U.S. Studies Online: The BAAS Postgraduate Journal
Issue 11, Autumn 2007
The Problem of Liverpool in the Nineteenth-Century American Literary Imagination
Thomas Fitzpatrick Wright
© Thomas Fitzpatrick Wright. All Rights Reserved
The problem of the traveller landing at Liverpool is, why England is England?
Ralph Waldo Emerson, English Traits (1856)
This article outlines what can be called ‘the problem of Liverpool’ in American nineteenth-century travel writing. Throughout that period, the port of Liverpool was the site of initial encounter between the American traveller and the Old World. Transatlantic shipping routes dictated that the vast majority of Americans on eastward voyages were obliged to the enter England through the Mersey. For this reason, arrival at Liverpool was one of the fundamental shared experiences of American travel, and invariably serves as a preface and preamble to narratives of travel in England. In The Education of Henry Adams, for example, the author, describing the typical American voyage to England, catalogues ‘the succession of emotions’ that travellers were to experience upon arrival:
The ocean […] a furious gale in the Mersey […] the drearier picture of a Liverpool street as seen from the Adelphi coffee-room in November murk [,..] Millions of Americans have felt this succession of emotions.
Accounts describing these reactions represent one of the more ubiquitous – and overlooked – themes in American travel writing of the period. Like Adams, it was through Liverpool that most American writers glimpsed the Old World. And, to many, it was a problematic glimpse.
The following discussion represents exploratory notes towards a further investigation of this theme. It begins by sketching the historical conditions of nineteenth-century Liverpool and introducing the genre of American travel writing on England. Drawing upon the city’s place within this genre, and in particular the extended attention it receives in the work of Nathaniel Hawthorne and Herman Melville, the article considers the principal responses of American travellers to the city. Finally, using Adams’s formulation of the ‘succession of emotions’, the article evaluates the use to which three particular narrative responses were put in the travel writing of the period, namely, surprise at an encounter with modernity; shock at urban poverty; and the resonance of slavery.
Liverpool was one of the nineteenth-century’s great sites of global exchange, one of what Mary Louise Pratt has termed ‘contact zones’, that is: ‘social spaces where disparate cultures meet, clash, and grapple with each other’. All great ports, it might be said, inhabit liminal positions in the cultural geography of nations. However, nineteenth-century Liverpool sat in particularly ambivalent relation to its home country and to the continent: an emblem of transition, its back turned to England, facing West towards the Americas and beyond.
The port was, in the words of Nathaniel Hawthorne, ‘the gateway between the Old World and the New’, and has always been seen to have a unique relationship with the United States. Trade links with colonial British America generated such solidarity that 1770s Liverpool has been characterized as ‘more than half in sympathy with the rebel cause’. During the first half of the nineteenth-century, the port increasingly became the embarkation point for European emigrants who converged at the port in order to commence their voyages to the New World. Of the estimated 40 million emigrants to the United States between 1790 and 1890, almost one quarter, or 9 million, sailed from Liverpool. At the height of the Irish potato crop failure of 1845-46, nearly 1000 ships a year carrying Irish emigrants left the port for the United States. In this way, the docks of Liverpool should be considered alongside Ellis Island as a central part of the narrative of nineteenth-century American immigration.
However, the human traffic through the Liverpool of the period was two-way. The city was simultaneously the exit and entryway for emigrants to and travellers from the United States. As the century progressed, certain factors – the conclusion of the Napoleonic wars; advances in intercontinental shipping; the strengthening of the United States economy in particular – conspired to open the possibility of European travel to a growing sector of well-heeled society. So, while millions flowed west in search of the promise of America, an embryonic transatlantic travel industry developed, funnelling affluent Americans on European tours.
Travelling directly to England from the United States, the majority of ships would run along the southern coast of Ireland, north to the Welsh shore, past Holyhead, and directly into Liverpool harbour. This was the route by which Herman Melville travelled in 1839, Frederick Douglass in 1845, Frederick Law Olmsted in 1851, Harriet Beecher Stowe in 1852; Margaret Fuller in 1855; and Henry James in 1868.
