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Retrospect of Western Travel, Volume II, by Harriet Martineau </title>
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 40281 ***</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p>
<h1>
<big>RETROSPECT</big><br />
<small>OF</small><br />
<big>WESTERN TRAVEL.</big>
</h1>
<p class="title">
BY<br />
<big>HARRIET MARTINEAU,</big><br />
<br />
AUTHOR Of "SOCIETY IN AMERICA," "ILLUSTRATIONS OF POLITICAL ECONOMY," ETC.<br />
IN TWO VOLUMES.<br />
<br />
<big>VOL. II.</big>
</p>
<p class="title" style="margin-top:5em;">
LONDON:<br />
PUBLISHED BY SAUNDERS AND OTLEY<br />
NEW-YORK:<br />
SOLD BY HARPER &amp; BROTHERS<br />
1838.</p>
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p>
<h6><a name="Contents" id="Contents"></a>CONTENTS</h6>
<h4>OF</h4>
<h6>THE SECOND VOLUME.</h6>
<br />
<table style="width: 90%; text-align: left; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" summary=" " border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="width: 35%;"></td>
<td align="center" valign="middle"><i>Page.</i></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="left" valign="middle"><a href="#Mississippi_Voyage">Mississippi Voyage</a></td>
<td align="center" valign="middle"><a href="#Page_5">5</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="left" valign="middle"><a href="#Compromise">Compromise</a></td>
<td align="center" valign="middle"><a href="#Page_26">26</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="left" valign="middle"><a href="#Cincinnati">Cincinnati </a></td>
<td align="center" valign="middle"><a href="#Page_35">35</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="left" valign="middle"><a href="#Probation">Probation</a></td>
<td align="center" valign="middle"><a href="#Page_57">57</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="left" valign="middle"><a href="#The_Natural_Bridge">The Natural Bridge</a></td>
<td align="center" valign="middle"><a href="#Page_65">65</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="left" valign="middle"><a href="#Colonel_Burr">Colonel Burr</a></td>
<td align="center" valign="middle"><a href="#Page_69">69</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="left" valign="middle"><a href="#Villages">Villages</a></td>
<td align="center" valign="middle"><a href="#Page_78">78</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="left" valign="middle"><a href="#Cambridge_Commencement">Cambridge Commencement</a></td>
<td align="center" valign="middle"><a href="#Page_91">91</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="left" valign="middle"><a href="#The_White_Mountains">The White Mountains</a></td>
<td align="center" valign="middle"><a href="#Page_108">108</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="left" valign="middle"><a href="#Channing">Channing</a></td>
<td align="center" valign="middle"><a href="#Page_117">117</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="left" valign="middle"><a href="#Mutes_and_Blind">Mutes and Blind</a></td>
<td align="center" valign="middle"><a href="#Page_128">128</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="left" valign="middle"><a href="#Nahant">Nahant</a></td>
<td align="center" valign="middle"><a href="#Page_155">155</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="left" valign="middle"><a href="#Signs_of_the_Times_in_Massachusetts">Signs of the Times in Massachusetts</a></td>
<td align="center" valign="middle"><a href="#Page_159">159</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="left" valign="middle"><a href="#Hot_and_Cold_Weather">Hot and Cold Weather</a></td>
<td align="center" valign="middle"><a href="#Page_169">169</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="left" valign="middle"><a href="#Originals">Originals</a></td>
<td align="center" valign="middle"><a href="#Page_186">186</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="left" valign="middle"><a href="#Lake_George">Lake George</a></td>
<td align="center" valign="middle"><a href="#Page_221">221</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td align="left" valign="middle"><a href="#Cemeteries">Cemeteries</a></td>
<td align="center" valign="middle"><a href="#Page_227">227</a></td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<br />
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p>
<h6>RETROSPECT</h6>
<h4>OF</h4>
<h6>WESTERN TRAVEL.</h6>
<hr />
<h2><a name="Mississippi_Voyage" id="Mississippi_Voyage"></a>MISSISSIPPI VOYAGE.</h2>

<div style="margin-left: 2em;">"That it was full of monsters who devoured canoes as well as men;
that the devil stopped its passage, and sunk all those who ventured to
approach the place where he stood; and that the river itself at last was
swallowed up in the bottomless gulf of a tremendous whirlpool."&mdash;<i>Quarterly
Review.</i>
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 5em;">"Hic ver purpureum: varios hic flumina circum<br />
Fundit humus flores: hic candida populus antro<br />
Imminet, et lentæ texunt umbracula vites."</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="smcap">Virgil.</span></div>
<p class="p1">About four o'clock in the afternoon of the 6th of May we
were convoyed, by a large party of friends, to the "Henry
Clay," on board of which accommodations had been secured
for us by great exertion on the part of a fellow-voyager.
The "Henry Clay" had the highest reputation of any boat
on the river, having made ninety-six trips without accident;
a rare feat on this dangerous river. As I was stepping on
board, Judge P. said he hoped we were each provided with
a life-preserver. I concluded he was in joke; but he declared
himself perfectly serious, adding that we should
probably find ourselves the only cabin passengers unprovided
with this means of safety. We should have been informed
of this before; it was too late now. Mr. E., of our party on
board, told me all that this inquiry made me anxious to know.
He had been accustomed to ascend and descend the river
annually with his family, and he made his arrangements according
to his knowledge of the danger of the navigation.
It was his custom to sit up till near the time of other people's
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span>
rising, and to sleep in the day. There are always companies
of gamblers in these boats, who, being awake and
dressed during the hours of darkness, are able to seize the
boats on the first alarm of an accident in the night, and are
apt to leave the rest of the passengers behind. Mr. E. was
a friend of the captain; he was a man of gigantic bodily
strength and cool temper, every way fitted to be of use in an
emergency; and the captain gave him the charge of the
boats in case of a night accident. Mr. E. told me that, as
we were particularly under his charge, his first thought in
a time of danger would be of us. He had a life-preserver,
and was an excellent swimmer, so that he had little doubt of
being able to save us in any case. He only asked us to
come the instant we were called, to do as we were bid, and
to be quiet. As we looked at the stately vessel, with her
active captain, her two pilots, the crowds of gay passengers,
and all the provision for safety and comfort, it was scarcely
possible to realize the idea of danger; but we knew that the
perils of this extraordinary river, sudden and overwhelming,
are not like those of the ocean, which can be, in a great
measure, guarded against by skill and care. The utmost
watchfulness cannot here provide against danger from squalls,
from changes in the channel of the river, and from the <i>snags</i>,
<i>planters</i>, and <i>sawyers</i> (trunks of trees brought down from
above by the current, and fixed in the mud under water)
which may at any moment pierce the hull of the vessel.</p>

<p>Our New-Orleans friends remained with us upward of an
hour, introducing us to the captain, and to such of the passengers
as they knew. Among these were Mr. and Mrs. L.,
of Boston, Massachusetts. We little imagined that afternoon
how close an intimacy would grow out of this casual
meeting; how many weeks we should afterward spend in
each other's society, with still-increasing esteem and regard.
The last thing one of my friends said was that he was glad
we were going, as there had been forty cases of cholera in
the city the day before.</p>

<p>After five o'clock the company on deck and in the cabins,
who had bidden farewell to their friends some time before,
began to inquire of one another why we were not setting off.
We had found the sun too warm on deck, and had had
enough of mutual staring with the groups on the wharf; we
turned over the books, and made acquaintance with the
prints in the ladies' cabin, and then leisurely arranged our
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span>
staterooms to our liking; and still there was no symptom
of departure. The captain was obviously annoyed. It
was the non-arrival of a party of passengers which occasioned
the delay. A multitude of Kentuckians and other
western men had almost forced their way on board as deck-passengers;
men who had come down the river in flatboats
with produce, who were to work their way up again by carrying
wood at the wooding-places, morning and evening, to
supply the engine fire. These men, like others, prefer a
well-managed to a perilous boat, and their eagerness to secure
a passage was excessive. More thronged in after the
captain had declared that he was full; more were bustling
on the wharf, and still the expected party did not come.
The captain ordered the plank to be taken up which formed
a communication with the shore. Not till six o'clock was it
put down for the dilatory passengers, who did not seem to
be aware of the inconvenience they had occasioned. They
were English. A man on the wharf took advantage of the
plank being put down to come on board in spite of prohibition.
He went with his bundle to the spot on the second
deck which he chose for a sleeping-place, and immediately
lay down, without attracting particular notice from any one.</p>

<p>We braved the heat on the hurricane deck for the sake of
obtaining last views of New-Orleans. The city soon became
an indistinguishable mass of buildings lying in the
swamp, yet with something of a cheerful air, from the brightness
of the sun. The lofty Cotton-press, so familiar to the
eye of every one acquainted with that region, was long visible
amid the windings of the river, which seemed to bring
us quite near the city again when we thought we should
see it no more.</p>

<p>At seven we were summoned to supper, and obtained a
view of the company in whose society we were to pass
the next ten days. There was a great mixture. There
was a physician from New-York, with his wife and a friend
or two; an ultra-exclusive party. There were Mr. and Mrs.
B., also from New-York, amiable elderly people, with some
innocent peculiarities, and showing themselves not the less
mindful of other people from taking great care of each other.
There was the party that had kept the captain waiting, some
of them very agreeable; and the L.'s, whom it would have
been a privilege to meet anywhere. There were long trains
of young men, so many as to extinguish all curiosity as to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span>
who they were and where they came from; and a family
party belonging to the West, father, mother, grandmother, and
six children, who had a singular gift of squalling; and their
nurses, slaves. These are all that I distinctly remember
among the multitude that surrounded the almost interminable
table in the cabin. This table, long as it was, would not
hold all the company. Many had to wait till seats were
vacated, and yet we were to go on receiving passengers all
the way to Natchez.</p>

<p>We took in more this evening. After supper we hastened
again to the hurricane deck, where the air was breathing
cool, and, to our great joy, strong enough to relieve us from
moschetoes. The river was lined with plantations of cotton
and sugar, as it continued to be for two hundred miles farther.
Almost every turn of the mighty stream disclosed a
sugarhouse of red brick, with a centre and wings, all much
alike. Groups of slaves, most of them nearly naked, were
chopping wood, or at other kinds of toil along the shore. As
the twilight melted into the golden moonlight of this region,
I saw sparkles among the reeds on the margin of the stream.
It did not occur to me what they were till I saw a horse
galloping in a meadow, and apparently emitting gleams of
fire. I then knew that I at length saw fireflies. One presently
alighted on the linen coat of a gentleman standing beside
me, where it spread its gleam over a space as large as
the palm of my hand, making the finest of the threads
distinctly visible.</p>

<p>In a dark recess of the shore a large fire suddenly blazed
up, and disclosed a group of persons standing on the brink
of the stream. Our boat neared the shore, for this was a
signal from a party who had secured their passage with us.
Night after night I was struck with the same singular combination
of lights which I now beheld; the moonlight, broad
and steady; the blazing brands, sometimes on the shore, and
sometimes on board the flatboats we met; and the glancing
fireflies.</p>

<p>When we went down for the night we had our first experience
of the crying of the little H.'s. They were indefatigable
children; when one became quiet, another began;
and, among them, they kept up the squall nearly the twenty-four
hours round. Their mother scolded them; their nurses
humoured them; and, between these two methods of management,
there was no peace for anybody within hearing.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span>
There was a good deal of trampling overhead too. Many
of the deck passengers had to sleep in the open air, on the
hurricane deck, from their being no room for them below;
and, till they had settled themselves, sleep was out of the
question for those whose staterooms were immediately beneath.
At length, however, all was quiet but the rumbling
of the engine, and we slept.</p>

<p>When I went on deck in the morning, before six, I was
privately told by a companion that the man who had last
forced his way on board had died of cholera in the night,
and had been laid under a tree at the wooding-place a few
minutes before. Never was there a lovelier morning for a
worn wretch to lie down to his long sleep. The captain
particularly desired that the event should be passed over in
entire silence, as he was anxious that there should be no
alarm about the disease on board the boat. The poor man
had, as I have mentioned, lain down in his place as soon as
he came among us. He lay unobserved till two in the
morning, when he roused the neighbour on each side of him.
They saw his state at a glance, and lost not a moment in
calling down the New-York physician; but, before this gentleman
could get to him, the sick man died. His body was
handed over to the people at the wooding-place, and buried
in the cheerful morning sunshine. We sped away from
that lonely grave as if we were in a hurry to forget it; and
when we met at breakfast, there was mirth and conversation,
and conventional observance, just as if death had not been
among us in the night. This was no more than a quickening
of the process by which man drops out of life, and all
seems to go on as if he had never been: only seems, however.
Even in this case, where the departed had been a
stranger to us all, and had sunk from amid us in eight hours,
I believe there were few or no hearts untouched, either by
sorrow for him or fear for themselves. We were none of
us as we should have been if this his brief connexion with
us had never existed.</p>

<p>All the morning we were passing plantations, and there
were houses along both banks at short intervals; sometimes
the mansions of planters, sometimes sugarhouses, sometimes
groups of slave-dwellings, painted or unpainted, standing
under the shade of sycamores, magnolias, live oaks, or
Pride-of-India trees. Many dusky gazing figures of men
with the axe, and women with the pitcher, would have
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span>
tempted the pencil of an artist. The fields were level and
rich-looking, and they were invariably bounded by the glorious
forest. Towards noon we perceived by the number
of sailing-boats that we were near some settlement, and
soon came upon Donaldsonville, a considerable village, with
a large unfinished Statehouse, where the legislature of
Louisiana once sat, which was afterward removed to New-Orleans,
whence it has never come back. Its bayou boasts
a steamer, by which planters in the south back-country are
conveyed to their estates on leaving the Mississippi.</p>

<p>We now felt ourselves sufficiently at home to decide upon
the arrangement of our day. The weather was too hot to
let the fatigues of general conversation be endurable for many
hours together; and there was little in the general society
of the vessel to make us regret this. We rose at five or a
little later, the early morning being delicious. Breakfast was
ready at seven, and after it I apparently went to my stateroom
for the morning; but this was not exactly the case.
I observed that the laundresses hung their counterpanes and
sheets to dry in the gallery before my window, and that,
therefore, nobody came to that gallery. It struck me that
this must be the coolest part of the boat, such an evaporation
as was perpetually going on. I therefore stepped out
of my window, with my book, work, or writing; and, sitting
under the shade of a counterpane, and in full view of the
river and western shore, spent in quiet some of the pleasantest
mornings I have ever known. I was now and then reminded
of the poor parson, pitied by Mrs. Barbauld:&mdash;</p>

<div style="margin-left: 5em;">
<span style="margin-left: 9em;">"Or crossing lines</span><br />
Shall mar thy musings, as the wet cold sheet<br />
Flaps in thy face abrupt;"<br />
</div>

<p>and sometimes an unsympathizing laundress would hang up
an impenetrable veil between me and some object on shore
that I was eagerly watching; but these little inconveniences
were nothing in the way of counterbalance to the privilege
of retirement. I took no notice of the summons to luncheon
at eleven, and found that dinner, at half past one, came far
too soon. We all thought it our duty to be sociable in the
afternoon, and, therefore, took our seats in the gallery on the
other side of the boat, where we were daily introduced to
members of our society who before were strangers, and
spent two or three hours in conversation or at chess. It
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span>
was generally very hot, and the conversation far from lively,
consisting chiefly of complaints of the heat or the glare; of
the children or of the dulness of the river; varied by mutual
interrogation about where everybody was going. A remark
here and there was amusing; as when a lady described
Canada as the place where people row boats, and
sing, "Row, brothers, row," and all that. When the heat
began to decline, we went to the hurricane deck to watch
the beauty of evening stealing on; and, as no one but ourselves
and our most esteemed acquaintance seemed to care
for the wider view we here obtained, we had the place to
ourselves, except that some giddy boys pursued their romps
here, and kept us in a perpetual panic, lest, in their racing,
they should run overboard. There is no guard whatever,
and the leads overhang the water. Mr. E. said he never
allowed his boys to play here, but gave them the choice of
playing below or sitting still on the top.</p>

<p>After tea we came up again on fine evenings; walked
for an hour or two, and watched the glories of the night, till
the deck passengers appeared with their blankets and compelled
us to go down.</p>

<p>Nothing surprised me more than to see that very few of
the ladies looked out of the boat unless their attention was
particularly called. All the morning the greater number
sat in their own cabin, working collars, netting purses, or
doing nothing; all the evening they amused themselves in
the other cabin dancing or talking. And such scenery as we
were passing! I was in perpetual amazement that, with all
that has been said of the grandeur of this mighty river, so
little testimony has been borne to its beauty.</p>

<p>On the evening of our first day on the Mississippi, Mr.
E. told me of the imminent danger he and his lady had
twice been in on board steamboats. His stories give an
idea of the perils people should make up their minds to on
such excursions as ours. On their wedding journey, the
E.'s, accompanied by their relative, Judge H., went down the
Alabama river. One night, when Mr. E. was just concluding
the watch I have described him as keeping, the boat
ran foul of another, and parted in two, beginning instantly
to sink. Mr. E. roused his lady from her sleep, made her
thrust her feet into his boots, threw his cloak over her, and
carried her up to the deck, not doubting that, from her being
the only lady on board, she would be the first to be accommodated
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span>
in the boat. But the boat had been seized by some
gamblers who were wide awake and ready dressed when
the accident happened, and they had got clear of the steamer.
Mr. E. shouted to them to take in the lady, only the lady;
he promised that neither Judge H. nor himself should enter
the boat. They might have come back for every one on
board with perfect safety; but he could not move them.
Judge H., meanwhile, had secured a plank, on which he
hoped to seat Mrs. E., while Mr. E. and himself, both
good swimmers, might push it before them to the shore if
they could escape the eddy from the sinking vessel. Mr.
E. heard next the voice of an old gentleman whom he knew,
who was in the boat, and trying to persuade the fellows to
turn back. Mr. E. shouted to him to shoot the wretches if
they would not come. The old gentleman took the hint,
and held a pistol (which, however, was not loaded) at the
head of the man who was steering; upon which they
turned back and took in, not only Mrs. E., her party, and
their luggage, but everybody else, so that no lives were lost.
Mrs. E. lost nothing but the clothes she had left by her bedside.
She was perfectly quiet and obedient to directions the
whole time. The vessel sank within a quarter of an hour.</p>

