capital, Washington, a transit that underscores the rugged, often unpredictable nature of American infrastructure. He travels by coach through roads that are little more than rivers of mud, witnessing the precariousness of travel where a single mistake by a driver could result in a fatal plunge down a ravine. Arriving in Washington, he finds the city a mixture of political ambition and stark emptiness. He visits the government offices and is particularly drawn to a collection of portraits of indigenous leaders, which he views as a necessary, if mournful, tribute to a people he sees as vanishing. His time in the capital is defined by the rigid, yet sometimes novel, social etiquette of a city transitioning from a frontier town to a seat of power, where balls and political rivalries dominate the atmosphere.

Further travels take him north toward Boston and the industrial landscapes of Massachusetts. Here, he observes a different facet of American life: the hereditary nature of trade and the quiet prosperity of towns built on specialized industry. He finds the landscape of Boston—with its hilly terrain and English-like architecture—to be a refreshing change from the monotony of the southern roads. He spends time in the countryside, engaging with the local elite and lamenting only the lack of foxhounds to complete the experience. He even allows himself a moment of whimsical hope at Nahant, watching the coast for the rumored "sea serpent."

The arc of his travels eventually leads him toward the frontier of Buffalo and the great natural wonder of Niagara. Along the way, he encounters the brutal reality of the American climate, enduring a heatwave that forces canal boats to a crawl and claims the lives of transport horses. Despite the physical exhaustion and the oppressive heat, he maintains his focus on the character of the people. He notes the influence of party politics in Buffalo, where the celebration of Independence Day is muted by intense partisan division. Throughout these movements, he consistently contrasts the organic, vibrant growth of American cities against the forced, top-down development of European counterparts like St. Petersburg, ultimately concluding that America’s strength lies in its healthful, moral atmosphere and the vigor of its infancy. By the end of the first volume, he has settled into a temporary residence in Massachusetts, preparing for a return to the stage, having transformed from a mere tourist into a nuanced chronicler of a nation in the midst of defining itself.

The People

• The Author: A man of the theater, he brings an actor’s sensibility to his travelogue, prioritizing the "story" of a place and its people over dry statistics. He is perpetually curious, prone to social ease, and remarkably resilient to the discomforts of travel, using humor as his primary tool to bridge the gap between his British expectations and American realities.
• The Judge: A fellow traveler on the treacherous roads to Washington, he serves as the author’s primary intellectual companion. He represents the refined, older generation of American civic leaders, possessing both the wit to make a grueling journey pleasant and the local knowledge to explain the complexities of the landscape.
• The Irish Porter: A brief but significant figure encountered in Baltimore, he represents the common immigrant experience. His immediate recognition of the author—and the warmth of his welcome—highlights the sense of connection the author feels toward his own countrymen who have transplanted themselves into the American fabric.
• The Indian Leaders: Though encountered only through portraits in the Department of State, they serve as the silent, tragic counterpoint to the author’s narrative of progress. He views them with a mix of aesthetic admiration for their "chivalric" dignity and a detached, nineteenth-century pity for their perceived "debasing" by the modern world.
• The Fellow Travelers: Representing a range of political affiliations—from young, ardent Whigs to cynical, humorous Tories—they serve as catalysts for the author’s exploration of the American political climate, demonstrating how deeply partisan feeling permeates even the most casual aspects of daily life.

In Its Own Voice

When describing his first impressions of the New York custom house, the author contrasts American efficiency with the grumbling inefficiency he knows from home:

"Instead of the dogged, sulky, bribe-demanding scowl, too commonly encountered from our own low-class officials, who seem to consider the custom-house as a means rather of annoyance to the lieges than a protection to trade, we were met by civility, respect, and prompt despatch."

During his visit to Washington, he finds a source of genuine beauty amidst the political maneuvering, reflecting on the preservation of indigenous history:

"Here, indeed, they show gallantly out, the untameable children of the forest, the lords of the lake and of the river, some of them absolutely handsome, their costume being in the highest degree chivalric."

In a moment of philosophical reflection on the nature of American cities versus the empires of the Old World, he identifies the core of his admiration:

"On the contrary, these yet humble cities of America, so humble as sometimes to draw from the far-travelled a sneer upon the application of the word, are surrounded by a healthful, moral atmosphere."

What It's Really About

At its core, this book is an inquiry into the nature of national character—how a society’s geography, history, and political structures coalesce to form a unique identity. The author is deeply preoccupied with the question of whether the American experiment is fundamentally different from the imperial structures of Europe. His argument, though woven into lighthearted prose, is consistently pro-American in its thesis: he posits that the lack of central, despotic control and the reliance on individual industry create a more stable, "healthful" society than the coerced labor of Europe or Russia.

The book also grapples with the tension between the "old" and the "new." The author constantly measures what he sees against the yardstick of his British experience. He is fascinated by the persistence of old-world habits—such as the Dutch-Irish segregation in Pennsylvania or the English-style window cleaning in Boston—in the midst of a rapidly modernizing, republican environment. This leads to a larger meditation on the durability of culture. He asks: can a people truly become "American" while maintaining the specific prejudices and customs of their ancestors, or is the American identity a melting pot that eventually forces all into a unified, democratic mold?

Furthermore, the book is a study in "poetical justice" versus historical reality. The author is acutely aware of the cost of the progress he witnesses. His fixation on the indigenous portraits in Washington and his description of the "drunken, dirty" reality of the people he sees outside the frames reveal a man struggling to reconcile his romanticized view of "savages" with the brutal displacement and degradation caused by the very expansion he admires. He seeks to find a moral framework that justifies the existence of this new nation. He settles on the idea of "vigor" and "promise," suggesting that the imperfections of the current moment are merely the growing pains of a civilization destined for greatness. It is a book about the observer’s own perspective—how he filters his discomfort, fear, and wonder through the lens of a traveler who is trying, above all else, to like the people he is visiting.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy the slow, deliberate pace of nineteenth-century travel writing will find much to admire here. The author has a gift for the observational vignette; he captures the specific quality of light in a harbor, the smell of a hotel room after a coal fire, or the frustration of a stalled canal boat with a precision that makes the 1830s feel vividly tactile. It is not a book for those seeking a fast-moving plot, but rather for those who wish to inhabit the perspective of a witty, urbane man navigating a world that was, at the time, still largely unknown to his British audience.

The modern reader should be prepared for the author’s period-specific attitudes, particularly his casual, sometimes contradictory, assessments of the indigenous populations and the hierarchical way he views different immigrant groups. These are not malicious, but they are undeniably products of his time, and they serve as an honest window into the mindset of a nineteenth-century liberal. The dialect he records—particularly the Irish-American and Yankee speech patterns—can be challenging at first, but it rewards the patient reader with a rich, auditory sense of the American frontier.

What stays with you after closing the book is the author’s fundamental warmth. Despite the "villanous roads," the sweltering heat, and the "devil" of a publisher waiting for his copy back in London, he remains committed to finding the best in his hosts. He writes with a sense of wonder that has largely vanished from modern travel literature, where everything is surveyed and mapped. In this account, America is still a place of possibilities—a landscape where you might see a sea serpent, encounter a revolutionary war hero’s home, or get stuck in a mud-filled road that feels like a pioneer’s trial. It is a charming, often funny, and deeply human record of a country at a moment of profound, optimistic uncertainty.