Thanks to de Tocqueville and Dickens, accounts of European travel to the United States during the period represent an established highlight of nineteenth-century cultural history. But the literary significance of the reverse journey is arguably just as great. Travel writing on Europe was one of the major American genres of the century. Works such as Bayard Taylor’s Views Afoot, which ran into twenty editions during the decade 1846-56, and Mark Twain’s Innocents Abroad (1869)were amongst the most successful books of the age. The phenomenon had reached such a fever pitch by 1875 that magazine editor Moses Sweetser was moved to rail against the ‘affliction of cacoëthes scribendi‘ or the ‘irresistible urge to write’ amongst ‘the thousands of our people who visit Europe every summer’. Travel historian Alison Lockwood has declared that ‘the nineteenth-century ‘invasion’ of Britain by Americans became one of the best recorded such phenomena in history’. For American men and women of letters, both the voyage to England and the publication of their ‘England book’ represented obligatory career milestones and rites-of-passage. As William Stowe’s recent survey of this material reminds us, of those at the heart of what we now consider the literary canon of the period, ‘all but Whitman, Thoreau and Dickinson went to Europe, and most wrote about it’.
A cursory list of the most well-known texts would include Washington Irving’s Sketchbook of Geoffrey Crayon of 1819; James Fenimore Cooper’s Gleanings in Europe of 1837; Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands of 1854; William Wells Brown’s The American Fugitive in Europe of 1855; Emerson’s English Traits of 1856; and Margaret Fuller’s At Home and Abroad of 1856. It was a genre that could be seen to culminate in Henry James’s English Hours of 1905, William Dean Howell’s Seven English Cities of 1909 and Henry Adams’s The Education, published in 1918.
These and countless other forgotten books of English travel invariably begin their journey through the Old World at Liverpool. Moreover, the city is also central in American literary history for the significant periods of time spent there by both Hawthorne and Melville. The former served as United States Consul in Liverpool from 1853 to 1857, during which time, despite publishing little, he maintained copious journals, posthumously released as the English Notebooks. He was later to write directly about the city in his 1856 travel collection Our Old Home in two key essays, ‘Consular Experiences’ and ‘Outside Glimpses of English Poverty’. Melville sailed as a cabin boy to Liverpool aged 20 in 1839, offering a fictionalised account of this early voyage in his 1849 novel Redburn. He returned to the city in 1856, spending several days together with Hawthorne at Southport, and again for a final time in 1857.
Christopher Mulvey has described the moment of European arrival in American travel writing as ‘a lifetime’s stimulation compressed into one moment’. Approaching in 1818, Washington Irving remarked how ‘[n]one but those who have experienced it can form an idea of the delicious throngs of sensations which rush into an American’s heart when he first comes in sight of Europe’. Similarly, Stowe remarked that ‘An American, particularly a New Englander, can never approach the old country without a kind of thrill and pulsation of kindred’. For a few this moment of arrival came via the Continent as was the case, for example, with Cooper in 1825 when, approaching the cliffs of Dover from Calais, he paused to reflect how they ‘had the character of a magnificent gateway to a great nation’. For the vast majority who landed at Liverpool arrival was more problematic, registered in terms of a series of shocks and associations.
The first shock for the American traveller was at the newness of the port. Liverpool was, in British terms, a pre-eminently modern city. Receiving no mention in the Domesday book and maintaining a population of less than five hundred until the 1560s, the city only began to flourish through the increase in Atlantic trade from the mid-seventeenth century. To the overseas traveller it represented a spectacle of volatile modernity. Its maritime infrastructure was incomparably cutting-edge, its civic building enormous in scale. In the 1820s, the modernity of Liverpool achieved an even greater international resonance when it became the terminal of the world’s first intercity passenger locomotive service. It was a city at the vanguard of English urban development, and a barometer of economic and social change.