<p>A few years after the E.'s went up the Mississippi with
their little girl. Some fine ladies on board wondered at Mrs.
E. for shaking hands with a rude farmer with whom she had
some acquaintance, and it appears probable that the farmer
was aware of what passed. When Mr. E. was going down
to bed, near day, he heard a deck passenger say to another,
in a tone of alarm, "I say, John, look here!" "What's the
matter?" asked Mr. E. "Nothing, sir, only the boat's
sinking." Mr. E. ran to the spot, and found the news too
true. The vessel had been pierced by a snag, and the
water was rushing in by hogsheads. The boat seemed
likely to be at the bottom in ten minutes. Mr. E. handed
the men a pole, and bade them thrust their bedding into the
breach, which they did with much cleverness, till the carpenter
was ready with a better plug. The horrid words,
"the boat's sinking," had, however, been overheard, and the
screams of the ladies were dreadful. The uproar above
and below was excessive; but through it all was heard the
voice of the rough farmer, saying, "Where's E.'s girl? I
shall save her first." The boat was run safely ashore, and
the fright was the greatest damage sustained.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span></p>

<p>We passed Baton Rouge, on the east Louisiana bank, on
the afternoon of this day. It stands on the first eminence
we had seen on these shores, and the barracks have a handsome
appearance from the water. A summer-house, perched
on a rising ground, was full of people, amusing themselves
with smoking and looking abroad upon the river; and, truly,
they had an enviable station. A few miles farther on we
went ashore at the wooding-place, and I had my first walk
in the untrodden forest. The height of the trees seemed incredible
as we stood at their foot and looked up. It made
us feel suddenly dwarfed. We stood in a crowd of locust
and cottonwood trees, elm, maple, and live oak; and they
were all bound together by an inextricable tangle of creepers,
which seemed to forbid our penetrating many paces
into the forest beyond where the woodcutters had intruded.
I had a great horror of going too far, and was not sorry to find
it impossible; it would be so easy for the boat to leave two
or three passengers behind without finding it out, and no fate
could be conceived more desolate. I looked into the woodcutters'
dwelling, and hardly knew what to think of the hardihood
of any one who could embrace such a mode of life
for a single week on any consideration. Amid the desolation
and abominable dirt, I observed a moscheto bar&mdash;a
muslin curtain&mdash;suspended over the crib. Without this,
the dweller in the wood would be stung almost to madness
or death before morning. This curtain was nearly of a saffron
colour; the floor of the hut was of damp earth, and the
place so small that the wonder was how two men could live
in it. There was a rude enclosure round it to keep off intruders,
but the space was grown over with the rankest
grass and yellow weeds. The ground was swampy all
about, up to the wall of untouched forest which rendered
this spot inaccessible except from the river. The beautiful
squills-flower grew plentifully, the only relief to the eye
from the vastness and rankness. Piles of wood were built
up on the brink of the river, and were now rapidly disappearing
under the activity of our deck-passengers, who were
passing in two lines to and from the vessel. The bell from
the boat tinkled through the wilderness like a foreign sound.
We hastened on board, and I watched the woodcutters with
deep pity as they gazed after us for a minute or two, and
then turned into their forlorn abode.</p>

<p>We were in hopes of passing the junction of the Red
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span>
River with the Mississippi before dark, but found that we
were not to see the Red River at all; a channel having been
partly found and partly made between an island and the
eastern shore, which saves a circuit of many miles. In
this narrow channel the current ran strong against us; and
as we laboured through it in the evening light, we had opportunity
to observe every green meadow, every solitary dwelling
which presented itself in the intervals of the forest.
We grew more and more silent as the shades fell, till we
emerged from the dark channel into the great expanse of the
main river, glittering in the moonlight. It was like putting
out to sea.</p>

<p>Just before bedtime we stopped at Sarah Bayou to take in
still more passengers. The steward complained that he was
coming to an end of his mattresses, and that there was very
little more room for gentlemen to lie down, as they were
already ranged along the tables, as well as all over the floor.
So much for the reputation of the "Henry Clay."</p>

<p>The next morning, the 8th, I was up in time to see the
scramble for milk that was going on at the wooding-place.
The moment we drew to the land and the plank was put
out, the steward leaped on shore, and ran to the woodcutters'
dwelling, pitcher in hand. The servants of the gentry
on board followed, hoping to get milk for breakfast; but
none succeeded except the servant of an exclusive. This
family had better have been without milk to their coffee
than have been tempted by it to such bad manners as they
displayed at the breakfast-table. Two young ladies who
had come on board the night before, who suspected nothing
of private luxuries at a public table, and were not aware of
the scarcity of milk, asked a waiter to hand them a pitcher
which happened to belong to the exclusives. The exclusives'
servant was instantly sent round to take it from them,
and not a word of explanation was offered.</p>

<p>The woodcutters' dwelling before us was very different
from the one we had seen the night before. It was a good-sized
dwelling, with a cottonwood tree before it, casting a
flickering shadow upon the porch, and behind it was a well-cleared
field. The children were decently dressed, and
several slaves peeped out from the places where they were
pursuing their avocations. A passenger brought me a beautiful
bunch of dwarf-roses which he had gathered over the
garden paling. The piles of wood prepared for the steamboats
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span>
were enormous, betokening that there were many
stout arms in the household.</p>

<p>This morning we seemed to be lost among islands in a
waste of waters. The vastness of the river now began to
bear upon our imaginations. The flatboats we met looked
as if they were at the mercy of the floods, their long oars
bending like straws in the current. They are so picturesque,
however, and there is something so fanciful in the
canopy of green boughs under which the floating voyagers
repose during the heat of the day, that some of us proposed
building a flatboat on the Ohio, and floating down to New-Orleans
at our leisure.</p>

<p>Adams Fort, in the state of Mississippi, afforded the
most beautiful view we had yet seen on the river. The
swelling hills, dropped with wood, closed in a reach of
the waters, and gave them the appearance of a lake.
White houses nestled in the clumps; goats, black and white,
browsed on the points of the many hills; and a perfect
harmony of colouring dissolved the whole into something
like a dream. This last charm is as striking to us as any
in the vast wilderness through which the "Father of Waters"
takes his way. Even the turbid floods, varying their
hues with the changes of light and shadow, are a fit element
of the picture, and no one wishes them other than they are.</p>

<p>In the afternoon we ran over a log; the vessel trembled
to her centre; the ladies raised their heads from their work;
the gentlemen looked overboard; and I saw our yawl snagged
as she was careering at the stern. The sharp end of
the log pricked through her bottom as if she had been made
of brown paper. She was dragged after us, full of water,
till we stopped at the evening wooding-place, when I ran to
the hurricane deck to see her pulled up on shore and mended.
There I found the wind so high that it appeared to me
equally impossible to keep my seat and to get down; my
feather-fan blew away, and I expected to follow it myself&mdash;so
strangling was the gust&mdash;one of the puffs which take the
voyager by surprise amid the windings of this forest-banked
river. The yawl was patched up in a surprisingly short
time. The deck passengers clustered round to lend a hand,
and the blows of the mallet resounded fitfully along the
shore as the gust came and passed over.</p>

<p>Every one wished to reach and leave Natchez before
dark, and this was accomplished. As soon as we came in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span>
sight of the bluff on which the city is built, we received a
hint from the steward to lock our staterooms and leave
nothing about, as there was no preventing the townspeople
from coming on board. We went on shore. No place
can be more beautifully situated; on a bend of the Mississippi,
with a low platform on which all the ugly traffic of
the place can be transacted; bluffs on each side; a steep
road up to the town; and a noble prospect from thence.
The streets are sloping, and the drains are remarkably well
built; but the place is far from healthy, being subject to the
yellow fever. It is one of the oldest of the southern cities,
though with a new, that is, a perpetually-shifting population.
It has handsome buildings, especially the Agricultural Bank,
the Courthouse, and two or three private dwellings. Main-street
commands a fine view from the ascent, and is lined
with Pride-of-India trees. I believe the landing-place at
Natchez has not improved its reputation since the descriptions
which have been given of it by former travellers.
When we returned to the boat after an hour's walk, we
found the captain very anxious to clear his vessel of the
townspeople and get away. The cabin was half full of the
intruders, and the heated, wearied appearance of our company
at tea bore testimony to the fatigues of the afternoon.</p>

<p>In the evening only one firefly was visible; the moon
was misty, and faint lightning flashed incessantly. Before
morning the weather was so cold that we shut our windows,
and the next day there was a fire in the ladies' cabin.
Such are the changes of temperature in this region.</p>

<p>The quantity of driftwood that we encountered above
Natchez was amazing. Some of it was whirling slowly
down with the current, but much more was entangled in the
bays of the islands, and detained in incessant accumulation.
It can scarcely be any longer necessary to explain that it is
a mistake to suppose this driftwood to be the foundation of
the islands of the Mississippi. Having itself no foundation,
it could not serve any such purpose. The islands are formed
by deposites of soil brought down from above by the
strong force of the waters. The accumulation proceeds till
it reaches the surface, when the seeds contained in the soil,
or borne to it by the winds, sprout, and bind the soft earth
by a network of roots, thus providing a basis for a stronger
vegetation every year. It is no wonder that superficial
observers have fallen into this error respecting the origin of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span>
the new lands of the Mississippi, the rafts of driftwood look
so like incipient islands; and when one is fixed in a picturesque
situation, the gazer longs to heap earth upon it,
and clothe it with shrubbery.</p>

<p>When we came in sight of Vicksburg the little H.'s made
a clamour for some new toys. Their mother told them
how very silly they were; what a waste of money it would
be to buy such toys as they would get at Vicksburg; that
they would suck the paint, &amp;c. Strange to say, none of
these considerations availed anything. Somebody had told
the children that toys were to be bought at Vicksburg, and
all argument was to them worth less than the fact. The
contention went on till the boat stopped, when the mother
yielded, with the worst possible grace, and sent a slave
nurse on shore to buy toys. An hour after we were again
on our way, the lady showed me, in the presence of the
children, the wrecks of the toys; horses' legs, dogs' heads,
the broken body of a wagon, &amp;c., all, whether green, scarlet,
or yellow, sucked into an abominable daub. She complained
bitterly of the children for their folly, and particularly
for their waste of her money, as if the money were
not her concern, and the fun theirs!</p>

<p>We walked through three or four streets of Vicksburg,
but the captain could not allow us time to mount the hill.
It is a raw-looking, straggling place, on the side of a steep
ascent, the steeple of the Courthouse magnificently overlooking
a huge expanse of wood and a deep bend of the river.
It was three months after this time that the tremendous
Vicksburg massacre took place; a deed at which the whole
country shuddered, and much of the world beyond. In these
disorders upward of twenty persons were executed, without
trial by jury or pretence of justice. Some of the sufferers
were gamblers, and men of bad character otherwise; some
were wholly innocent of any offence whatever; and I believe
it is now generally admitted that the plot for rousing
the slaves to insurrection, which was the pretext for the
whole proceeding, never had any real existence. It was
the product of that peculiar faculty of imagination which is
now monopolized by the slaveholder, as of old by imperial
tyrants. Among the sufferers in this disturbance was a
young farmer of Ohio, I think, who was proceeding to New-Orleans
on business, and was merely resting on the eastern
bank of the river on his way. I have seldom seen anything
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span>
more touching than his brief letter to his parents, informing
them that he was to be executed the next morning. Nothing
could be quieter in its tone than this letter; and in it he desired
that his family would not grieve too much for his sudden
death, for he did not know that he could ever feel more
ready for the event than then. His old father wrote an affecting
appeal to the Governor of Mississippi, desiring, not
vengeance, for that could be of no avail to a bereaved parent,
but investigation, for the sake of his son's memory and the
future security of innocent citizens. The governor did not
recognise the appeal. The excuse made for him was that
he could not; that if the citizens of the state preferred Lynch
law to regular justice, the governor could do nothing against
the will of the majority. The effect of barbarism like this
is not to justify the imputation of its excesses to the country
at large, but to doom the region in which it prevails to be
peopled by barbarians. The lovers of justice and order
will avoid the places where they are set at naught.</p>

<p>Every day reminded us of the superiority of our vessel,
for we passed every boat going the same way, and saw
some so delayed by accidents that we wondered what was
to become of the passengers; at least, of their patience. A
disabled boat was seen on the morning of this day, the 9th,
crowded with Kentuckians, some of whom tried to win their
way on board the "Henry Clay" by witticisms; but our
captain was inexorable, declaring that we could hold no
more. Then we passed the Ohio steamboat, which left New-Orleans
three days before us, but was making her way very
slowly, with cholera on board.</p>

<p>The 10th was Sunday. The children roared as usual;
but the black damsels were dressed; there was no laundry-work
going on, nor fancy-work in the cabin; and there was
something of a Sunday look about the place. As I was
sitting by my stateroom window, sometimes reading and
sometimes looking out upon the sunny river, green woods,
and flatboats that keep no Sabbath, a black servant entered
to say that Mr. E. desired me "to come to the preachin'."
I thought it unlikely that Mr. E. should be concerned in the
affair, and knew too well what the service was likely to be
in such a company, and conducted by such a clergyman as
was to officiate, to wish to attend. I found afterward that
the service had been held against the wishes of the captain,
Mr. E., and many others; and that it had better, on all
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span>
accounts, have been omitted. Some conversation which the
young clergyman had thrust upon me had exhibited not only
his extreme ignorance of the religious feelings and convictions
of Christians who differed from him, but no little bitterness
of contempt towards them; and he was, therefore,
the last person to conduct the worship of a large company
whose opinions and sentiments were almost as various as
their faces. This reminds me that an old lady on board
asked an acquaintance of mine what my religion was. On
being told that I was a Unitarian, she exclaimed, "She had
better have done with that; she won't find it go down with
us." It never occurred to me before to determine my religion
by what would please people on the Mississippi.</p>

<p>Before breakfast one morning, when I was walking on
the hurricane deck, I was joined by a young man who had
been educated at West Point, and who struck me as being
a fair and creditable specimen of American youth. He told
me that he was very poor, and described his difficulties from
being disappointed of the promotion he had expected on
leaving West Point. He was now turning to the law; and
he related by what expedients he meant to obtain the advantage
of two years' study of law before settling in Maine.
His land-travelling was done on foot, and there was no pretension
to more than his resources could command. His
manners were not so good as those of American youths generally,
and he was not, at first, very fluent, but expressed
himself rather in schoolboy phrase. His conversation was,
however, of a host of metaphysicians as well as lawyers;
and I thought he would never have tired of analyzing
Bentham, from whom he passed on, like every one who
talks in America about books or authors, to Bulwer, dissecting
his philosophy and politics very acutely. He gave
me clear and sensible accounts of the various operation
of more than one of the United States institutions, and
furnished me with some very acceptable information. After
our walk and conversation had lasted an hour and a half,
we were summoned to breakfast, and I thought we had
earned it.</p>

<p>During the morning I heard a friend of mine, in an earnest
but amused tone, deprecating a compliment from two
slave women who were trying to look most persuasive.
They were imploring her to cut out a gown for each of them
like the one she wore. They were so enormously fat and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span>
slovenly, and the lady's dress fitted so neatly, as to make
the idea of the pattern being transferred to them most ludicrous.
As long as we were on board, however, I believe
they never doubted my friend's power of making them look
like herself if she only would; and they continued to cast
longing glances on the gown.</p>

<p>On the 11th we overtook another disabled steamboat,
which had been lying forty-eight hours with both her cylinders
burst; unable, of course, to move a yard. We towed
her about two miles to a settlement, and the captain agreed
to take on board two young ladies who were anxious to proceed,
and a few deck-passengers.</p>

<p>The scenery was by this time very wild. These hundreds
of miles of level woods, and turbid, rushing waters,
and desert islands, are oppressive to the imagination. Very
few dwellings were visible. We went ashore in the afternoon,
just for the sake of having been in Arkansas. We
could penetrate only a little way through the young cottonwood
and the tangled forest, and we saw nothing.</p>

<p>In the evening we touched at Helena, and more passengers
got on board, in defiance of the captain's shouts of refusal.
He declared that the deck was giving way under
the crowd, and that he would not go near the shore again,
but anchor in the middle of the river, and send his boats for
provisions.</p>

<p>While I was reading on the morning of the 12th, the report
of a rifle from the lower deck summoned me to look
out. There were frequent rifle-shots, and they always betokened
our being near shore; generally under the bank,
where the eye of the sportsman was in the way of temptation
from some object in the forest. We were close under
the eastern bank, whence we could peep through the massy
beech-trunks into the dark recesses of the woods. For two
days our eyes had rested on scenery of this kind; now it
was about to change. We were approaching the fine Chickasaw
bluffs, below Memphis, in the State of Tennessee.
The captain expressed a wish that none of the passengers
would go on shore at Memphis, where the cholera was raging.
He intended to stay only a few minutes for bread and
vegetables, and would not admit a single passenger on any
consideration. We did not dream of disregarding his wishes,
if, indeed, the heat had left us any desire to exert ourselves;
but Mr. B. was so anxious that his lady should mount the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span>
bluff, that she yielded to his request; though, stout and
elderly as she was, the ascent would have been a serious
undertaking on a cool afternoon and with plenty of time.
The entire company of passengers was assembled to watch
the objects on shore; the cotton bales piled on the top of
the bluff; the gentleman on horseback on the ridge, who
was eying us in return; the old steamer, fitted up as a store,
and moored by the bank, for the chance of traffic with voyagers;
and, above all, the slaves, ascending and descending
the steep path, with trays of provisions on their heads, the
new bread and fresh vegetables with which we were to be
cheered. Of course, all eyes were fixed upon Mr. and Mrs.
B. as they attempted the ascent. The husband lent his best
assistance, and dragged his poor lady about one third of the
way up, when she suddenly found that she could not go a
step forward or back; she stuck, in a most finished attitude
of panic, with her face to the cliff and her back to us, her
husband holding her up by one arm, and utterly at a loss
what to do next. I hope they did not hear the shout of
laughter which went up from our vessel. A stout boatman
ran to their assistance, and enabled the lady to turn round,
after which she came down without accident. She won
everybody's esteem by her perfect good-humour on the occasion.
Heated and flurried as she was, she was perfectly
contented with having tried to oblige her husband. This
was her object, and she gained it; and more, more than she
was aware of, unless, indeed, she found that her fellow-passengers
were more eager to give her pleasure after this adventure
than before.</p>

<p>The town of Memphis looked bare and hot; and the
bluffs, though a relief from the level vastness on which we
had been gazing for two days, are not so beautiful as the
eminences four or five hundred miles below.</p>

<p>The air was damp and close this night; the moon dim,
the lightning blue, and glaring incessantly, and the woodashes
from the chimneys very annoying. It was not
weather for the deck; and, seeing that Mr. E. and two other
gentlemen wanted to make up a rubber, I joined them. In
our well-lighted cabin the lightning seemed to pour in in
streams, and the thunder soon began to crack overhead.
Mrs. H. came to us, and rebuked us for playing cards while
it thundered, which she thought very blasphemous. When
our rubber was over, and I retired to the ladies' cabin, I found
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span>
that the lady had been doing something which had at least
as much levity in it. After undressing, she had put on her
life-preserver, and floundered on the floor to show how she
should swim if the boat sank. Her slaves had got under
the table to laugh. They little thought how near we might
come to swimming for our lives before morning. I believe
it was about three hours after midnight when I was awakened
by a tremendous and unaccountable noise overhead.
It was most like ploughing through a forest, and crashing all
the trees down. The lady who shared my stateroom was
up, pale and frightened, and lights were moving in the ladies'
cabin. I did not choose to cause alarm by inquiry; but the
motion of the boat was so strange, that I thought it must
waken every one on board. The commotion lasted, I should
think, about twenty minutes, when I suppose it subsided, for
I fell asleep. In the morning I was shown the remains of
hailstones, which must have been of an enormous size, to
judge by what was left of them at the end of three hours.
Mr. E. told me that we had been in the utmost danger for
above a quarter of an hour, from one of the irresistible squalls
to which this navigation is liable. Both the pilots had been
blown away from the helm, and were obliged to leave the
vessel to its fate. It was impossible to preserve a footing
for an instant on the top; and the poor passengers who lay
there had attempted to come down, bruised with the tremendous
hail (which caused the noise we could not account for),
and seeing, with the pilot, no other probability than that the
hurricane deck would be blown completely away; but there
was actually no standing room for these men, and they had
to remain above and take their chance. The vessel drove
madly from side to side of the dangerous channel, and the
pilots expected every moment that she would founder. I
find that we usually made much more way by night than by
day, the balance of the boat being kept even while the passengers
are equally dispersed and quiet, instead of running
from side to side, or crowding the one gallery and deserting
the other.</p>

<p>I was on the lookout for alligators all the way up the
river, but could never see one. A deck passenger declared
that a small specimen slipped off a log into the water one
day when nobody else was looking; but his companions
supposed he might be mistaken, as alligators are now rarely
seen in this region. Terrapins were very numerous, sometimes
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span>
sunning themselves on floating logs, and sometimes
swimming, with only their pert little heads visible above
water. Wood-pigeons might be seen flitting in the forest
when we were so close under the banks as to pry into the
shades, and the beautiful blue jay often gleamed before our
eyes. No object was more striking than the canoes which
we frequently saw, looking fearfully light and frail amid the
strong current. The rower used a spoon-shaped paddle,
and advanced with amazing swiftness; sometimes crossing
before our bows, sometimes darting along under the bank,
sometimes shooting across a track of moonlight. Very often
there was only one person in the canoe, as in the instance I
have elsewhere mentioned<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> of a woman who was supposed
to be going on a visit twenty or thirty miles up the stream.
I could hardly have conceived of a solitude so intense as
this appeared to me, the being alone on that rushing sea of
waters, shut in by untrodden forests; the slow fishhawk
wheeling overhead, and perilous masses of driftwood whirling
down the current; trunks obviously uprooted by the
forces of nature, and not laid low by the hand of man.
What a spectacle must our boat, with its gay crowds, have
appeared to such a solitary! what a revelation that there
was a busy world still stirring somewhere; a fact which, I
think, I should soon discredit if I lived in the depths of this
wilderness, for life would become tolerable there only by the
spirit growing into harmony with the scene, wild and solemn
as the objects around it.</p>

<p>The morning after the storm the landscape looked its
wildest. The clouds were drifting away, and a sungleam
came out as I was peeping into the forest at the wooding-place.
The vines look beautiful on the black trunks of the
trees after rain. Scarcely a habitation was to be seen, and
it was like being set back to the days of creation, we passed
so many islands in every stage of growth. I spent part of
the morning with the L.'s, and we were more than once
alarmed by a fearful scream, followed by a trampling and
scuffling in the neighbouring gallery. It was only some
young ladies, with their work and guitar, who were in a
state of terror because some green boughs <i>would</i> sweep over
when we were close under the bank. They could not be
reassured by the gentlemen who waited upon them, nor
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span>
would they change their seats; so that we were treated with
a long series of screams, till the winding of the channel carried
us across to the opposite bank.</p>

<p>In the afternoon we came in sight of New Madrid, in the
State of Missouri; a scattered small place, on a green tableland.
We sighed to think how soon our wonderful voyage
would be over, and at every settlement we reached repined at
being there so soon. While others went on shore, I remained
on board to see how they looked, dispersed in the woods,
grouped round the woodpiles, and seated on logs. The
clergyman urged my going, saying, "It's quite a retreat to
go on shore." This gentleman is vice-president of an educational
establishment for young ladies, where there are public
exhibitions of their proficiency, and the poor ignorant
little girls take degrees. Their heads must be so stuffed
with vainglory that there can be little room for anything
else.</p>

<p>There were threatenings of another night of storm. The
vessel seemed to labour much, and the weather was gusty,
with incessant lightnings. The pilots said that they were
never in such danger on the river as for twenty minutes of the
preceding night. The captain was, however, very thankful
for a few hours of cold weather; for his boat was so overcrowded
as to make him dread, above all things, the appearance
of disease on board. Some of us went to bed early
this night, expecting to be called up to see the junction of
the Ohio with the Mississippi by such light as there might
be two hours after midnight. Mr. E. promised to have me
called, and on the faith of this I went to sleep at the usual
time. I had impressed him with my earnest desire not to
miss this sight, as I had seen no junction of large rivers, except
that of the Tombigbee with the Alabama. Mrs. B.
would not trust to being called, but sat up, telling her husband
that it was now his turn to gratify her, and he must
come for her in good time to see the spectacle. Both she
and I were disappointed, however. When I awoke it was
five o'clock, and we were some miles into the Ohio. Mr.
E. had fallen asleep, and awaked just a minute too late to
make it of any use to rouse me. Mr. B. had put his head
into his wife's room to tell her that the cabin floor was so
completely covered with sleepers that she could not possibly
make her way to the deck, and he shut the door before she
could open her lips to reply. Her lamentations were sad.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span>
"The three great rivers meeting and all; and the little
place on the point called Trinity and all; and I having sat
up for it and all! It is a bad thing on some accounts to be
married. If I had been a single woman, I could have managed
it all for myself, I know."</p>

<p>However, junctions became frequent now, and we saw two
small ones in the morning, to make up for having missed
the large one in the night. When I went up on deck I
found the sun shining on the full Ohio, which was now as
turbid as the Mississippi, from the recent storms. The
stream stood in among the trees on either bank to a great
depth and extent, it was so swollen. The most enormous
willows I ever saw overhung our deck, and the beechen
shades beyond, where the turf and unencumbered stems
were dressed in translucent green, seemed like a palace of
the Dryads. How some of us fixed our eyes on the shores
of free Illinois! After nearly five months of sojourn in
slaveland, we were now in sight of a free state once more.
I saw a settler in a wild spot, looking very lonely among
the tall trees; but I felt that I would rather be that man than
the wealthiest citizen of the opposite state, who was satisfied
to dwell there among his slaves.</p>

<p>At eleven o'clock on this the ninth and last day of our voyage
we passed Paducah, in Kentucky, a small neat settlement
on the point of junction of the Tennessee and Ohio. Preparations
were going on before our eyes for our leaving the
boat; our luggage and that of the L.'s, who joined company
with us, was brought out; cold beef and negus were provided
for us in the ladies' cabin, the final sayings were being said,
and we paid our fare, fifty dollars each, for our voyage of
twelve hundred miles. Smithland, at the mouth of the Cumberland
river, soon appeared; and, as we wished to ascend to
Nashville without delay, we were glad to see a small steamboat
in waiting. We stepped on shore, and stood there, in
spite of a shower, for some time, watching the "Henry
Clay" ploughing up the river, and waving our handkerchiefs
in answer to signals of farewell from several of the multitude
who were clustered in every part of the noble vessel.</p>

<p>If there be excess of mental luxury in this life, it is surely
in a voyage up the Mississippi, in the bright and leafy month
of May
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span>
</p>
<br />
<hr />
<h2><a name="Compromise" id="Compromise"></a>COMPROMISE.</h2>
<div style="margin-left: 5em;">"For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind."&mdash;<i>Hosea</i>
viii., 7.</div>

<p class="p1">The greatest advantage of long life, at least to those who
know how and wherefore to live, is the opportunity which
it gives of seeing moral experiments worked out, of being
present at the fructification of social causes, and of thus
gaining a kind of wisdom which in ordinary cases seems
reserved for a future life. An equivalent for this advantage
is possessed by such as live in those critical periods of society
when retribution is hastened, or displayed in clear connexion
with the origin of its events. The present seems to
be such an age. It is an age in which the societies of the
whole world are daily learning the consequences of what
their fathers did, the connexion of cause and effect being too
palpable to be disputed; it is an age when the active men
of the New World are beholding the results of their own early
counsels and deeds. It seems, indeed, as if the march of
events were everywhere accelerated for a time, so as to furnish
some who are not aged with a few complete pieces of
experience. Some dispensation&mdash;like the political condition
of France, for instance&mdash;will still be centuries in the working
out; but in other cases&mdash;the influence of eminent men,
for example&mdash;results seem to follow more closely than in
the slower and quieter past ages of the world. It is known
to all how in England, and also in America, the men of the
greatest intellectual force have sunk from a higher to a far
lower degree of influence from the want of high morals. It
seems as if no degree of talent and vigour can long avail to
keep a man eminent in either politics or literature, unless
his morals are also above the average. Selfish vanity,
double-dealing, supreme regard to expediency, are as fatal
to the most gifted men in these days, and almost as speedily
fatal, as intellectual capacity to a pretender. Men of far
inferior knowledge and power rise over their heads in the
strength of honesty; and by dint of honesty (positive or
comparitive) retain the supremacy, even through a display
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span>
of intellectual weakness and error of which the fallen make
their sport. This is a cheering sign of the times, indicating
that the days are past when men were possessed by
their leaders, and that the time is coming when power will
be less unfairly distributed, and held on a better tenure than
it has been. It indicates that traitors and oppressors will
not, in future, be permitted to work their will and compass
their purposes at the expense of others, till guilty will and
purpose are prostrated on the threshold of eternity. It indicates
that that glorious and beautiful spectacle of judgment
may be beheld in this world which religious men have referred
to another, when the lowly shall be exalted; when,
unconscious of their dignity, they shall, with amazement,
hear themselves greeted as the blessed of the Father, and
see themselves appointed to a moral sovereignty in comparison
with whose splendour</p>

<div style="margin-left: 5em;">
<span style="margin-left: 10em;">"Grows dim and dies</span><br />
All that this world is proud of. From their spheres<br />
The stars of human glory are cast down;<br />
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,<br />
Princes, and emperors, and the crowns and palms<br />
Of all the mighty, withered and consumed."<br />
</div>

<p>However long it may be before the last shred of tinsel
may be cast into the fire, and the last chaff of false pretence
winnowed away, the revolution is good and secure as far as
it goes. Moral power has begun its long series of conquests
over physical force and selfish cunning, and the diviner part
of man is a guarantee that not one inch of the ground gained
shall ever be lost. For our encouragement, we are presented
with a more condensed evidence of retribution than
has hitherto been afforded to the world. Moral causes
seem to be quickened as well as strengthened in their operation
by the new and more earnest heed which is given to
them.</p>

<p>In the New World, however long some moral causes may
be in exhibiting their results, there have been certain deeds
done which have produced their consequences with extraordinary
rapidity and an indisputable clearness. May all men
open their eyes to see them, and their hearts to understand
them!</p>

<p>The people of the United States were never under a
greater temptation to follow temporary expediency in preference
to everlasting principle than in the case of the admission
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span>
of Missouri, with slave institutions, into the Union. To
this temptation they yielded, by a small majority of their
representatives. The final decision rested, as it happened,
in the hands of one man, Mr. Clay; but it is to the shame
of the North (which had abolished slavery) that it did so
happen. The decision was made to prefer custom and expediency
to principle; it was hoped that, if the wind were
once got under confinement, something would prevent its
bursting forth as the whirlwind.</p>

<p>The plea of slaveholders, and a plausible one up to the
year 1820, was that slavery was not an institution of their
choice or for which they were answerable: it was an inherited
institution. Since the year 1820 this plea has become
hypocrisy; for in that year a deliberate vote was passed by
Congress to perpetuate slavery in the Union by admitting
a new state whose institutions had this basis. The new
states northwest of the Ohio were prohibited from introducing
slavery by the very act of cession of the land; and
nothing could have been easier than to procure the exclusion
of slavery from Missouri by simply refusing to admit any
new state whose distinguishing institution was one incompatible
in principle with the principles on which the American
Constitution was founded. Missouri would undoubtedly have
surrendered slavery, been admitted, and virtuously flourished,
like her neighbour Illinois. But there was division of opinion;
and, because the political device of the Union seemed
in danger, the eternal principles of justice were set aside, and
protection was deliberately pledged to slavery, not only in
Missouri, but, as a consequence, in Arkansas and Florida.
The Constitution and Declaration of Rights of Missouri,
therefore, exhibit the following singular mixture of declarations
and provisions. It will be seen afterward how they
are observed.</p>

<p>"The general assembly shall not have power to pass
laws,</p>

<p>"1. For the emancipation of slaves without the consent
of the owners; or without paying them, before such emancipation,
a full equivalent for such slaves so emancipated;
and,</p>

<p>"2. To prevent <i>bonâ fide</i> emigrants to this state, or actual
settlers therein, from bringing from any of the United
States, or from any of their territories, such persons as may
there be deemed to be slaves, so long as any persons of the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span>
same description are allowed to be held as slaves by the
laws of this state.</p>

<p>"It shall be their duty, as soon as may be, to pass such
laws as may be necessary,</p>

<p>"1. To prevent free negroes and mulattoes from coming
to and settling in this state, under any pretext whatsoever."</p>

<p>"Schools and the means of education shall for ever be
encouraged in this state.</p>

<p>"That the right of trial by jury shall remain inviolate.</p>

<p>"That the accused cannot be deprived of life, liberty, or
property, but by the judgment of his peers or the law of the
land.</p>

<p>"That cruel and unusual punishments shall not be inflicted.</p>

<p>"That the free communication of thoughts and opinions
is one of the invaluable rights of man, and that every person
may freely speak, write, and print on any subject, being responsible
for the abuse of that liberty."</p>

<p>The consequences of the compromise began to show
themselves first in the difference between the character of
the population in Missouri and Illinois, the latter of which
is two years older than the former. They lie opposite
each other on the Mississippi, and both are rich in advantages
of soil, climate, and natural productions. They
showed, however, social differences from the very beginning
of their independent career, which are becoming more striking
every day. Rapacious adventurers, who know that the utmost
profit of slaves is made by working them hard on a
virgin soil, began flocking to Missouri, while settlers who
preferred smaller gains to holding slaves sat down in Illinois.
When it was found, as it soon was, that slavery does
not answer so well in the farming parts of Missouri as on
the new plantations of the South, a farther difference took
place. New settlers perceived that, in point of immediate
interest merely, the fine lands of Missouri were less worth
having, with the curse of slavery upon them, than those of
Illinois without it. In vain has the price of land been lowered
in Missouri as that in Illinois rose. Settlers go first and
look at the cheaper land; some remain upon it; but many
recross the river and settle in the rival state. This enrages
the people of Missouri. Their soreness and jealousy, combined
with other influences of slavery, so exasperate their
prejudices against the people of colour as to give a perfectly
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span>
diabolical character to their hatred of negroes and the friends
of negroes. That such is the temper of those who conduct
popular action in the state is shown by some events which
happened in the year 1836. In the very bottom of the
souls of the American statesmen who admitted Missouri on
unrighteous terms, these events must kindle a burning comparison
between what the social condition of the frontier
states of their honourable Union is and what it might have
been.</p>

<p>A man of colour in St. Louis was arrested for some offence,
and rescued by a free man of his own colour, a citizen
of Pennsylvania, named Mackintosh, who was steward on
board a steamboat then at St. Louis. Mackintosh was conveyed
to jail for rescuing his comrade, whose side of the
question we have no means of knowing. Mackintosh appears
to have been a violent man, or, at least, to have been
in a state of desperation at the time that he was on his way
to jail, guarded by two peace-officers. He drew a knife
from his side (almost every man on the western frontier being
accustomed to carry arms), killed one of the officers, and
wounded the other. He was immediately lodged in the prison.
The wife and children of the murdered officer bewailed
him in the street, and excited the rage of the people against
Mackintosh. Some of the citizens acknowledged to me
that his colour was the provocation which aggravated their
rage so far beyond what it had ever been in somewhat similar
cases of personal violence, and that no one would have
dreamed of treating any white man as this mulatto was
treated. The citizens assembled round the jail in the afternoon,
demanding the prisoner, and the jailer delivered him
up. He was led into the woods on the outskirts of the city;
and, when there, they did not know what to do with him.
While deliberating they tied him to a tree. This seemed to
suggest the act which followed. A voice cried out, "Burn
him!" Many tongues echoed the cry. Brushwood was
rooted up, and a heap of green wood piled about the man.
Who furnished the fire does not seem to be known. Between
two and three thousand of the citizens of St. Louis
were present. Two gentlemen of the place assured me that
the deed was done by the hands of not more than six; but
they could give no account of the reasons why the two or
three thousand stood by in silence to behold the act of the
six, further than that they were afraid to interfere!
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span></p>

<p>The victim appears to have made no resistance nor entreaty.
He was, some say twenty minutes, some say half
an hour, in dying; during the whole of which time he was
praying or singing hymns in a firm voice. This fact was
the ground of an accusation made by magistrates of his being
"connected with the abolitionists." When his legs were
consumed so that his body dropped into the fire, and he was
no longer seen, a bystander observed to another, "There! it
is over with him: he does not feel any more now." "Yes,
I do," observed the man's quiet voice from out of the flames.</p>