The surprise for American travellers was that aspects of this modernity often made it indistinguishable from, for example, Philadelphia or New York. In his study of transatlantic tourism, James Buzard has maintained that, for the American traveller, ‘Europe’ essentially signified ‘a repository of qualities not found at home’. In its relative youth and its commercial character Liverpool decisively failed the ‘Englishness test’. Stowe’s dismissal of the city upon her arrival as a ‘real New Yorkish place’ was typical of the repeated assertions of its American character. Olmsted complained how ‘there was hardly anything to distinguish it from America’. Horace Greeley went further, declaring: ‘I can hardly believe that I have crossed the ocean’. American travel texts register their disappointment with Liverpool in terms of its possession of American qualities: the freshness of the infrastructure; the lack of prominent antiquity; the dominance of the commercial realm; and the variety of the population. In fact, in reference to the last of these, American writers often depicted Liverpool in terms that emphasised admiration for what they characterised as its uncannily ‘American’ diversity. For example, Stowe’s evocation of the diversity of the Mersey of the 1850s is almost Whitmanic: ‘We are in a forest of ships of all nations; their masts bristling like the tall pines in Maine; their many coloured flags streaming like the forest leaves in autumn’.
The first element of the problem of Liverpool was its aesthetic and cultural similarity to what had been left behind: the discovery of a somewhere so apparently ‘American’ on the far side of the Atlantic.
The second surprise for American travellers was the spectacle of Liverpool’s chronic deprivation. This was a city of vast inequalities, almost without parallel. The city had become one of the foremost commercial centres of the Atlantic world, and at its peak following the abolition of the East India Company’s monopoly in 1833 it is estimated that 40% of world trade was passing through its docks. Vast fortunes were acquired in the city, but the unplanned nature of this growth meant that, by the 1840s, parts of the city had become the largest and densest urban slum in Europe, with an average age at death of seventeen. This scale of urban poverty and degradation was a new and particularly English phenomenon. It had been observed in Manchester by Friedrich Engels in 1844, but it was at its most pronounced in Liverpool. In 1880 a city report concluded that, of a population of 600 000, 10% were officially ‘destitute’. For Americans travellers, this panorama of destitution on the threshold of England appears to have been deeply unexpected.
To many, it represented a moral and aesthetic affront. Margaret Fuller expressed amazement in 1856 at her first encounter with ‘the squalid and shameless beggars of Liverpool’. Hawthorne in 1853 considered it ‘a monstrosity unknown on our side of the Atlantic’. Olmsted was ‘astonished […] to observe with what an unmingled stream of poverty the streets were swollen […] you can see nothing like such a dead mass of poverty in the worst quarter of our worst city’. This shock at the encounter with urban poverty is one of the most consistent features of American travel writing on England of the period. It was a theme touched on again and again, from Irving, Greeley and Stowe to Oliver Wendell Holmes. It even formed part of William Wells Brown’s commentary which otherwise emphatically avoided direct criticism of Britain. Consequently, condemnation of what the existence of poverty revealed about English society emerged as one of the central themes of transatlantic commentary.
It provides the backdrop to Emerson’s English Traits and Fuller’s At Home and Abroad, in which both authors reached parallel conclusions regarding the inevitability of some form of revolutionary upheaval. In At Home and Abroad, Fuller argues that ‘it is impossible’ to
take a near view of the treasures created by English genius without a prayer, daily more fervent, that the needful changes in the condition of this people may be effected by peaceful revolution […] For myself, much as I pitied the poor, abandoned, hopeless wretches that swarm in the roads and streets of England I pity far more the English noble, with this difficult problem before him, and such need of a speedy solution […] poverty in England has terrors of which I never dreamed at home.
In English Traits, Emerson observed of the country that ‘pauperism incrusts and clogs the state’, concluding his gnomic survey of the national scene with the negative observation that ‘England subsists by antagonisms and contradictions’. In the richest nation on earth, the most glaring of these contradictions were abundantly on display upon arrival at Liverpool. If the first way American travellers used the city in their writing was as an unexpected symbol of British modernity, the second was as a symbol of English inequality. Expressions of shock at the social conditions of the city often form part of a larger critique of the unequal conditions of nineteenth century England.