<p>I saw the first notice which was given of this in the St.
Louis newspapers. The paragraph briefly related that a
ruffian of colour had murdered a citizen, had been demanded
by the indignant fellow-citizens of the murdered man, and
burned in the neighbourhood of the city; that this unjustifiable
act was to be regretted, but that it was hoped that the
veil of oblivion would be drawn over the deed. Some of
the most respectable of the citizens were in despair when
they found that the newspapers of the Union generally were
disposed to grant the last request; and it is plain that, on
the spot, no one dared to speak out about the act. The
charge of Judge Lawless (his real name) to the grand jury
is a sufficient commentary upon the state of St. Louis society.
He told the jury that a bad and lamentable deed had
been committed in burning a man alive without trial, but
that it was quite another question whether they were to take
any notice of it. If it should be proved to be the act of the
few, every one of those few ought undoubtedly to be indicted
and punished; but if it should be proved to be the act of the
many, incited by that electric and metaphysical influence
which occasionally carries on a multitude to do deeds above
and beyond the law, it was no affair for a jury to interfere
in. He spoke of Mackintosh as connected with the body of
abolitionists. Of course, the affair was found to be electric
and metaphysical, and all proceedings were dropped.</p>

<p>All proceedings in favour of law and order; others of an
opposite character were vigorously instituted by magistrates,
in defiance of some of those clauses of the constitution which
I have quoted above. The magistrates of St. Louis prosecuted
a domiciliary inquisition into the periodical publications
of the city, visiting the newspaper offices, prying and
threatening, and offering rewards for the discovery of any
probability that the institution of slavery would be spoken
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span>
against in print. In the face of the law, the press was rigidly
controlled.</p>

<p>Information was given, while the city was in this excited
state, of every indication of favour to the coloured people,
and of disapprobation of slavery; and the savages of St.
Louis were on the alert to inflict vengeance. In Marion
College, Palmyra (Missouri), two students were undoubtedly
guilty of teaching two coloured boys to read. These
boys were carried by them to the college for service, the
one being employed on the farm, and the other in the college,
to clean shoes and wait on the young men. One afternoon
a large number of citizens from St. Louis, well
mounted, appeared on the Palmyra road, and they made no
secret of their intention to Lynch the two students who taught
their servants to read. The venerable Dr. Nelson, who
was, I believe, at the head of the institution, came out of his
house to implore the mob with tears not to proceed, and the
ladies of his family threw themselves down in the road in
the way of the horses. The way was forcibly cleared, and
the persecutors proceeded. The young men came forth as
soon as summoned. They were conducted to the edge of
the forest where it opens upon a prairie. There a circle
was formed, and they were told that they stood in a Lynch
court.</p>

<p>The younger one was first set in the midst. He acknowledged
the act with which he was charged. He was offered
the alternative of receiving twenty lashes with the horrid
cowhide (which was shown him), or of immediately leaving
the state for ever. He engaged to leave the state for ever,
and was set across the river into Illinois.</p>

<p>The elder student made his trial a longer one. He acknowledged
the act of teaching his servant to read, and
made himself heard while he defended it. He pleaded that
he was a citizen of Missouri, being of age, and having exercised
the suffrage at the last election. He demanded a
fair trial in a court of law, and pledged himself to meet any
accusation there. At last it came to their binding him to a
tree, and offering him the choice of two hundred lashes with
the cowhide, or of promising to leave the state, and never to
return to it. He knew that a sentence of two hundred lashes
meant death by torture (it is so understood in Lynch courts),
and he knew that a promise thus extorted was not binding;
so he promised. He was also set across the river, where he
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span>
immediately published a narrative of the whole transaction,
and declared his intention of returning to his state, to resume
the duties and privileges of citizenship, as soon as he could
be personally safe.</p>

<p>The St. Louis Lynchers next ordered the heads of Marion
College to hold a public meeting, and declare their convictions
and feelings on the subject of slavery. They were
obeyed, and they put pretty close questions to the professors,
especially to Dr. Ely, who was a suspected man.</p>

<p>Dr. Ely came from one of the Eastern states, and was
considered by the abolitionists of his own religious persuasion
to be one of their body. Some time after he went into
Missouri, it appeared incidentally in some newspaper communications
that he had bought a slave. His friends at the
East resented the imputation, and were earnest in his vindication;
but were presently stopped and thrown into amazement
by his coming out with an acknowledgment and defence
of the act. He thought that the way in which he
could do most good was by purchasing negroes for purposes
of enlightenment. So he bought his man Abraham, designing
to enlighten him for nine years, and then set him free,
employing the proceeds of his nine years' labour in purchasing
two other slaves, to be enlightened and robbed in the
same manner, for the purpose of purchasing four more at
the expiration of another series of years, and so on. It seems
astonishing that a clergyman should thus deliberately propose
to confer his charities through the medium of the grossest
injustice: but so it was. When, at the enforced meeting,
he was questioned by the Lynchers as to his principles,
he declared himself opposed to the unchristian fanaticism of
abolitionism; spurned the imputation of being one of the
body, and, in proof of his sincerity, declared himself to be
the master of one slave, and to be already contracting for
more.</p>

<p>The Lynchers returned to St. Louis without having committed
murder. They had triumphantly broken the laws,
and trodden under foot their constitution of sixteen years
old. If it could be made known at what expense they were
saved from bloodshed; if it could be revealed what violence
they offered to conscience, what feelings they lacerated,
what convictions they stifled, what passions they kindled,
what an undying worm they fixed at the core of many a
heart, at the root of many a life, it might have been clear to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span>
all eyes that the halter and the cowhide would have been
mercy in comparison with the tortures with which they
strewed their way.</p>

<p>I have told enough to show what comes of compromise.
There is no need to lengthen out my story of persecutions.
I will just mention that the last news from Missouri that I
saw was in the form of an account of the proceedings of its
legislature, but which yet seems to me incredible. It is
stated to have been enacted that any person of any complexion,
coming into or found in the State of Missouri, who shall
be proved to have spoken, written, or printed a word in disapprobation
of slavery or in favour of abolition, shall be sold
into slavery for the benefit of the state. If, in the fury of
the moment, such a law should really have been passed, it
must speedily be repealed. The general expectation is that
slavery itself will soon be abolished in Missouri, as it is
found to be unprofitable and perilous, and a serious drawback
to the prosperity of the region.</p>

<p>What a lesson is meantime afforded as to the results of
compromise! Missouri might now have been a peaceful
and orderly region, inhabited by settlers as creditable to their
country as those of the neighbouring free states, instead of
being a nest of vagabond slavedealers, rapacious slavedrivers,
and ferocious rioters. If the inhabitants think it hard that
all should be included in a censure which only some have
deserved, they must bestir themselves to show in their legislature,
and by their improved social order, that the majority
are more respectable than they have yet shown themselves
to be. At present it seems as if one who might have been
a prophet preaching in the wilderness had preferred the profession
of a bandit of the desert. But it should never be
forgotten whence came the power to inflict injury, by a permission
being given where there should have been a prohibition.
Whatever danger there ever was to the Union from
difference of opinion on the subject of the compromise is
now increased. The battle has still to be fought at a greater
disadvantage than when a bad deed was done to avert it.</p>
<br />
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="Cincinnati" id="Cincinnati"></a>CINCINNATI</h2>

<div style="margin-left: 5em;">"'Sir,' said the custom-house officer at Leghorn, 'your papers are
forged! there is no such place in the world! your vessel must be confiscated!'
The trembling captain laid before the officer a map of the
United States; directed him to the Gulf of Mexico, pointing out the
mouth of the Mississippi; led him 1000 miles up it to the mouth of the
Ohio, and thence another 1000 to Pittsburg. 'There, sir, is the port
whence my vessel cleared out.' The astonished officer, before he saw
the map, would as soon have believed that this ship had been navigated
from the moon."&mdash;<span class="smcap">Clay's</span> <i>Speeches</i>.</div>


<p class="p1">We reached Cincinnati by descending the Ohio from
Maysville, Kentucky, whence we took passage in the first
boat going down to the great City of the West. It happened
to be an inferior boat; but, as we were not to spend
a night on board, this was of little consequence. We were
summoned by the bell of the steamer at 9 A.M., but did not
set off till past noon. The cause of the delay forbade all
complaint, though we found our station in the sun, and out
of any breeze that might be stirring, oppressively hot, in the
hottest part of a midsummer day. The captain had sent
nine miles into the country for his mother, whom he was
going to convey to a place down the river, where her other
son was lying sick of the cholera. At noon the wagon with
the old lady and her packages appeared. We were prepared
to view her situation with the kindest feelings, but our
pity scarcely survived the attempts she made to ensure it. I
suppose the emotions of different minds must always have
different modes of expression, but I could comprehend nothing
of such a case as this. While there were apartments
on board where the afflicted mother might have indulged her
feelings in privacy, it was disagreeable to see the parade of
hartshorn and water, and exclamations and sensibilities, in
the presence of a company of entire strangers. Her son
and a kind-hearted stewardess were very attentive to her,
and it was much to be wished that she had been satisfied
with their assiduities.</p>

<p>The scenery was fully equal to my expectations; and
when we had put out into the middle of the river, we found
ourselves in the way of a breeze which enabled us to sit
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span>
outside, and enjoy the luxury of vision to the utmost. The
sunny and shadowy hills, advancing and retiring, ribbed and
crested with belts and clumps of gigantic beech; the rich
bottoms always answering on the one shore to the group of
hills on the other, a perfect level, smooth, rich, and green,
with little settlements sprinkled over it; the shady creeks,
very frequent between the hills, with sometimes a boat and
figures under the trees which meet over it; these were the
spectacles which succeeded each other before our untiring
eyes.</p>

<p>We touched at a number of small places on the banks to
put out and take in passengers. I believe we were almost
as impatient as the good captain to get to Richmond, where
his sick brother was lying, that the family might be out of
suspense about his fate. A letter was put into the captain's
hand from the shore which did not tend to raise his
spirits. It told him of the death, by cholera, of a lady
whom he had just brought up the river. The captain's
brother, however, was better. We were all committed to
the charge of the clerk of the boat; and as we put out into
the stream again, we saw the captain helping his mother up
the hill, and looking a changed man within a few minutes!</p>

<p>The moral plagues consequent on pestilence are an old
subject, but one ever new to the spectator. The selfishness
of survivers, the brutality of the well to the sick in a time
of plague, have been held up to the detestation of the untried
from the days of Defoe downward at least; but it
seems as if the full horror of such a paroxysm of society had
been left to be exhibited in America. Not that the ravages
of the cholera were or could be fiercer there than in the
plague-seasons of the Old World; but that, in a country so
much more Christianized in a spirit of helpfulness than any
other, examples of selfish desertion show a more ghastly
aspect than elsewhere. The disease was met there, and its
inflictions sustained in the noblest spirit of charity, courage,
and wisdom. A thousand-and-one tales might be told of the
devotion of the clergy to their flocks, of masters to their
slaves, of physicians to the poor, of neighbours to each
other; but, in fearful contrast to these, stood out some of the
gloomy facts which belong to such a time. In the West the
disease was particularly fatal, and the panic was not stilled
when I was there, two years after the most destructive
season. In the vicinity of Lexington, Kentucky, I saw a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span>
large white house, prettily placed, and was told of the dismal
end of its late occupier, a lady who was beloved above
everybody in the neighbourhood, and who, on account of her
benevolent deeds, would have been previously supposed the
last person likely to want for solace on her dying bed. In
this house lived Mrs. J., with her sister, Miss A. Miss A.
died of cholera at nine in the evening, and was buried in the
garden during the night by the servants. Mrs. J. was taken
ill before the next evening, and there was no female hand
near to tend her. The physician, who knew how much he
was wanted in the town, felt it right to leave her when the
case became entirely hopeless. He told the men who were
assisting that she could not survive the night, and directed
them to bury her immediately after her death. As soon as
the breath was out of her body, these men wrapped her in
the sheet on which she was lying, put her into a large box,
and dug a hole in the garden, where they laid her beside her
sister. Forty-eight hours before, the sisters had been apparently
in perfect health, and busy providing aid for their
sick neighbours. Thus, and thus soon, were they huddled
into their graves.</p>

<p>From the time of our leaving Richmond the boat went on
at good speed. We ceased to wear round, to take in casks
and deals at the beck of everybody on shore. The dinner
was remarkably disagreeable: tough beef, skinny chickens,
gray-looking potatoes, gigantic radishes, sour bread, and
muddy water in dirty tumblers. The only eatable thing on
the table was a saucerful of cranberries, and we had a bottle
of claret with us. It was already certain that we should
not reach Cincinnati so as to have a daylight view of it:
our hopes were bounded to not being obliged to sit down to
another meal on board.</p>

<p>The western sky faded while we were watching the Hunter
pursuing the Coquette, two pretty little steamboats that
were moving along under the shadow of the banks. Some
time after dark we came in sight of long rows of yellow
lights, with a flaring and smoking furnace here and there,
which seemed to occupy a space of nearly two miles from
the wharf where we at length stopped. I had little idea
how beautiful this flaring region would appear in sunshine.</p>

<p>After waiting some time in the boat for the arrival of a
hack, we proceeded up the steep pavement above the wharf
to the Broadway Hotel and Boarding-house. There we
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span>
were requested to register our names, and were then presented
with the cards of some of the inhabitants who had
called to inquire for us. We were well and willingly served,
and I went to rest intensely thankful to be once more out of
sight of slavery.</p>

<p>The next morning was bright, and I scarcely remember
a pleasanter day during all my travels than this 16th of June.
We found ourselves in a large boarding-house, managed by
a singularly zealous and kindly master. His care of us was
highly amusing during the whole time of our stay. His zeal
may be judged of by a circumstance which happened one
morning. At breakfast he appeared heated and confused,
and looked as if he had a bad headache. He requested us
to excuse any forgetfulness that we might observe, and
mentioned that he had, by mistake, taken a dangerous dose
of laudanum. We begged he would leave the table, and
not trouble himself about us, and hoped he had immediately
taken measures to relieve himself of the dose. He replied
that he had had no time to attend to himself till a few minutes
ago. We found that he had actually put off taking an
emetic till he had gone to market and sent home all the provisions
for the day. He had not got over the consequences
of the mistake the next morning. The ladies at the breakfast-table
looked somewhat vulgar; and it is undeniable that
the mustard was spilled, and that the relics of the meal
were left in some disorder by the gentlemen who were most
in a hurry to be off to business. But every one was obliging;
and I saw at that table a better thing than I saw at
any other table in the United States, a lady of colour breakfasting
in the midst of us!</p>

<p>I looked out from our parlour window, and perceived that
we were in a wide, well-built street, with broad foot-pavements
and handsome houses. A house was at the moment
going up the street; a rather arduous task, as the ascent
was pretty steep. There was an admirable apparatus of
levers and pulleys; and it moved on, almost imperceptibly,
for several yards, before our visitors began to arrive, and I
had to give up watching its march. When the long series
of callers came to an end, the strolling house was out of
sight.</p>

<p>The first of our visitors was an English gentleman, who
was settled in business in Cincinnati. He immediately
undertook a commission of inquiry, with which I had been
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span>
charged from England, about a family of settlers, and sent
me a pile of new books, and tickets for a concert which was
to be held in Mrs. Trollope's bazar the next evening but
one. He was followed by a gentleman of whom much will
be told in my next chapter; and by Dr. Drake, the first
physician in the place; and Miss Beecher, daughter of the
Rev. Dr. Beecher, head of Lane Seminary, near Cincinnati,
then on his trial for heresy, and justly confident of acquittal.
Miss Beecher is a lady eminent for learning and talents, and
for her zeal in the cause of education. These were followed
by several merchants, with their ladies, sisters, and
daughters. The impression their visits left on our minds
was of high respect for the society of Cincinnati, if these
were, in manners, dress, and conversation, fair specimens.
Dr. Drake and his daughter proposed to call for us for an
afternoon's drive, and take us home to tea with them; a
plan to which we gladly agreed.</p>

<p>After dinner, we first arranged ourselves in a parlour
which was larger and better furnished than the one we first
occupied, and then walked down to the river while waiting
for Dr. Drake's carriage. The opposite Kentucky shore
looked rich and beautiful; and the bustle on the river, covered
with every kind of craft; the steamboats being moored
six or more abreast, gave us a highly respectful notion of
the commerce of the place.</p>

<p>Dr. Drake took us a delightful drive, the pleasure of
which was much enhanced by his very interesting conversation.
He is a complete and favourable specimen of a
Westerner. He entered Ohio just forty-seven years before
this time, when there were not above a hundred white persons
in the state, and they all French, and when the shores
were one expanse of canebrake, infested by buffalo. He
had seen the foundations of the great city laid; he had
watched its growth till he was now able to point out to the
stranger, not only the apparatus for the exportation of
6,000,000 dollars' worth a year of produce and manufactures,
but things which he values far more: the ten or
twelve edifices erected for the use of the common schools,
the new church of St. Paul, the two fine banking-houses,
and the hundred and fifty handsome private dwellings, all
the creations of the year 1835. He points to the periodicals,
the respectable monthlies, and the four daily and six
weekly papers of the city. He looks with a sort of paternal
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span>
complacency on the 35,000 inhabitants, scarcely one of
whom is without the comforts of life, the means of education,
and a bright prospect for the future. Though a true
Westerner, and devoutly believing the <i>buckeyes</i> (natives of
Ohio) to be superior to all others of God's creatures, he
hails every accession of intelligent members to his darling
society. He observed to me, with his calm enthusiasm
(the concomitant of a conviction which has grown out of experience
rather than books), on the good effects of emigration
on the posterity of emigrants; and told how, with the
same apparent means of education, they surpass the descendants
of natives. They combine the influences of two
countries. Thus believing, he carries a cheerful face into
the homes of his Welsh, Irish, English, German, and Yankee
patients; he bids them welcome, and says, from the
bottom of his heart, that he is glad to see them. His
knowledge of the case of the emigrant enables him to alleviate,
more or less, with the power which an honest and
friendly physician carries about with him, an evil which he
considers the worst that attends emigration. He told me
that, unless the head of the emigrant family be timely and
judiciously warned, the peace of the household is broken up
by the pining of the wife. The husband soon finds interests
in his new abode; he becomes a citizen, a man of business,
a man of consequence, with brightening prospects; while
the poor wife, surrounded by difficulties or vexed with hardships
at home, provided with no compensation for what she
has left behind, pines away, and wonders that her husband
can be so happy when she is so miserable. When there is
an end of congeniality, all is over; and a couple who would
in their own land have gone through life cheerily, hand in
hand, become uneasy yoke-fellows in the midst of a much-improved
outward condition or prospect.</p>

<p>Dr. Drake must be now much older than he looks. He
appears vigorous as ever, running beside his stout black gig-horse
in difficult bits of forest road, head uncovered and coat
splashed, like any farmer making his way to market. His
figure is spare and active; his face is expressive of shrewdness,
humour, and kindliness. His conversation is of a high
order, though I dare say it never entered his head that conversation
is ever of any order at all. His sentences take
whatever form fate may determine; but they bear a rich
burden of truth hard won by experience, and are illumined
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span>
by gleams of philosophy which shine up from the depths of
his own mind. A slight degree of western inflation amuses
the stranger; but there is something so much more loving
than vain in the magniloquence, that it is rather winning
than displeasing to strangers, not to Yankees, who resent it
as sectional prejudice, and in whose presence it might be as
well forborne. The following passage,extracted from an address
delivered by Dr. Drake before the Literary Convention
of Kentucky, gives some idea of the spirit of the man in one
of its aspects, though it has none of the pithy character of
his conversation:&mdash;</p>

<p>"The relations between the upper and lower Mississippi
States, established by the collective waters of the whole valley,
must for ever continue unchanged. What the towering
oak is to our climbing winter grape, the 'Father of Waters'
must ever be to the communities along its trunk and countless
tributary streams; an imperishable support, an exhaust-less
power of union. What is the composition of its lower
coasts and alluvial plains, but the soil of all the upper states
and territories, transported, commingled, and deposited by
its waters? Within her own limits Louisiana has, indeed,
the rich mould of ten sister states, which have thus contributed
to the fertility of her plantations. It might almost be
said, that for ages this region has sent thither a portion of
its soil, where, in a milder climate, it might produce the cotton,
oranges, and sugar which, through the same channel,
we receive in exchange for the products of our cornfields,
workshops, and mines; facts which prepare the way, and
invite to perpetual union between the West and South.</p>

<p>"The state of Tennessee, separated from Alabama and
Mississippi on the south and Kentucky on the north by no
natural barrier, has its southern fields overspread with floating
cotton, wafted from the first two by every autumnal
breeze; while the shade of its northern woods lies for half
the summer day on the borders of the last. The songs and
uproar of a Kentucky <i>husking</i> are answered from Tennessee;
and the midnight racoon-hunt that follows, beginning
in one state, is concluded in the other. The Cumberland,
on whose rocky banks the capital of Tennessee rises in
beauty, begins and terminates in Kentucky; thus bearing on
its bosom at the same moment the products of the two states
descending to a common market. Still farther, the fine
river Tennessee drains the eastern half of that state, dips into
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span>
Alabama, recrosses the state in which it arose, and traverses
Kentucky to reach the Ohio river; thus uniting the three
into one natural and enduring commercial compact.</p>

<p>"Farther north, the cotton-trees, which fringe the borders
of Missouri and Illinois, throw their images towards each
other in the waters of the Mississippi: the toiling emigrant's
axe in the depths of the leafless woods, and the crash of
the falling rail-tree on the frozen earth, resound equally
among the hills of both states; the clouds of smoke from
their burning prairies mingle in the air above, and crimson
the setting sun of Kentucky, Indiana, and Ohio.</p>

<p>"The Pecan-tree sheds its fruit at the same moment
among the people of Indiana and Illinois, and the boys of the
two states paddle their canoes and fish together in the Wabash,
or hail each other from opposite banks. Even villages
belong equally to Indiana and Ohio, and the children
of the two commonwealths trundle their hoops together in
the same street.</p>

<p>"But the Ohio river forms the most interesting boundary
among the republics of the West. For a thousand miles its
fertile bottoms are cultivated by farmers who belong to the
different states, while they visit each other as friends or
neighbours. As the schoolboy trips or loiters along its
shores, he greets his playmates across the stream, or they
sport away an idle hour in its summer waters. These are
to be among the future, perhaps the opposing statesmen of
the different commonwealths. When, at low water, we examine
the rocks of the channel, we find them the same on
both sides. The plants which grow above drop their seeds
into the common current, which lodges them indiscriminately
on either shore. Thus the very trees and flowers emigrate
from one republic to another. When the bee sends out its
swarms, they as often seek a habitation beyond the stream
as in their native woods. Throughout its whole extent, the
hills of Western Virginia and Kentucky cast their morning
shadows on the plains of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Missouri.
The thunder-cloud pours down its showers on different
commonwealths; and the rainbow, resting its extremities
on two sister states, presents a beautiful arch, on which
the spirits of peace may pass and repass in harmony and
love.</p>

<p>"Thus connected by nature in the great valley, we must
live in the bonds of companionship or imbrue our hands in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span>
each other's blood. We have no middle destiny. To secure
the former to our posterity, we should begin while society
is still tender and pliable. The saplings of the woods,
if intertwined, will adapt themselves to each other and grow
together; the little bird may hang its nest on the twigs of
different trees, and the dewdrop fall successively on leaves
which are nourished by distinct trunks. The tornado strikes
harmless on such a bower, for the various parts sustain each
other; but the grown tree, sturdy and set in its way, will
not bend to its fellow, and, when uprooted by the tempest,
is dashed in violence against all within its reach.</p>

<p>"Communities, like forests, grow rigid by time. To be
properly trained, they must be moulded while young. Our
duty, then, is quite obvious. All who have moral power
should exert it in concert. The germes of harmony must
be nourished, and the roots of present contrariety or future
discord torn up and cast into the fire. Measures should be
taken to mould a uniform system of manners and customs
out of the diversified elements which are scattered over the
West. Literary meetings should be held in the different
states, and occasional conventions in the central cities of
the great valley be made to bring into friendly consultation
our enlightened and zealous teachers, professors, lawyers,
physicians, divines, and men of letters, from its remotest
sections. In their deliberations the literary and moral wants
of the various regions might be made known, and the means
of supplying them devised. The whole should successively
lend a helping hand to all the parts on the great subject of
education, from the primary school to the university. Statistical
facts bearing on this absorbing interest should be
brought forward and collected; the systems of common
school instruction should be compared, and the merits of
different schoolbooks, foreign and domestic, freely canvassed.
Plans of education, adapted to the natural, commercial,
and social condition of the interior, should be invented;
a correspondence instituted among all our higher
seminaries of learning, and an interchange established of all
local publications on the subject of education. In short,
we should foster Western genius, encourage Western writers,
patronise Western publishers, augment the number of
Western readers, and create a Western heart.</p>

<p>"When these great objects shall come seriously to occupy
our minds, the union will be secure, for its centre will be
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span>
sound, and its attraction on the surrounding parts irresistible.
Then will our state governments emulate each other in
works for the common good; the people of remote places
begin to feel as the members of one family; and our whole
intelligent and virtuous population unite, heart and hand, in
one long, concentrated, untiring effort to raise still higher
the social character, and perpetuate for ever the political
harmony of the green and growing West."</p>

<p>How strange is the feeling to the traveller in wild regions
of having his home associations unexpectedly connected with
the scene before him! Here, in this valley of the Mississippi,
to my eye wild and luxuriant in beauty as I fancy
Ceylon or Juan Fernandez, Dr. Drake pointed out to me
two handsome dwellings with gardens, built by artisans from
Birmingham, and he presently alighted to visit a Welsh patient.
What a vision of brassfounding, teaurns, and dingy
streets, and then of beaver hats and mob caps, did these incidents
call up! And again, when we were buried in a beechen
wood, where "a sunbeam that had lost its way" streaked
the stems and lighted up the wild vines, Dr. Drake, in telling
me of the cholera season in Cincinnati, praised a medical
book on cholera which happened to be by a brother-in-law of
mine. It was an amusing incident. The woods of Ohio
are about the last place where the author would have anticipated
that I should hear accidental praises of his book.</p>

<p>The doctor had at present a patient in Dr. Beecher's
house, so we returned by the Theological Seminary. Dr.
Beecher and his daughters were not at home. We met
them on the road in their cart, the ladies returning from
their school in the city, and we spent an evening there the
next week. The seminary (Presbyterian) was then in a
depressed condition, in consequence of the expulsion of most
of the pupils for their refusal to avoid discussion of the slavery
question. These expelled youths have since been
founders and supporters of abolition societies; and the good
cause has gained even more than the seminary has lost by
the absurd tyranny practised against the students.</p>

<p>From this the Montgomery road there is a view of the
city and surrounding country which defies description. It
was of that melting beauty which dims the eyes and fills
the heart&mdash;that magical combination of all elements&mdash;of
hill, wood, lawn, river, with a picturesque city steeped in
evening sunshine, the impression of which can never be lost
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span>
nor ever communicated. We ran up a knoll, and stood
under a clump of beeches to gaze; and went down, and returned
again and again, with the feeling that, if we lived
upon the spot, we could never more see it look so beautiful.</p>

<p>We soon entered a somewhat different scene, passing the
slaughter-houses on Deer Creek, the place where more
thousands of hogs in a year than I dare to specify are destined
to breathe their last. Deer Creek, pretty as its name is, is
little more than the channel through which their blood runs
away. The division of labour is brought to as much perfection
in these slaughter-houses as in the pin-manufactories
of Birmingham. So I was told. Of course I did not verify
the statement by attending the process. In my childhood I
was permitted, by the carelessness of a nursemaid, to see the
cutting up of the reeking carcass of an ox, and I can bear
witness that one such sight is enough for a lifetime. But&mdash;to
tell the story as it was told to me&mdash;these slaughter-houses
are divided into apartments communicating with each other:
one man drives into one pen or chamber the reluctant hogs,
to be knocked on the head by another whose mallet is for
ever going. A third sticks the throats, after which they are
conveyed by some clever device to the cutting-up room, and
thence to the pickling, and thence to the packing and branding,
a set of agents being employed for every operation.
The exportation of pickled pork from Cincinnati is enormous.
Besides supplying the American navy, shiploads are
sent to the West India Islands and many other parts of the
world. Dr. Drake showed me the dwelling and slaughter-house
of an Englishman who was his servant in 1818, who
then turned pork-butcher, and was, in a few years, worth
ten thousand dollars.</p>

<p>The teatable was set out in the garden at Dr. Drake's.
We were waited upon, for the first time for many months,
by a free servant. The long grass grew thick under our
feet; fireflies were flitting about us, and I doubted whether I
had ever heard more sense and eloquence at any Old World
teatable than we were entertained with as the twilight
drew on.</p>

<p>As we walked home through the busy streets, where
there was neither the apathy of the South nor the disorder
consequent on the presence of a pauper class, I felt strongly
tempted to jump to some hasty conclusions about the happiness
of citizenship in Cincinnati. I made a virtuous determination
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span>
to suspend every kind of judgment: but I found
each day as exhilarating as the first, and, when I left the
city, my impressions were much like what they were after
an observation of twenty-four hours.</p>

<p>The greater part of the next morning was occupied with
visiters; but we found an interval to go out, under the guidance
of friends, to see a few things which lay near at hand.
We visited the Museum, where we found, as in all new
museums whose rooms want filling up, some trumpery
among much which is worthy to remain. There was a
mermaid not very cleverly constructed, and some bad wax
figures, posted like sentinels among the cases of geological
and entomological specimens; but, on the whole, the Museum
is highly creditable to the zeal of its contributors.
There is, among other good things, a pretty complete collection
of the currency of the country, from the earliest
colonial days, and some of other countries with it. I hope
this will be persevered in, and that the Cincinnati merchants
will make use of the opportunities afforded by their commerce
of collecting specimens of every kind of currency
used in the world, from the gilt and stamped leather of the
Chinese and Siberians to the last of Mr. Biddle's twenty-dollar
notes. There is a reasonable notion abroad that the
Americans are the people who will bring the philosophy and
practice of exchanges to perfection; and theirs are the
museums in which should be found a full history of currency,
in the shape of a complete set of specimens.</p>

<p>We visited Mr. Flash's bookstore, where we saw many
good books, some very pretty ones, and all cheap. We
heard there good accounts of the improved and improving
literary taste of the place, shown in the increasing number
of book societies, and the superior character of the works
supplied to their orders. Mr. Flash and his partner are in
favour of the protection of foreign literary property, as a
matter of interest as well as principle.</p>

<p>We next went to the painting-room of a young artist, Mr.
Beard, whose works pleased me more than those of any
other American artist. When I heard his story, and saw
what he had already achieved, I could not doubt that, if he
lived, he would run a noble career. The chief doubt was
about his health, the doubt which hangs over the destiny of
almost every individual of eminent promise in America.
Two years before I saw him Beard had been painting
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span>
portraits at a dollar a head in the interior of Ohio; and it was
only a year since he suddenly and accidentally struck into
the line in which he will probably show himself the Flamingo
of the New World. It was just a year since he had
begun to paint children. He had then never been out of his
native state. He was born in the interior, where he began
to paint without having ever seen a picture, except the
daubs of itinerant artists. He married at nineteen, and
came to Cincinnati, with wife, child, an empty purse, a head
full of admiration of himself, and a heart full of confidence
in this admiration being shared by all the inhabitants of the
city. He had nothing to show, however, which could sanction
his high claims, for his portraits were very bad. When
he was in extreme poverty, he and his family were living,
or rather starving, in one room, at whose open window he
put up some of his pictures to attract the notice of passengers.
A wealthy merchant, Mr. G., and a gentleman with
him, stopped and made their remarks to each other, Mr. G.
observing, "The fellow has talent, after all." Beard was
sitting behind his pictures, heard the remark, and knew the
voice. He was enraged. Mr. G. visited him, with a desire
to encourage and assist him; but the angry artist long resisted
all attempts to pacify him. At his first attempt to
paint a child, soon after, all his genius shone forth, to the
astonishment of every one but himself. He has proved to
be one of the privileged order who grow gentle, if not modest,
under appreciation; he forgave Mr. G., and painted
several pictures for him. A few wealthy citizens were desirous
of sending him to Italy to study. His reply to every
mention of the subject is, that he means to go to Italy, but
that he shall work his own way there. In order to see
how he liked the world, he paid a visit to Boston while I
was there, intending to stay some time. From a carriage
window I saw him in the street, stalking along like a chief
among inferiors, his broad white collar laid over his coat,
his throat bare, and his hair parted in the middle of his
forehead, and waving down the sides of his face. People
turned to look after him. He stayed only a fortnight, and
went back to Ohio expressing great contempt for cities.
This was the last I heard of him.</p>

<p>I have a vivid remembrance of three of his pictures of
children. One of a boy trudging through a millstream to
school, absolutely American, not only in the scenery, but in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span>
the air and countenance of the boy, which were exquisitely
natural and fresh. Another was a boy about to go unwillingly
to school; his satchel was so slung over his shoulder
as to show that he had not put it on himself; the great bite
in the slice of bread and butter intimated that breakfast was
going on in the midst of the grief; and the face was distorted
with the most ludicrous passion. Thus far all might have
been done by the pencil of the mere caricaturist. The triumph
of the painter was in the beauty and grace of the child
shining through the ridiculous circumstances amid which
he was placed. It was obvious that the character of the
face, when undisturbed by passion, was that of careless gayety.
The third was a picture of children and a dog; one
beautiful creature astride of the animal, and putting his
cap upon the head of the dog, who was made to look the
sage of the party. I saw and liked some of his pictures
of another character. Any one of his humorous groups
might be thought almost worthy of Wilkie; but there was
repetition in them; two favourite heads especially were
popped in, in situations too nearly resembling. The most
wonderful, perhaps, of his achievements was a fine full-length
portrait of a deceased lady whom he had never seen.
It was painted from a miniature, and under the direction of
the widower, whom it fully satisfied in regard to the likeness.
It was a breathing picture. He is strongly disposed to try
his hand on sculpture. I saw a bust of himself which he
had modelled. It was a perfect likeness, and had much
spirit. All this, and much more, having been done in a single
year by one who had never seen a good picture, it seems
reasonable to expect great things from powers so rapidly
and profusely developed. Beard's name was little, if at all,
known beyond his native state while I was in the country.
If he lives, it will soon be heard of in Europe.</p>

<p>In the afternoon a large party called on us for an expedition
into Kentucky. We crossed the river in the ferryboat
without leaving the carriages, drove through Covington, and
mounted slowly through a wood, till we reached the foot of
a steep hill, where we alighted. We climbed the hill, wild
with tall grass and shrubs, and obtained the view of Cincinnati
which is considered the completest. I now perceived
that, instead of being shut in between two hills, the city
stands on a noble platform, round which the river turns
while the hills rise behind. The platform is perfectly
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span>
ventilated, and the best proof of this is the healthiness of the
city above all other American cities. A physician who had
been seven years a resident told me that he had been very
delicate in health before he came, like many others of the
inhabitants; and, like many others, he had not had a day's
illness since his arrival. The average of deaths in the city
during the best season was seven per week; and, at the
worst time of the year, the mortality was less than in any
city of its size in the republic.</p>

<p>There is ample room on the platform for a city as large
as Philadelphia, without encroaching at all on the hillsides.
The inhabitants are already consulting as to where the Capitol
shall stand whenever the nation shall decree the removal
of the general government beyond the mountains. If it
were not for the noble building at Washington, this removal
would probably take place soon, perhaps after the opening
of the great Southern railroad. It seems rather absurd
to call senators and representatives to Washington from
Missouri and Louisiana, while there is a place on the great
rivers which would save them half the journey, and suit almost
everybody else just as well, and many much better.
The peril to health at Washington in the winter season is
great, and the mild and equable temperature of Cincinnati is
an important circumstance in the case.</p>

<p>We hurried home to prepare for an evening party, and
tea was brought up to us while we dressed. All the parties
I was at in Cincinnati were very amusing, from the diversity
in the company, and in the manners of the natives of the East
and West. The endeavour seems to be to keep up rather
than to disuse distinctive observances, and this almost makes
the stranger fancy that he has travelled a thousand miles
between one evening and the next. The effect is entertaining
enough to the foreign guest, but not very salutary to the
temper of the residents, to judge by the complaints I heard
about sectional exclusiveness. It appeared to me that the
thing chiefly to be wished in this connexion was that the
Easterners should make large concessions and allowance.
It would be well for them to remember that it was they who
chose the Western city, and not the city them; and that, if
the elderly inhabitants are rather proud of their Western
deeds, and ostentatiously attached to their Western symbols,
this is a circumstance belonging to the place, and deliberately
encountered, with other circumstances, by new residents;
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span>
and that, moreover, all that they complain of is an indulgence
of the feelings of a single generation. When the elderly
members of the society drop off, the children of all residents
will wear the buckeye, or forget it alike. And it certainly
appeared to me that the cool assumption by Easterners of
the superiority of New-England over all other countries was,
whether just or not, likely to be quite as offensive to the
buckeyes as any buckeye exultation could be to the Yankees.</p>