The Legacy of Slave Trade
These were, of course, not the only Atlantic crossings with which Liverpool was associated. As its visitors knew, it was a city whose conspicuous architectural grandeur was predicated on its eighteenth-century role as the commercial vertex of the Atlantic slave trade triangle. In the terms of the recently-established ‘Transatlantic Slavery’ gallery at Merseyside Maritime Museum, Liverpool represented ‘the slaving capital of the Atlantic world’. At the height of its activity, in the decade 1783-1793, more than 300 000 African slaves were transported across the Atlantic on Liverpool vessels. As such, it was one of the centres of gravity of what Paul Gilroy has termed the ‘Black Atlantic’, rich in murky historical resonance. Negotiation with this legacy represents a third feature of travel accounts of the city.
By the time of much of the material under review, it had successfully evolved into a more legitimate commercial port. Nonetheless, the name ‘Liverpool’ represented both the destination on most American ocean tickets, and common shorthand for British slave guilt. As one might expect, a number of travellers directly invoked this past. Yale physician Benjamin Silliman, for example, was moved to pronounce upon arrival at the still-active slave-port in 1805 that ‘Liverpool is deep, very deep in the guilt of the slave trade. It is now pursued with more eagerness than ever’. ‘Our country’, he was moved to reflect, ‘so nobly jealous of its own liberties, stands disgraced in the eyes of man’. Interestingly, there were also those, such as Irving and Stowe, who invoked the city’s more recent role in British abolitionism. In particular, frequent mention was made of Liverpool’s William Roscoe, whose American anti-slavery lecture tours had earned him transatlantic fame. Irving went as far as to declare that ‘the man of letters who speaks of Liverpool, speaks of it as the residence of Roscoe’.
Overall, however, there was much less reference to this aspect of the city’s past than might be expected. Even in Stowe’s travel books, or those of former slave William Wells Brown, little mention is made of Liverpool’s appalling legacy. Some perhaps avoided discussions of Liverpool’s slave associations for reasons of decorum. Another factor lay in the eagerness of the American abolitionist enterprise to avoid alienating British opinion. However, it also appears that in certain cases the negative feelings one might have anticipated in American travel books were in fact displaced onto wider critiques of English poverty and workers’ conditions of the kind discussed above. If slaverywas the glaring American ‘contradiction’ of the early nineteenth-century, then urban poverty, as seen at Liverpool, was widely taken to hold the same place for the British, above even monarchism .
This ‘slavery versus pauperism’ discourse is one of the undercurrents of antebellum American travel writing on England. It was stimulated in part by Cooper, whose 1837 essay entitled ‘The Poor’ had maintained that ‘the comparison between the condition of the common English house-servant, and that of the American slave, is altogether in favour of the latter’. In the same way, Samuel Prime recorded in 1855 that ‘Virginia negroes were better dressed for church’ than what he called ‘the white slaves of Europe’. Faced with routine condemnation by everyday Englishmen over the persistence of the ‘peculiar institution’, the American traveller could, as Paul Giles has suggested, easily construct
figurative analogies between different types of slavery, juxtaposing the racial discrimination familiar to him from nineteenth-century America with the social and economic slavery he [saw] around him in England.
To some travellers, it was clear that British critiques of the persistence of Southern slavery in the United States disregarded the comparable conditions of the English poor. Liverpool, in this analysis, had merely shifted from the exploitation of African slaves under mercantilism to the exploitation of its own destitute populace under the emerging system of industrial capitalism. The problem of Liverpool was thus also the abrupt realisation of British hypocrisy.
Hawthorne and Melville
Most Americans left Liverpool as soon as they could – for Chester, for the Lakes, for York, or for London. However, the city of Liverpool itself held a special significance for the two writers who engaged with it most extensively, namely Hawthorne and Melville.