<p>At one evening party the company sat round the drawing-room,
occasionally changing places or forming groups without
much formality. They were chiefly Yankees, of various
accomplishments, from the learned lawyer who talked with
enthusiasm about Channing, and with strong sense about
everything but politics, in which his aristocratic bias drew
him aside into something like nonsense, to the sentimental
young widow, who instantly began talking to me of her dear
Mr.&mdash;&mdash;, and who would return to the subject as often as I
led away from it. Every place was remarkable for her dear
Mr.&mdash;&mdash; having been better or worse there; and every
event was measured by its having happened so long before
or after her dear Mr.&mdash;&mdash; was buried. The conversation
of the society was most about books, and society and its
leaders at home and abroad. The manners of the lady of
the house were, though slightly impaired by timidity, such
as would grace any society of any country. The house,
handsomely furnished, and adorned with some of the best of
Beard's pictures, stood on a terrace beautifully surrounded
with shrubbery, and commanding a fine view of the city.</p>

<p>At another party there was a great variety. An enormous
buckeye bowl of lemonade, with a ladle of buckeye,
stood on the hall table, and symbolical sprigs of the same
adorned the walls. On entering the drawing-room I was
presented with a splendid bouquet, sent by a lady by the hands
of her brother, from a garden and conservatory which are
the pride of the city. My first introduction was to the Catholic
bishop, my next to a lady whom I thought then and
afterward one of the cleverest women I met in the country.
There was a slight touch of pedantry to be excused,
and a degree of tory prejudice against the bulk of the human
race which could scarcely be exceeded even in England;
but there was a charming good-humour in the midst of it all,
and a power both of observation and reasoning which commanded
high respect. One Western gentleman sidled about
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span>
in a sort of minuet step, unquestionably a gentleman as he
was in all essential respects; and one young lady, who was,
I fancy, taking her first peep at the world, kept her eyes
earnestly fixed on the guests as they entered, bowing unconsciously
in sympathy with every gentleman who bowed,
and courtesying with every lady who courtesied. She
must have been well practised in salutation before the evening
was over, for the party was a large one. All the rest,
with the exception of a forward Scotchman, were well-bred,
and the evening passed off very pleasantly amid brisk conversation,
mirth, and excellent refreshments.</p>

<p>Another party was at the splendid house to which the
above-mentioned garden and conservatory belong. The
proprietor has a passion for gardening, and his ruling taste
seems likely to be a blessing to the city. He employs four
gardeners, and toils in his grounds with his own hands.
His garden is on a terrace which overlooks the canal, and
the most parklike eminences form the background of the
view. Between the garden and the hills extend his vineyards,
from the produce of which he has succeeded in making
twelve kinds of wine, some of which are highly praised
by good judges. Mr. Longworth himself is sanguine as to
the prospect of making Ohio a wine-growing region, and he
has done all that an individual can to enhance the probability.
In this house is West's preposterous picture of Ophelia,
the sight of which amazed me after all I had heard of it.
It is not easy to imagine how it should have obtained the
reputation of being his best while his Cromwell is in existence.
The party at this house was the largest and most
elegant of any that I attended in Cincinnati. Among many
other guests, we met one of the judges of the Supreme
Court, a member of Congress and his lady, two Catholic
priests, Judge Hall, the popular writer, with divines, physicians,
lawyers, merchants, and their families. The spirit
and superiority of the conversation were worthy of the people
assembled.</p>

<p>The morning of the 19th shone brightly down on the festival
of the day. It was the anniversary of the opening of
the Common Schools. Some of the schools passed our windows
in procession, their banners dressed with garlands,
and the children gay with flowers and ribands. A lady who
was sitting with me remarked, "this is our populace." I
thought of the expression months afterward, when <i>the gentlemen</i>
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span>
of Cincinnati met to pass resolutions on the subject
of abolitionism, and when one of the resolutions recommended
mobbing as a retribution for the discussion of the
subject of slavery; the law affording no punishment for free
discussion. Among those who moved and seconded these
resolutions, and formed a deputation to threaten an advocate
of free discussion, were some of the merchants who form
the aristocracy of the place; and the secretary of the meeting
was the accomplished lawyer whom I mentioned above, and
who told me that the object of his life is law reform in Ohio!
The "populace" of whom the lady was justly proud have,
in no case that I know of, been the law-breakers; and in as
far as "the populace" means not "the multitude," but the
"vulgar," I do not agree with the lady that these children
were the populace. Some of the patrons and prizegivers
afterward proved themselves "the vulgar" of the city.</p>

<p>The children were neatly and tastefully dressed. A great
improvement has taken place in the costume of little boys
in England within my recollection, but I never saw such
graceful children as the little boys in America, at least in
their summer dress. They are slight, active, and free. I
remarked that several were barefoot, though in other respects
well clad; and I found that many put off shoes and
stockings from choice during the three hot months. Others
were barefoot from poverty; children of recent settlers, and
of the poorest class of the community.</p>

<p>We set out for the church as soon as the procession had
passed, and arrived before the doors were opened. A platform
had been erected below the pulpit, and on it were seated
the mayor and principal gentlemen of the city. The two
thousand children then filed in. The report was read, and
proved very satisfactory. These schools were established
by a cordial union of various political and religious parties;
and nothing could be more promising than the prospects of
the institution as to funds, as to the satisfaction of the class
benefited, and as to the continued union of their benefactors.
Several boys then gave specimens of elocution which were
highly amusing. They seemed to suffer under no false
shame, and to have no misgiving about the effect of the vehement
action they had been taught to employ. I wondered
how many of them would speak in Congress hereafter. It
seems doubtful to me whether the present generation of
Americans are not out in their calculations about the value
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span>
and influence of popular oratory. They ought certainly to
know best; but I never saw an oration produce nearly so
much effect as books, newspapers, and conversation. I suspect
that there is a stronger association in American minds
than the times will justify between republicanism and oratory;
and that they overlook the facts of the vast change introduced
by the press, a revolution which has altered men's
tastes and habits of thought, as well as varied the methods of
reaching minds. As to the style of oratory itself, reasoning
is now found to be much more impressive than declamation,
certainly in England, and I think, also, in the United States;
and though, as every American boy is more likely than not
to act some part in public life, it is desirable that all should
be enabled to speak their minds clearly and gracefully. I
am inclined to think it a pernicious mistake to render declamatory
accomplishment so prominent a part of education as it
now is. I trust that the next generation will exclude whatever
there is of insincere and traditional in the practice of
popular oratory; discern the real value of the accomplishment,
and redeem the reproach of bad taste which the oratory
of the present generation has brought upon the people.
While the Americans have the glory of every citizen being a
reader and having books to read, they cannot have, and need
not desire, the glory of shining in popular oratory, the glory
of an age gone by.</p>

<p>Many prizes of books were given by the gentlemen on the
platform, and the ceremony closed with an address from the
pulpit which was true, and, in some respects, beautiful, but
which did not appear altogether judicious to those who are
familiar with children's minds. The children were exhorted
to trust their teachers entirely; to be assured that their
friends would do by them what was kindest. Now neither
children nor grown people trust any more than they believe
because they are bid. Telling them to have confidence is
so much breath wasted. If they are properly trained, they
will unavoidably have this trust and confidence, and the less
that is said about it the better. If not, the less said the better,
too; for confidence is then out of the question, and there
is danger in making it an empty phrase. It would be well if
those whose office it is to address children were fully aware
that exhortation, persuasion, and dissuasion are of no use in
their case, and that there is immeasurable value in the opposite
method of appeal. Make truth credible, and they
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span>
will believe it; make goodness lovely, and they will love it;
make holiness cheerful, and they will be glad in it; but remind
them of themselves by threat, inducement, or exhortation,
and you impair (if you do anything) the force of their unconscious
affections; try to put them upon a task of arbitrary
self-management, and your words pass over their
ears only to be forgotten.</p>

<p>Before eight o'clock in the evening the Cincinnati public
was pouring into Mrs. Trollope's bazar, to the first concert
ever offered to them. This bazar is the great deformity of
the city. Happily, it is not very conspicuous, being squatted
down among houses nearly as lofty as the summit of its
dome. From my window at the boarding-house, however,
it was only too distinctly visible. It is built of brick, and
has Gothic windows, Grecian pillars, and a Turkish dome,
and it was originally ornamented with Egyptian devices,
which have, however, all disappeared under the brush of the
whitewasher. The concert was held in a large plain room,
where a quiet, well-mannered audience was collected. There
was something extremely interesting in the spectacle of the
first public introduction of music into this rising city. One
of the best performers was an elderly man, clothed from
head to foot in gray homespun. He was absorbed in his
enjoyment; so intent on his violin, that one might watch the
changes of his pleased countenance the whole performance
through without fear of disconcerting him. There was a
young girl, in a plain white frock, with a splendid voice, a
good ear, and a love of warbling which carried her through
very well indeed, though her own taste had obviously been
her only teacher. If I remember right, there were about
five-and-twenty instrumental performers, and six or seven
vocalists, besides a long row for the closing chorus. It was
a most promising beginning. The thought came across me
how far we were from the musical regions of the Old World,
and how lately this place had been a canebrake, echoing
with the bellow and growl of wild beast; and here was the
spirit of Mozart swaying and inspiring a silent crowd as if
they were assembled in the chapel at Salzburg!</p>

<p>This account of our first three days at Cincinnati will
convey a sufficient idea of a stranger's impressions of the
place. There is no need to give a report of its charitable
institutions and its commerce; the details of the latter are
well known to those whom they may concern; and in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span>
America, wherever men are gathered together, the helpless
are aided and the suffering relieved. The most threatening
evil to Cincinnati is from that faithlessness which manifests
itself in illiberality. The sectional prejudice of the two
leading classes of inhabitants has been mentioned, and also
the ill-principled character of the opposition made to abolitionism.
The offence against freedom, not only of opinion,
but of action, was in this case so rank, that the citizens of
Louisville, on the slaveholding side of the Ohio, taunted the
citizens of Cincinnati with persecuting men for opinion from
mercenary interest; with putting down free discussion from
fear of injury to their commerce. A third direction in which
this illiberality shows itself is towards the Catholics. The
Catholic religion spreads rapidly in many or most of the recently-settled
parts of the United States, and its increase
produces an almost insane dread among some Protestants,
who fail to see that no evils that the Catholic religion can
produce in the present state of society can be so afflictive
and dangerous as the bigotry by which it is proposed to put
it down. The removal to Cincinnati of Dr. Beecher, the
ostentatious and virulent foe of the Catholics, has much
quickened the spirit of alarm in that region. It is to be
hoped that Dr. Beecher and the people of Cincinnati will
remember what has been the invariable consequence in
America of public denunciations of assumed offences which
the law does not reach; namely, mobbing. It is to be hoped
that all parties will remember that Dr. Beecher preached in
Boston three sermons vituperative of the Catholics the Sunday
before the burning of the Charlestown convent by a
Boston mob. Circumstances may also have shown them
by this time how any kind of faith grows under persecution;
and, above all, it may be hoped that the richer classes of
citizens will become more aware than they have yet proved
themselves to be of their republican (to say nothing of their
human) obligation to refrain from encroaching, in the smallest
particulars, on their brethren's rights of opinion and liberty
of conscience.</p>

<p>The roads in the interior of Ohio were in so bad a state
from recent rains that I did not, at this time, attempt to visit
the middle or northern parts of the state, where may be seen
those monuments of an extinct race about which much antiquarian
inquiry is going forward. One of the large mounds,
whose uses are yet unexplained, and in which are found
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span>
specimens of the arts of life which are considered to show
that their artificers were not of Indian race, still remains
within the city. It was crumbling away when I saw it, being
a tempting spot for children's play. It is a pity it should
not be carefully preserved; for the whole history of evidence,
particularly the more recent portion of it, shows the impossibility
of anticipating what revelations may emanate from a
single object of historical interest.</p>

<p>A volume might presently be filled with descriptions of
our drives about the environs of Cincinnati. There are innumerable
points of view whence the city, with its masses
of building and its spires, may be seen shining through the
limpid atmosphere, like a cloud-city in the evening sky.
There are many spots where it is a relief to lose the river
from the view, and to be shut in among the brilliant green
hills, which are more than can be numbered. But there is
one drive which I almost wonder the inhabitants do not take
every summer day, to the Little Miami bottoms. We continued
eastward along the bank of the river for seven miles,
the whole scenery of which was beautiful; but the unforgotten
spot was the level about the mouth of the Little
Miami river, the richest of plains or level valleys, studded
with farmhouses, enlivened with clearings, and kept primitive
in appearance by the masses of dark forest which
filled up all the unoccupied spaces. Upon this scene we
looked down from a great height, a Niphates of the New
World. On entering a little pass between two grassy hills,
crested with wood, we were desired to alight. I ran
up the ascent to the right, and was startled at finding myself
on the top of a precipice. Far beneath me ran the
Little Miami, with a narrow white pebbly strand, arrow-like
trees springing over from the brink of the precipice, and the
long evening shadows making the current as black as night,
while the green, up to the very lips of the ravine, was of the
sunniest, in the last flood of western light.</p>

<p>For more reasons than one I should prefer Cincinnati as
a residence to any other large city of the United States.
Of these reasons not the last would be that the "Queen of
the West" is enthroned in a region of wonderful and inexhaustible
beauty.</p>
<br />
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="Probation" id="Probation"></a>PROBATION</h2>

<div style="margin-left: 5em;">"Small is it that thou canst trample the earth with its injuries under
thy feet, as old Greek Zeno trained thee; thou canst love the earth
while it injures thee, and even because it injures thee; for this a greater
than Zeno was needed, and he, too, was sent. Knowst thou that
'Worship of Sorrow?' The temple thereof, opened some eighteen
centuries ago, now lies in ruins, overgrown with jungle, the habitation
of doleful creatures. Nevertheless, venture forward; in a low crypt,
arched out of falling fragments, thou findest the altar still there, and
its sacred lamp perennially burning."&mdash;<i>Sartor Resartus.</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 5em;">"I will tell you, scholar, I have heard a grave divine say that God
has two dwellings; one in heaven, and the other in a meek and thankful
heart."&mdash;<span class="smcap">Izaak Walton.</span></div>


<p class="p1">Among the strongest of the fresh feelings excited by foreign
travel&mdash;those fresh feelings which are an actual re-enforcement
of life&mdash;is that of welcome surprise at the sympathy
the traveller is able to yield, as well as privileged to
receive. We are all apt to lose faith in the general resemblance
between human beings when we have remained too
long amid one set of circumstances; all of us nearly as
weakly as the schoolgirl who thinks that the girl of another
school cannot comprehend her feelings; or the statesman
who is surprised that the lower classes appear sometimes
to understand their own interests; or the moralist who
starts back from the antique page where he meets the reflection
of his own convictions; or the clergyman who has
one kind of truth for his study and another for his pulpit.
Intellectual sympathy comes to the traveller in a distant
land like a benignant rebuke of his narrowness; and when
he meets with moral beauty which is a realization of his
deep and secret dreams, he finds how true it is that there is
no nationality in the moral creation, and that, wherever
grass grows and the sun shines, truth springs up out of the
earth and righteousness looks down from heaven. Those
who bring home a deep, grateful, influential conviction of
this have become possessed of the best results of travel;
those who are not more assured than before of the essential
sympathy of every human being they meet, will be little the
worse for staying at home all the rest of their lives. I was
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span>
delighted with an observation of a Boston merchant who
had made several voyages to China. He dropped a remark
by his own fireside on the narrowness which causes us to
conclude, avowedly or silently, that, however well men
may use the light they have, they must be very pitiable,
very far behind us, unless they have our philosophy, our
Christianity, our ways of knowing the God who is the Father
of us all, and the Nature which is the home of us all.
He said that his thoughts often wandered back with vivid
pleasure to the long conversations he had enjoyed with
some of his Chinese friends on the deepest themes of philosophy
and the highest truths of religion, when he found
them familiar with the convictions, the emotions, the hopes
which, in religious New-England, are supposed to be derivable
only from the Christianity of this region. His observation
gave me intense pleasure at the time I heard it; and
now, though I have no such outlandish friends as the Chinese
appear to a narrow imagination, I can tell him, from a
distance of three thousand miles, that his animating experience
is shared by other minds.</p>

<p>The most extensive agreement that I have ever known to
exist between three minds is between two friends of mine
in America and myself, Dr. F. being German, Mrs. F. American,
and I English, by birth, education, and (at least in one
of the three) prejudice. Before any of the three met, all
had become as fixed as they were ever likely to be in habits
of thought and feeling; and yet our differences were so
slight, our agreements so extensive, that our intercourse
was like a perpetual recognition rather than a gradual revelation.
Perhaps a lively imagination may conceive something
of the charm of imparting to one another glimpses of
our early life. While our years were passing amid scenes
and occupations as unlike as possible, our minds were converging
through foreign regions of circumstance to a common
centre of conviction. We have sat mutually listening for
hours, day after day, week after week, to his account of
early years spent in the range of a royal forester's domain,
and of the political struggles of later years; to her history
of a youthful life nourished by all kinds of American influences;
and to mine, as unlike both theirs as each was to
the other.</p>

<p>The same sort of experience is yielded by every chapter
of human history which comes under the mind's eye in a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span>
foreign country. The indolence of the speculatist, however,
generally prevents his making this use of any but the most
extraordinary and eventful sections of this interminable history.
Such contemplations rouse sympathy, extinguish nationality,
and enlarge the spirit to admit new kindred by an
irresistible assurance of the rightfulness of all claims of
brotherhood. Every lovetale has this effect, for true love
is the same all over the wide earth. Most tales of wo have
the same influence, for the deepest woes spring from causes
universally prevalent. But, above all, spectacles of moral
beauty work miracles of reconciliation between foreign minds.
The heart warms to every act of generosity, and the spirit
sends out a fervent greeting to every true expression of
magnanimity, whether it be meek intrepidity in doing or unconscious
bravery in suffering.</p>

<p>Many such a heartwarming must the stranger experience
in America, where the diversities of society are as great as
over the European Continent, and where all virtues can find
the right soil to thrive in. If there are in some regions
broader exhibitions of vice&mdash;of licentiousness and violence&mdash;than
can be seen where slavery is not, in other regions
or amid different circumstances there are brighter revelations
of virtue than are often seen out of a primitive state of society.
One of these, one of many, may, I think, be spoken
of without risk of hurting any feelings or betraying any confidence,
though I must refrain from throwing such light and
beauty over the story as the letters of the parties would afford.
I was never so tempted to impart a correspondence;
and it is not conceivable that any harm could arise from it
beyond the mischief of violating the sacredness of private
correspondence; but this is not to be thought of.</p>

<p>At Cincinnati I became acquainted with the Rev. E.P.,
whom I found to be beloved, fervently but rationally, by his
flock, some of whom think him not a whit inferior, as a
preacher, to Dr. Channing. He was from New-England;
and, till he spoke, he might have been taken for one of the
old Puritans risen from an early grave to walk the earth for
a while. He was tall, gaunt, and severe-looking, with rather
long black hair and very large black eyes. When he spoke
all the severity vanished; his countenance and voice expressed
gentleness, and his quiet fun showed that the inward
man was no Puritan. His conversation was peculiar. His
voice was somewhat hollow, and not quite manageable, and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span>
he was wont to express himself with schoolboy abruptness
and awkwardness of phrase, letting drop gems of truth and
flowers of beauty without being in the least aware of the inequality
of his conversation, or, perhaps, that he was conversing
at all. Occasionally, when he had lighted on a
subject on which he had bestowed much thought, all this inequality
vanished, and his eloquence was of a very high order.
He was a man who fixed the attention at once, and could
not, after a single interview, be ever forgotten. The first
time I saw him he told me that his wife and he had hoped
to have made their house my home in Cincinnati, but that
she and the child had been obliged to set out on their summer
visit to her parents in New-England before my arrival.
Whenever he spoke of his home it was in a tone of the most
perfect cheerfulness; so that I should not have imagined
that any anxieties harboured there but for the fervent though
calm manner in which he observed in conversation one day,
that outward evils are evils only as far as we think them
so; and that our thinking them so may be wonderfully moderated
by a full conviction of this. This was said in a tone
which convinced me that it was not a fragment of preaching,
but of meditation. I found that he had been about
two years married to a pretty, lively, accomplished girl
from New-England. Some of his friends were rather surprised
at the match, for she had appeared hitherto only as a
sprightly belle, amiable, but a little frivolous. It was not,
however, that he was only proud of her beauty and accomplishments,
or transiently in love; for his young wife had
soon occasion to reveal a strength of mind only inferior to
his own. Her sight began to fail; it failed more and more
rapidly, till, after the birth of her child, she was obliged to
surrender to others all the nicer cares of maternal management.
Her accomplishments became suddenly useless.
Her favourite drawing was first given up; then her needle
was laid aside; then she could neither write nor read, nor
bear a strong light. In her state of enforced idleness (the
greatest trial of all to the spirits), her cheerfulness never
failed. Her step was as light, her voice as gay as ever.
She said it was because her husband was as happy as ever.
He aided her in every conceivable way, by doing all that
was possible of what she was prevented from doing, and
by upholding her conviction that the mind is its own place;
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span>
and he thus proved that he did not desire for her or for himself
indolent submission, but cheerful acquiescence.</p>

<p>As summer came on, the child sickened in teething, and
was sent with its mother to New-England, in order to escape
the greatest heats. They had set out, under good
guardianship, the week before I arrived at Cincinnati. Mr.
P. could not leave his church for many weeks, but was to
follow in August, so as to be in time to deliver a poem before
the Phi Beta Kappa Society at Cambridge, Massachusetts,
in Harvard commencement week. I fancied that I
saw him meditating this poem more than once during our
drives through the splendid scenery round Cincinnati. I
was uneasy about his health, and expressed some apprehensions
to one of his friends, who, however, made light of
what I said. I thought that, made for strength as he looked,
he had little of it. He seemed incessantly struggling against
exhaustion, and I was confident that he often joined in conversation
with his eyes alone, because he was unequal to
the exertion of talking. I was quite sure of all this, and
wondered how others could help seeing it too, on the day of
the procession of the freeschools of Cincinnati, when he
was appointed to address the children. His evident effort
in the pulpit and exhaustion afterward made me fear that
there were more trials in store for his young wife. During
their separation she could neither write to him nor read his
letters.</p>

<p>When, towards the end of August, I arrived at Cambridge
for commencement, one of my first inquiries was for the P.s.
He had joined his wife, his poem was ready, and they were
in cheerful spirits, though both her sight and the child's
health were rather worse than better. I did not see them
among the assemblage on the great commencement day.
On the morrow, when the Phi Beta Kappa Society had
marched in to music, and the oration had been delivered,
and we all looked eagerly for Mr. P. and his poem, a young
clergyman appeared, with a roll of MS. in his hand, and
with a faltering voice, and a countenance of repressed grief,
told us that Mr. P. had been seized with a sudden and severe
illness, and had requested from him, as an office of
friendship, that he would read the poem which its author
was prevented from delivering. The tidings ran in a mournful
whisper through the assemblage that Mr. P. had broken
a bloodvessel.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span>
</p>

<p>The poem was descriptive, with touches of human interest,
many and strong. It related the passage of an emigrant
family over the Alleghanies, and their settlement in the
West. It was read with much modesty, truth, and grace.
At one part the reader's voice failed him, at a brief description
of the burial of an infant in the woods; it was too like
a recent scene at which the reader had been present as chief
mourner.</p>

<p>The P.s were next at a country-house within two miles
of another where I was spending ten days. Mr. P. was
shut up, and condemned to the trial which his wife was
bearing so well, enforced idleness. His bodily weakness
made him feel it more, and he found it difficult to bear. He
had been unused to sickness, and the only failure I ever saw
in him was in obedience to the necessities of his situation
and the orders of his physician. He could not write a page
of a letter, and reading fatigued his head; but he could not
help trying to do what he had been accustomed to perform
with ease; and no dexterity of his visiters could prevent his
clapping on his hat, and being at the carriage door before
them. I thought once that I had fairly shut him into his
parlour, but he was holding my stirrup before I had done
my farewell to his wife. I was commissioned to carry him
grapes and peaches from a friend's hothouse; and I would
fain have gone every day to read to him, but I found that he
saw too many people, and I therefore went seldom. Nothing
can be conceived more touching than the cheerfulness
of his wife. Many would have inwardly called it cruel that
she could now do almost nothing for her husband, or what
she thought almost nothing. She could neither read to him,
nor write for him the many passing thoughts, the many remembrances
to absent friends, that it would have been a relief
to his now restless mind to have had set down. But
their common conviction completely sustained them both,
and I never saw them otherwise than unaffectedly cheerful.
The child was sometimes better and sometimes worse. I
saw him but once, but I should have known him again
among a thousand. The full, innocent gaze of his bright
black eyes, the upright carriage, so striking in a well-tended
infant, and the attitude of repose in which he contemplated
from his mother's arms whatever went on about him, fixed
the image of the child in my memory for ever. In another
month I heard, at a distance, of the child's death. For a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span>
fortnight before he had been quite blind, and had suffered
grievously. In the common phrase, I was told that the
parents supported themselves wonderfully.</p>

<p>As the cold weather approached, it became necessary for
Mr. P. to remove southward. It was a weary journey over
the Alleghanies into Ohio, but it had to be performed. Every
arrangement of companionship, and about conveyance, resting-places,
&amp;c., was made to lessen the fatigue to the utmost;
but we all dreaded it for him. The party was to
touch at Providence, Rhode Island, where the steamboat
would wait a quarter of an hour. I was in Providence, and,
of course, went down to the boat to greet them. Mr. P.
saw me from a distance, and ran ashore, and let down the
steps of the carriage with an alacrity which filled me with
joy and hope. He was not nearly so thin as when I last
saw him, and his countenance was more radiant than ever.
"I knew we should see you," said he, as he led me on
board to his wife. She, too, was smiling. They were not
in mourning. Like some other persons in America who disapprove
of wearing mourning, they had the courage to break
through the custom. It would, indeed, have been inconsistent
with the conviction which was animating them all
this time&mdash;the conviction that the whole disposal of us is
wise, and right, and kind&mdash;to have made an external profession
that anything that befell them was to be lamented.
I could not but observe the contrast between their countenances
and that of their maidservant, whose heart was doubtless
aching at having to go back without the child. The
mother's feelings were anything but deadened. The cheerfulness
and the heart's mourning existed together. Tears
trembled in her eyes, and her voice faltered more than once;
but then came the bright smile again, and an intimation,
given almost in a spirit of gayety, that it was easy to bear
anything while <i>he</i> was always so strong in spirit and so
happy.</p>

<p>This was the last I saw of them. Their travelling companions
wrote cheerlessly of his want of strength, and of
the suffering the long journey caused him. They were
taken into the house of a kind friend at Cincinnati, where
there was a room fitted up with green for the sake of Mrs.
P.'s eyes, and every arrangement made in a similar spirit of
consideration. But it would not do; there was yet to be no
rest for the invalid. The excitement of being among his
flock, while unable to do anything in their service, was
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span>
injurious to him. He was sent down the river to New-Orleans,
and his wife was not allowed to accompany him. The
reasons were sufficient, but the separation at a time when he
was nearly as anxious about her health as she about his was
a dreadful trial. I heard of it, and wrote him a long letter
to amuse him, desiring him not to exert himself to answer
it. After a while, however, he did so, and I shall never part
with that letter. He spoke briefly of himself and his affairs,
but I saw the whole state of his mind in the little he
did say. He found himself in no respect better; in many
much worse. He often felt that he was going down the
dark valley, and longed intensely for the voices of his home
to cheer him on his way. But, still, his happiest conviction
was the uppermost. He knew that all things were ordered
well, and he had no cares. He wrote more copiously of
other things: of his voyage down the great river, of the
state of mind and manners amid the influences of slavery,
which had converted his judgment and his sympathies to the
abolition cause; and of the generous kindness of his people,
the full extent of which he might never have known but
for his present sickness. This letter left me little hope of
his recovery; yet even here the spirit of cheerfulness, predominant
through the whole, was irresistible, and it left me
less anxious for them than before.</p>

<p>After this I wandered about for some months, out of reach
of any of the P.'s connexions, and could only procure general
accounts of his being better. Just before I sailed I received
from Mr. P. a letter full of good news, as calmly cheerful
in its tone as any written in the depths of his adversity.
He had ascended the river with the first warmth of spring;
was so much better as to be allowed to preach once on the
Sunday, and to be about to undertake it twice; and was now
writing beside the cradle of his newborn daughter, whose
mother sent me word that they were all well and happy.</p>

<p>The power of a faith like theirs goes forth in various directions
to work many wonders. It not only fortifies the
minds of sufferers, but modifies the circumstances themselves
from which they suffer, bracing the nerves in sickness,
and equalizing the emotions in sorrow; it practically
asserts the supremacy of the real over the apparent, and
the high over the low; and, among other kindly operations,
refreshes the spirit of the stranger with a revelation of true
kindred in a foreign land: for this faith is the fundamental
quality in the brotherhood of the race.</p>
<br />
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="The_Natural_Bridge" id="The_Natural_Bridge"></a>THE NATURAL BRIDGE.</h2>
<div style="margin-left: 5em;">
"Come on, sir; here's the place: stand still. How fearful<br />
And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low!"</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="smcap">Shakspeare.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 5em;">
<span style="margin-left: 6em;">"Desperate now</span><br />
All farther course; yon beetling brow,<br />
In craggy nakedness sublime,<br />
What heart or foot shall dare to climb!"</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="smcap">Scott.</span></div>
<br />

<p class="p1">The shrewd Yankee driver of the "extra exclusive return
stage," which contained four out of six of our travelling-party
in Virginia, was jocose about the approach to the Natural
Bridge. Mr. L. and I were on horseback, and the driver of
the stage called after us when we were "going ahead," to
warn us that we should get over the bridge without knowing
it if we went first. We, of course, determined to avoid
looking so foolish as we should do if we passed the Natural
Bridge&mdash;the little spot deemed important enough to be put
in capital letters in maps of the American Union&mdash;without
knowing it. Heads were popped out of the stage window
to shout the warning after us; and the jokes really seemed
so extremely insulting, that we were disposed to push on,
and get our sight of Jefferson's great wonder before our fellow-travellers
came up. For five miles we kept out of sight
of the stage; but at this point there was a parting of the
roads, and we could see no possible means of learning which
we were to follow. We were obliged to wait in the shade
till the distant driver's whip pointed out the right-hand road
to us. We were now not far from the object of our expectations.
We agreed that we felt very quiet about it; that we
were conscious of little of the veneration which the very
idea of Niagara inspires. The intensity of force, combined
with repose, is the charm of Niagara. No form of rock,
however grand in itself or however beautifully surrounded,
can produce anything like the same impression. Experience
proved that we were right.</p>

<p>At a mile from the bridge the road turns off through a
wood. While the stage rolled and jolted along the extremely
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span>
bad road, Mr. L. and I went prying about the whole area
of the wood, poking our horses' noses into every thicket and
between any two pieces of rock, that we might be sure not
to miss our object, the driver smiling after us whenever he
could spare attention from his own not very easy task of
getting his charge along. With all my attention I could see
no precipice, and was concluding to follow the road without
more vagaries, when Mr. L., who was a little in advance,
waved his whip as he stood beside his horse, and said,
"Here is the bridge!" I then perceived that we were
nearly over it, the piled rocks on either hand forming a barrier
which prevents a careless eye from perceiving the ravine
which it spans. I turned to the side of the road, and rose
in my stirrup to look over; but I found it would not do. I
went on to the inn, deposited my horse, and returned on
foot to the bridge.</p>

<p>With all my efforts I could not look down steadily into
what seemed the bottomless abyss of foliage and shadow.
From every point of the bridge I tried, and all in vain. I
was heated and extremely hungry, and much vexed at my
own weakness. The only way was to go down and look
up; though where the bottom could be was past my imagining,
the view from the top seeming to be of foliage below
foliage for ever.</p>

<p>The way to the glen is through a field opposite the inn,
and down a steep, rough, rocky path, which leads under the
bridge and a few yards beyond it. I think the finest view
of all is from this path, just before reaching the bridge. The
irregular arch of rock, spanning a chasm of 160 feet in height,
and from sixty to ninety in width, is exquisitely tinted with
every shade of gray and brown; while trees encroach from
the sides and overhang from the top, between which and the
arch there is an additional depth of fifty-six feet. It was
now early in July; the trees were in their brightest and
thickest foliage; and the tall beeches under the arch contrasted
their verdure with the gray rock, and received the
gilding of the sunshine as it slanted into the ravine, glittering
in the drip from the arch, and in the splashing and
tumbling waters of Cedar Creek, which ran by our feet.
Swallows were flying about under the arch. What others
of their tribe can boast of such a home?</p>

<p>We crossed and recrossed the creek on stepping-stones,
searching out every spot to which any tradition belonged.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span>
Under the arch, thirty feet from the water, the lower part of
the letters G.W. may be seen carved in the rock. When
Washington was a young man, he climbed up hither, to
leave this record of his visit. There are other inscriptions
of the same kind, and above them a board, on which are
painted the names of two persons, who have thought it worth
while thus to immortalize their feat of climbing highest.
But their glory was but transient after all. They have been
outstripped by a traveller whose achievement will probably
never be rivalled, for he would not have accomplished it if
he could by any means have declined the task. Never was
a wonderful deed more involuntarily performed. There is
no disparagement to the gentleman in saying this: it is only
absolving him from the charge of foolhardiness.</p>

<p>This young man, named Blacklock, accompanied by two
friends, visited the Natural Bridge, and, being seized with
the ambition appropriate to the place, of writing his name
highest, climbed the rock opposite to the part selected by
Washington, and carved his initials. Others had perhaps
seen what Mr. Blacklock overlooked, that it was a place easy
to ascend, but from which it is impossible to come down.
He was forty feet or more from the path; his footing was
precarious; he was weary with holding on while carving his
name, and his head began to swim when he saw the impossibility
of getting down again. He called to his companions
that his only chance was to climb up upon the bridge without
hesitation or delay. They saw this, and with anguish
agreed between themselves that the chance was a very bare
one. They cheered him, and advised him to look neither up
nor down. On he went, slanting upward from under the
arch, creeping round a projection on which no foothold is
visible from below, and then disappearing in a recess filled
up with foliage. Long and long they waited, watching for
motion, and listening for crashing among the trees. He
must have been now 150 feet above them. At length their
eyes were so strained that they could see no more, and they
had almost lost all hope. There was little doubt that he
had fallen while behind the trees, where his body would
never be found. They went up to try the chance of looking
for him from above. They found him lying insensible on
the bridge. He could just remember reaching the top, when
he immediately fainted. One would like to know whether
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span>
the accident left him a coward in respect of climbing, or
whether it strengthened his confidence in his nerves.</p>

<p>The guide showed us a small cedar, which projected from
a shelf of the rock about two hundred feet above our heads,
and along whose stem a young lady climbed several feet, so
as to court destruction in a very vain and foolish manner.
If the support had failed, as might reasonably have been expected,
her immortality of reputation would not have been
of an enviable kind.</p>

<p>We remained in the ravine till we were all exhausted
with hunger, but we had to wait for dinner still another hour
after arriving at the inn. By way of passing the time, one
gentleman of our party fainted, and had to be laid along on
the floor; which circumstance, I fancy, rather accelerated
the announcement of our meal. The moment it was over I
hastened to the bridge, and was pleased to find that, being
no longer fatigued and hungry, I could look into the abyss
with perfect ease. I lay down on the rocks, and studied
the aspect of the ravine in its afternoon lights and shadows
from five different points of view. While thus engaged I
was called to see a handsome copper-headed snake, but it
had gained its hole before I could reach the spot. We ladies
so much preferred the view of the bridge from the glen to
the view of the glen from the bridge, that we went down for
another hour before departing. It looked most beautiful.
The sunshine was slowly withdrawing from under the arch,
and leaving us in the shadows of evening, while all was
glowing like noon in the region to which we looked up from
our lowly seats, the stepping-stones in the midst of the gushing
creek.</p>

<p>The Natural Bridge is nearly in the centre of Virginia,
and about half way between Fincastle and Lexington, which
are about thirty-seven miles apart. The main central road
of Virginia runs over the bridge, so that no excuse is left for
travellers who neglect to visit this work, framed by the strong
hand of Nature,</p>