When his English Notebooks were posthumously published in the 1870s, a review in the Atlantic Monthly suggested that ‘for a man with such powers of observation as Hawthorne, and such taste for using them, the post of American Consul in a large commercial city like Liverpool must have had some decided attractions’. Chief among these, it seems, was the opportunity to stretch literary muscles, for the city seems to have occasioned new forms of writing in Hawthorne. First, the range of human contact offered to him in his official capacity allowed him, in ‘Consular Experiences’, to range wryly over transatlantic affairs, developing the autobiographical style of his Scarlet Letter preface. Second, as Nina Baym has suggested, in ‘Outside Glimpses of English Poverty’ he ‘experiments not unsuccessfully with the voice of the socially-aware Victorian narrator’:
I often […] went designedly astray among precincts that reminded me of some of Dickens’s grimiest pages. There I caught glimpses of a people and a mode of life that were comparatively new to my observation, a sort of sombre phantasmagoric spectacle, exceedingly undelightful to behold, yet involving a singular interest and even fascination in its ugliness.
Whilst his notebooks register little more than disgust at urban squalor, ‘Outside Glimpses’ translates this into moral outrage: ‘one day or another, safe as they deem themselves, and safe as the hereditary temper of the people really tends to make them, the gentlemen of England will be compelled to face this problem’.
In this way, whilst no fiction was written there, his Liverpool material collected in the English Notebooks was successfully re-used, most obviously in Our Old Home. Also significant is that Liverpool passages that described ‘the multitudinous and continual motion of all this kind of life, the people are as numerous as maggots in cheese’  were to feed directly into Hawthorne’s descriptions of the urban squalor of Rome in The Marble Faun, which waspublished some five years after leaving England:
Hilda’s present expedition led her into what was – physically, at least – the foulest and ugliest part of Rome […] where thousands of Jews are crowded within a narrow compass, and lead a close, unclean, and multitudinous life, resembling that of maggots when they over-populate a decaying cheese.
Similarly, passages on Liverpool filth were worked up for publication, both in ‘Outside Glimpses’:
Dirt, one would fancy, is plenty enough all over the world, being the symbolic accompaniment of the foul incrustation which began to settle over and bedim all earthly things as soon as Eve had bitten the apple,
and, again, in The Marble Faun:
Dirt was everywhere, strewing the narrow streets, and incrusting the tall shabbiness of the edifices, from the foundations to the roofs; it lay upon the thresholds, and looked out of the windows, and assumed the guise of human life in the children that seemed to be engendered out of it.
These passages suggest the extent to which Hawthorne’s response to the poverty and urban depravation of Liverpool was essentially metaphysical. Whilst not devoid of economic critique, his obsession lies with the metaphorical resonance of grime itself.
Moreover, the exchange of material between the two cities – Liverpool and Rome – suggests the curious extent to which Old World locations were in a sense conceptually interchangeable for Hawthorne. Liverpool, it might be said, operates as a metonym for Europe. In the preface to The Marble Faun, he had famously declared how ‘no author, without a trial, can conceive of the difficulty of writing a romance about a country where there is no shadow, no antiquity, no mystery, no picturesque and gloomy wrong’. The ‘gloomy wrongs’ of Europe, its inequalities and decadence, were usefully embodied by the existence of urban filth as experienced at Liverpool, and one could observe that Hawthorne drew upon this experience to write more generally about the moral condition of Europe.
Unlike Hawthorne, Melville’s treatment of Liverpool was fictional, using the city as the squalid and corrupt arena for the coming-of-age of his callow hero in Redburn. But like Hawthorne, his time in Liverpool has proved fertile ground for biographical critics. A standard line has been that his experience of the ills of the city in 1839 was in some measure responsible for what F.O. Matthiessen termed ‘the latent economic factor in tragedy that remained part of [his] vision at every subsequent stage of his writing’. And it is true that Melville’s treatment of the city offers a more directly economic critique than that of Hawthorne.
The Hogarthian poverty of the populace at Liverpool makes an immediate mockery of Redburn’s idealised expectations of England. The novel’s most powerful scene sees him stumble across a starving woman with children in a cellar:
I crawled up into the street, and looking down upon them again, almost repented that I had brought them any food; for it would only tend to prolong their misery […] I felt an almost irresistible impulse to do them the last mercy, of in some way putting an end to their horrible, lives; and I should almost have done so, I think, had I not been deterred by thoughts of the law. For I well knew that the law, which would let them perish of themselves without giving them one cup of water, would spend a thousand pounds, if necessary, in convicting him who should so much as offer to relieve them from their miserable existence.
Tellingly, this passage, one of the most strident in all of Melville, immediately follows a similarly-charged chapter describing German emigrants for the US, huddled and singing on the docks prior to departure. Confronted with this image Melville’s narrator launches into a hymn to the promise of the New World. The implication is clear. In Redburn, Liverpool, despite surface similarities to the New World, comes to represent the ‘anti-America’, a neat symbol for the hardships and exploitation that generations had crossed the Atlantic to avoid.
It could also be suggested that the complexity of the international economy as experienced at Liverpool contributes to salient themes of what we would now call ‘globalisation’ in Melville’s fiction. In a bleakly ironic touch, Redburn features the protagonist preparing for his imminent arrival at Liverpool by reading Adam Smith’s The Wealth of Nations, just as he is about to encounter certain horrific undersides of the free market. Themes and ironies such as these concerning the global economy resound throughout Melville, from Typee onwards. Of particular relevance to his experience of Liverpool, one might say, are the twinned transatlantic diptych tales such as ‘The Paradise of Bachelors’ and ‘The Tartarus of Maids’, which juxtapose the decadence of London society with the (almost Liverpudlian) horrors of emerging New England industry. The piece represents a domestication of the gothic horrors of Redburn’s Liverpool into an American setting. It also represents an oblique commentary on the global system of commodity-exchange upon which Liverpool’s existence was based.
This article makes no claims for the representative nature of the travellers under discussion. Moreover, it has not intended to claim centrality for Liverpool – as either experience, theme or symbol – within American literary culture of the period. Inevitably, the majority of visitors disposed of their impressions of the city within a few pages. The era’s most popular conventional travel book, Bayard Taylor’s Views Afoot (1846), is characteristic in this regard. Once ashore, Taylor hurries through customs, and ‘before the twilight had wholly faded’ is ‘again tossing on the rough waves of the Irish Sea’, headed for Dublin. ‘Of Liverpool’, Taylor nonchalantly asserts, ‘we saw little’.
Taking the genre as a whole, however, the effect is cumulative, and the city establishes a ubiquity matched only, perhaps, by London, York or Chester. And it elicits a remarkable consistency of response. As Christopher Mulvey has observed, for the American traveller, ‘Liverpool could be a severe trial to the romantic sensibility’. This lies at the heart of the problem of Liverpool: arrival invariably represents a process of disillusion. Not even what James called ‘the latent preparedness of the American mind’ for the ‘features of English life’ seems to have equipped travellers for the problem of Liverpool.
Part of this can be ascribed to what I have termed the liminal status of the port. It served as the ‘contact zone’ between England’s former colony and the British imperial centre. In the term used by both Frederick Douglass and James, it was ‘the threshold of England’: at once England and not England, Old World and yet outpost of modernity. The problem of Liverpool was the dilemma of how this mystifying port should be interpreted – how to reconcile its modernity with an idealised image of the Old World; how to respond to the apparent hypocrisies of English industrial ‘progress’. And in all the ambivalent self-recognition it offered to the American visitor, it was the problem of comprehending the implications of Liverpool as portent of industrial modernity. The city was, as anthropologist Victor Turner has written of the liminal state, ‘a kind of institutional capsule or pocket containing the germ of future social developments, of societal change’.
Wolfson College, Cambridge
 Ralph Waldo Emerson, English Traits , ed. by Philip Nicoloff and Robert Burkholder (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1994), p.
 Henry Adams, The Education of Henry Adams, ed. by Donald Hall (New York: Houghton Miffin, 2000) p. 72.
 Mary Louise Pratt, Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation (London: Routledge, 1992), p. iv.
 Nathaniel Hawthorne, Our Old Home (London: Smith, Elder and Co., 1863), p. 3.
 Howard Channon, Portrait of Liverpool (London: Robert Hale & Company, 1976), p. 37.
 These and following statistics, Ibid, pp. 57-60.
 Quoted in William W. Stowe, Going Abroad : European Travel in Nineteenth-Century American Culture (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), p. 7.
 Alison Lockwood, Passionate Pilgrims: American Travellers in Great Britain 1800-1914 (Cornwall Books: New York, 1981), p. 12.
 Stowe, Going Abroad, p. 4.
 Christopher Mulvey, Anglo-American Landscapes: A Study of Nineteenth-Century Anglo-American Travel Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), p. 45.
 Washington Irving, The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent  (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), p. 18.
 Harriet Beecher Stowe, Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands, Vol. 1  (Boston: Phillips & Sampson Publishers, 1854), p. 35.
 James Fennimore Cooper, Gleanings in Europe: England  (New York: Oxford University Press, 1928), p. 16.
 Channon, pp.21-30; Hugh Thomas, The Slave Trade: The History of the Atlantic Slave Trade 1440-1870 (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1997), pp. 246-7.
 James Buzard, The Beaten Track, European Tourism, Literature, and the Ways to ‘Culture’: 1800-1918 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), p. 145.
 Frederic Law Olmsted, Walks And Talks of an American Farmer in England (Amherst, MA: Library of American Landscape History, 2002), p. 31.
 Horace Greeley, Glances at Europe: in a series of letters from Great Britain, France, Italy, Switzerland, &c., during the summer of 1851 (New York: Dewitt & Davenport, 1851), p. 19.
 Stowe, Sunny Memories, p. 23.
 Asa Briggs, Victorian Cities (London: Penguin, 1968), p. 13.
 Channon, pp. 57-60.
 Margaret Fuller, At Home And Abroad: Or, Things And Thoughts In America And Europe, ed. by Arthur B. Fuller (Boston: Crosby, Nichols, 1856), p. 23.
 Olmsted, p. 31.
 Fuller, p. 23.
 Emerson, pp. 299, 98.
 Transatlantic Slavery, ed. by Tony Tibbles (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1994), p. iv.
 Hugh Thomas, The Slave Trade: The History of the Atlantic Slave Trade 1440-1870 (London: Picador, 1997), p. 247.
 Benjamin Silliman, A Journal Of Travels In England, Holland And Scotland, And Of Two Passages Over The Atlantic, In The Years 1805 And 1806 (New York: D. & G. Bruce, 1810), p. 12.
 Irving, p.16.
 Cooper, p. 34.
 Samuel Irenaeus Prime, Travels in Europe and the East (New York: Harper, 1855), p. 24.
 Paul Giles, Virtual Americas: Transnational Fictions and the Transatlantic Imaginary (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002), p. 179.
 G.S. Hillard, ‘The English Notebooks of Nathaniel Hawthorne’, Atlantic Monthly, September 1870.
 Nina Baym, The Shape of Hawthorne’s Career (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1976), p. 167.
 Hawthorne, Our Old Home, p. 198.
 Ibid., p. 213.
 Nathaniel Hawthorne, The English Notebooks,ed. by Thomas Woodson and Bill Ellis (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 1997), p. 126.
 Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Marble Faun, ed. by Susan Manning (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), p. 187.
 Hawthorne, Our Old Home, p. 213.
 Hawthorne, The Marble Faun, p. 186.
 F. O. Matthiessen, American Renaissance: Art and Expression in the Age of Emerson and Whitman, 3rd edn., (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1968), p. 400.
 Herman Melville, Redburn, Or His First Voyage  (New York: Modern Library, 2002), p. 12.
 Melville, p. 10.
 Mulvey, p. 34.
 Henry James, ‘A Passionate Pilgrim’, in The Tales of Henry James (New York: Frederick Ungar Publishing Co., 1984), p. 12.
 Henry James, English hours (London : William Heinemann, 1905), p. 23; Frederick Douglass, My Bondage And My Freedom (New York, Miller, Orton & Mulligan, 1855), p. 302.
 Victor Turner, The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure (London: Penguin, 1969), p. 44.Archive