<div style="margin-left: 7em;">
<span style="margin-left: 6em;">"By wondrous art</span><br />
Pontifical, a ridge of pendant rock<br />
Over the vex'd abyss,"<br />
</div>

<p>vexed, not by the tumults of chaos, but by the screams of
caverned birds, the battles of snakes with their prey, and the
chafing of waters against opposing rocks.</p>
<br />
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="Colonel_Burr" id="Colonel_Burr"></a>COLONEL BURR.</h2>

<div style="margin-left: 5em;">"His extraordinary plans and expectations for himself might be of
such a nature as to depend on other persons for their accomplishment,
and might, therefore, be as extravagant as if other persons alone had
been their object."&mdash;<span class="smcap">Foster's</span> <i>Essays</i>.</div>


<p>The romance of political adventure is generally found to
flourish in the regions of despotism; and it seems a matter
of course that there can be no room for conspiracy in a democratic
republic, where each man is a member of the government,
and means are provided for the expression of every
kind of political opinion and desire. Yet the United States
can exhibit a case of conspiracy and a political adventurer
such as might rejoice the souls of the lovers of romance.
Scattered notices of Colonel Aaron Burr and of his supposed
schemes are before the English public, but no connected history
which might be depended upon appeared during his life.
He died last year, and has left no relations; so that no reason
now exists why everything that can be learned about
him should not be made known.</p>

<p>In 1795, Aaron Burr had attained to eminence at the New-York
Bar. He was about the same age as Alexander Hamilton,
who was born in 1757, and their professional reputation
and practice were about equal. Hamilton was the leader of
the federal party. He was, in countenance, eminently handsome,
in manner engaging, in temper amiable and affectionate,
in eloquence both persuasive and commanding; and his mind
was so comprehensive, and his powers of application and execution
so great, as to cause him to be considered by the federal
party the greatest man their country has produced. Burr
was of democratic politics; he had a fiercely ambitious
temper, which he hid under a gentle and seductive manner.
He was usually so quiet and sedate that he might have been
thought indifferent but for the expression of his piercing
black eyes. His face was otherwise plain, and his figure
and gait were stooping and ungraceful. He assumed great
authority of manner upon occasion. His speaking at the
bar was brief and to the purpose. His most remarkable
characteristic seems to have been his power of concealment.
He not only carried on a conspiracy before the nation's eyes
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span>
which they to this day cannot more or less understand, but
lived long years with the tremendous secret in his breast,
and has gone down to the grave without affording any solution
of the mystery. It may be doubted whether, in all the
long private conversations he had with individuals, he ever
committed himself, otherwise than apparently, to anybody.
He seems to have been understood by Hamilton, however,
from the beginning, and Hamilton never concealed his opinion
that Burr was an ambitious and dangerous man.</p>

<p>Jefferson put a generous trust in Burr, and for many years
they were intimate correspondents. It is very touching to
read, after all that has since happened, such letters as the
following, written shortly after the two men had been rival
candidates for the presidentship, at a time of unexampled
party excitement:&mdash;</p>

<div style="margin-left: 10em;">"<span class="smcap">To Colonel Burr.</span></div>

<div style="text-align: center;">
"Washington, February 1, 1801.<br />
</div>
<br />

<div style="margin-left: 5em;">"Dear Sir&mdash;It was to be expected that the enemy would
endeavour to sow tares between us, that they might divide us
and our friends. Every consideration satisfies me that you
will be on your guard against this, as I assure you I am
strongly. I hear of one stratagem so imposing and so base,
that it is proper I should notice it to you. Mr. Munford,
who is here, says he saw at New-York before he left it an
original letter of mine to Judge Breckinridge, in which are
sentiments highly injurious to you. He knows my handwriting,
and did not doubt that to be genuine. I enclose you
a copy, taken from a press copy of the only letter I ever
wrote to Judge Breckinridge in my life: the press copy itself
has been shown to several of our mutual friends here. Of
consequence, the letter seen by Mr. Munford must be a forgery;
and, if it contains a sentiment unfriendly or disrespectful
to you, I affirm it solemnly to be a forgery, as also
if it varies from the copy enclosed. With the common trash
of slander I should not think of troubling you; but the forgery
of one's handwriting is too imposing to be neglected.
A mutual knowledge of each other furnishes us with the best
test of the contrivances which will be practised by the enemies
of both.</div>

<div style="margin-left: 5em;">"Accept assurances of my high respect and esteem.</div>

<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">"<span class="smcap">Th. Jefferson.</span>"<br />
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span></p>

<p>In the presidential election of 1800 there were four candidates,
Jefferson, Burr, John Adams, and Pinckney. The
votes were for Jefferson 73, for Burr 73, for Adams 65, for
Pinckney 64. The numbers for Jefferson and Burr being
equal, the choice devolved upon the House of Representatives,
which voted to attend to no other business till the election
was settled, and not to adjourn till the decision was effected.
For seven days and nights the ballotting went on,
every member being present. Some who were ill or infirm
were accommodated with beds and couches, and one
sick member was allowed to be attended by his wife.
Adams was, as president, on the spot, watching his impending
political annihilation. Jefferson was at hand, daily presiding
in the Senate. Burr was in the State of New-York,
anxiously expecting tidings. The federal party were in
despair at having to choose between two republicans (as the
democratic party was at that day called). It is said that
Hamilton was consulted by his party, and that his advice
was to choose Jefferson rather than Burr: a piece of counsel
which affected the everlasting destinies of the country, and
cost the counsellor his life. At the end of the seven days
Jefferson was elected president and Burr vice-president,
which office Burr held for a single term, four years.</p>

<p>In the winter of 1804 Burr was proposed at Albany as a
candidate for the office of Governor of the State of New-York.
Hamilton, at a public meeting of his party, strongly
opposed the nomination, declaring that he would never join
in supporting such a candidate. About this time Dr. Chas.
D. Cooper wrote a letter, in which he said "General Hamilton
and&mdash;&mdash;have declared in substance that they looked
upon Mr. Burr as a dangerous man, and one who ought not
to be trusted with the reins of government." "I could detail
to you a still more despicable opinion which General
Hamilton has expressed of Mr. Burr." This letter was
published; and on the 18th of June, 1804, Burr sent a copy
of it to Hamilton, with a demand that the expressions it contained
should be acknowledged or denied. The correspondence
which ensued is discreditable to both parties.
To use the expression of a great man, "Hamilton went into
it like a Capuchin." He knew that it was Burr's determination
to fix a deadly quarrel upon him; he knew that Burr
was an unworthy adversary; he disapproved of the practice
of duelling, but he feared the imputation of want of courage
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span>
if he refused to meet his foe. He therefore explained and
corresponded with an amplitude and indecision which expose
his reputation to more danger from harsh judges than a
refusal to fight would have done. As for Burr, he was savage
in his pursuit of his enemy. He enlarged his accusations
and demands as he saw the irresolution of his victim; and I
believe there is no doubt that, though he was a good shot
before, he employed the interval of twenty days which
elapsed before the duel took place in firing at a mark, making
no secret of the purpose of his practising.</p>

<p>This interval was occasioned by Hamilton's refusal to
go out till the Circuit Court, in the business of which he
was engaged, should have closed its sittings. The Court
rose on Friday, the 6th of July, and Burr received notice
that General Hamilton would be ready at any time after the
following Sunday.</p>

<p>On Wednesday morning, the 11th, the parties crossed
the Hudson to the Jersey shore, arriving on the ground at
seven o'clock. Burr was attended by Mr. Van Ness and a
surgeon; Hamilton by Mr. Pendleton and Dr. Hosack. It
was Hamilton's intention not to fire; but when his adversary's
ball struck him on the right side, he raised himself
involuntarily on his toes, and turned a little to the left, his
pistol going off with the movement. He observed to his
physician, "This is a mortal wound, doctor," and then became
insensible. He revived, however, in the boat, in the
course of removal home, and cautioned his attendants about
the pistol, which he was not aware of having discharged.
He lived in great agony till two o'clock of the following day.</p>

<p>He left a paper which contained his statement of reasons
for meeting Burr, notwithstanding his conscientious disapproval
of the practice of duelling, and his particular desire
to avoid an encounter with such an adversary, and in such
a cause as the present. In this paper he declares his resolution
to reserve and throw away his first fire, and perhaps
his second. His reasons for fighting are now, I believe,
generally agreed to be unsatisfactory. As to the effect of
his determination to spare his adversary, I never could learn
that Colonel Burr expressed the slightest regret for the pertinacity
with which he hunted such an enemy&mdash;merely a
political foe&mdash;to death. Neither did he appear to feel the
execration with which he was regarded in the region of
which Hamilton had been the pride and ornament.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p>

<p>To avoid the legal consequences of his deed he wandered
into the West, and remained so long in retreat that some
passing wonder was excited as to what he could be doing
there. He was ensnaring more victims.</p>

<p>In the Ohio river, a few miles below Marietta, there is a
beautiful island, finely wooded, but now presenting a dismal
picture of ruin. This island was purchased, about thirty-five
years ago, by an Irish gentleman, named Herman Blennerhassett,
whose name the island has since borne. This
gentleman took his beautiful and attached wife to his new
property, and their united tastes made it such an abode as
was never before and has never since been seen in the United
States. Shrubberies, conservatories, and gardens ornamented
the island, and within doors there was a fine library,
philosophical apparatus, and music-room. Burr seems to
have been introduced to this family by some mutual friends
at the East, and to have been received as a common acquaintance
at first. The intimacy grew; and the oftener he
went to Blennerhassett's Island, and the longer he stayed,
the deeper was the gloom which overspread the unfortunate
family. Blennerhassett himself seems to have withdrawn
his interest from his children, his books, his pursuits, as Burr
obtained influence over his mind, and poisoned it with some
dishonest ambition. The wife's countenance grew sad and
her manners constrained. It is not known how far she was
made acquainted with what was passing between her husband
and Burr.</p>

<p>The object of Burr's conspiracy remains as much a mystery
as ever, while there is no doubt whatever of its existence.
Some suppose that he intended to possess himself
of Mexico, an enterprise less absurd than at first sight it
appears. There was great hatred towards the Mexicans at
that period, the period of agitation about the acquisition of
Louisiana; thousands of citizens were ready to march down
upon Mexico on any pretence; and it is certain that Burr
was so amply provided with funds from some unknown
quarter, that he had active adherents carrying on his business
from the borders of Maine all down the course of the
great Western rivers. Another supposition is, that he designed
the plunder of New-Orleans in the event of a war with
Spain. A more probable one is that he proposed to found
a great Western Empire, with the aid of Spain, making
himself its emperor, and drawing off the allegiance of all
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span>
the countries west of the Alleghanies; and, finally, that, as
a cover to and final substitute for other designs, he meant to
effect the colonization of the banks of the river Washita.
Such are the various objects assigned as the end of Burr's
movements: but all that is known is that he engaged a
number of men in his service&mdash;supposed to be not less than
a thousand&mdash;under an assurance that the service required
of them was one approved by the government; that he
endeavoured to persuade Latrobe, the architect, to engage
five hundred more labourers on pretext of their working on
the Ohio canal, in which it turned out that he had no interest;
that a guard was mounted round Blennerhassett's Island;
that boats, manned and furnished with arms, set forth
from the island on the night of the 10th of December, 1806;
that they were joined by Burr, with a re-enforcement, at the
mouth of the Cumberland; and that they all proceeded
down the Mississippi together.</p>

<p>The government had become aware of secret meetings
between Burr, the Spanish Yruyo, and Dr. Bollman, one of
the liberators of Lafayette; and the proper time was seized
for putting forth proclamations which undeceived the people
with regard to Burr's movements, and caused them to rise
against him wherever he had been acting. Orders to capture
him and his party, and, if necessary, to destroy his
boats, were eagerly received. Burr did not venture to New-Orleans.
He caused himself to be put ashore in the territory
of Mississippi, and thence found his way, attended by
only one person, to the banks of the Tombigbee, which he
reached on the 19th of February, 1807. At eleven at night
the wanderers passed a settlement called Washington Courthouse:
Burr preceded his companion by some yards, and
passed on quietly; but his companion inquired of a man
standing at the door of a public house about the dwelling of
a Major Hinson, and, on receiving his answer, joined Burr.
The person inquired of went to Hinson's with the sheriff,
and had his suspicions so confirmed, that he proceeded to
Fort Stoddart, and brought back an officer and four soldiers,
who took Burr into custody. He was lodged, a prisoner, at
Richmond, Virginia, by the end of March.</p>

<p>Burr had previously been brought to trial in Kentucky,
on an accusation of illegal secret practices in that state.
He was defended and brought off by Mr. Clay and Colonel
Allen, who were persuaded of his innocence, and refused a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span>
fee. Mr. Clay was for long after his advocate in public
and in private, and asked him, for friendly purposes, for a
full declaration that he was innocent, which Burr gave unhesitatingly
and explicitly, and the note is now among Jefferson's
papers. When, some time subsequently, a letter
of Burr's in cipher came to light, Mr. Clay found how he
had been deceived; but his advocacy was, for the time, of
great benefit to Burr.</p>

<p>On the 17th of August Burr was brought to trial at Richmond
before Chief-justice Marshall. He was charged with
having excited insurrection, rebellion, and war, on the 10th
of December, 1806, at Blennerhassett's Island, in Virginia.
Secondly, the same charge was repeated, with the addition
of a traitorous intention of taking possession of the city of
New-Orleans with force and arms. The evidence established
everything but the precise charge. The presence of
Burr in the island was proved, and his levies of men and
provisions on the banks of the Ohio. The presence of armed
men in the island and the expedition of the 10th of December
were also proved, but not any meeting of these men
with Burr. The proof of the overt act completely failed.
He was then tried at the same court on an indictment for
misdemeanour, and acquitted. He was then ordered to be
committed to answer an indictment in the State of Ohio.
He was admitted to bail, and it does not appear that the
State of Ohio meddled with him at all.</p>

<p>Bollman was one of the witnesses on the side of the
prosecution. His certificate of pardon was offered to him
in court by the counsel for the prosecution. He refused to
accept it, but was sworn, and his evidence received.</p>

<p>It is impossible to suppose any bias on the part of the
court in favour of the prisoner. His acquittal seems to have
arisen from unskilfulness in deducing the charges from the
evidence, and to the trial having taken place before all the
requisite evidence could be gathered from distant regions.</p>

<p>Blennerhassett and others were tried on the same charges
as Burr; but what became of them I do not remember, farther
than that Blennerhassett was utterly ruined and disgraced.</p>

<p>Burr repaired to England. His connexion with Bentham
appears wholly unaccountable. The story is that he was
in a bookseller's shop one day when Bentham entered, and
fixed his observation; that he wrote a letter to Bentham as
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span>
soon as he was gone, expressive of his high admiration of his
works; that Bentham admitted him to an interview, invited
him to stay with him, and urged the prolongation of his visit
from time to time, till it ended in being a sojourn of two years.
It is difficult to conceive how an agreeable intercourse could
be kept up for so long a time between the single-minded
philosopher and the crafty yet boastful, the vindictive yet
smooth political adventurer.</p>

<p>In October, 1808, Jefferson wrote to a friend,</p>

<p>"Burr is in London, and is giving out to his friends that
that government offers him two millions of dollars the moment
he can raise an ensign of rebellion as big as a handkerchief.
Some of his partisans will believe this because
they wish it. But those who know him best will not believe
it the more because he says it."<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> He returned to
America in 1812, being sent away from England on account
of his too frequent and very suspicious political correspondence
with France.</p>

<p>He settled quietly at New-York, and resumed practice at
the bar, which he continued as long as his health permitted.
He owed such practice as he had to his high legal ability,
and not to any improved opinion of his character. When
Mr. Clay arrived in New-York from his English mission,
he went the round of the public institutions, attended by the
principal inhabitants. In one of the courts he met Burr, and,
of course, after the affair of the cipher letter, cut him. Burr
made his way to him, declared himself anxious to clear up
every misapprehension, and requested to be allowed half an
hour's private conversation. Mr. Clay readily agreed to
this, and the hour was named. Burr failed to keep his appointment,
and never afterward appeared in Mr. Clay's
presence.</p>

<p>One pure light, one healthy affection, illumined and partially
redeemed the life of the adventurer. He had an only
child, a daughter, whom he loved with all the love of which
he was capable, and which she fully deserved. She was
early married to a Mr. Alston, and lived at Charleston. I
believe she was about five-and-twenty when she fell into ill
health, and the strong soul of her father was shaken with
the terror of losing her. He spared no pains or expense to
obtain the best opinions on her case from Europe; and the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span>
earnestness of his appeals to the physicians to whom he
wrote full statements of her case are very moving. While
awaiting a decision as to what measures should be taken for
her restoration, it was decided that she must leave Charleston
before the summer heats, and he summoned her to his
home at New-York. To avoid fatigue, she went by sea
with her child and the nurse. Her father had notice of her
departure, and watched hour after hour for her arrival. The
hours wore away, and days, and weeks, and years. The
vessel never arrived, nor any tidings of her. She must have
foundered, or, far worse, fallen into the hands of pirates. A
pang went through the heart of every one for many years,
as often as the thought recurred that Mrs. Alston and her
child might be living in slavery to pirates in some place inaccessible
to the inquiries of even her wretched father.
When all had been done that could be devised, and every
one had ceased to hope, Burr closed his lips upon the subject.
No one of the few who were about him ever heard
him mention his daughter.</p>

<p>While I was in America a foreign sailor died in a hospital,
my memory fails me as to where it was. When near death,
he made a confession which was believed to be true by all
whom I heard speak on the subject. He confessed himself
to have been a pirate, and to have served on board the vessel
which captured that which was conveying Mrs. Alston.
He declared that she was shut up below while the captain
and crew were being murdered on deck. She was then
brought up, and was present at the decision that it would not
be safe to spare her life. She was ordered to walk the
plank, with her child in her arms; and, finding all quiet remonstrance
vain, she did it without hesitation or visible
tremour. The recollection of it was too much for the pirate
in his dying moments.</p>

<p>About a year before his death Colonel Burr sanctioned
the publication of a so-called life of himself; a panegyric
which leaves in the reader's mind the strongest conviction of
the reality of his Western adventures, and of the justice of
every important charge against him. He died last year;
and it will probably be soon known with exactness whether
he took care that his secrets should be buried with him, or
whether he made arrangements for some light being at length
thrown on his eventful and mysterious history.</p>
<br />
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></p>




<h2><a name="Villages" id="Villages"></a>VILLAGES.</h2>

<div style="margin-left: 5em;">
<span style="margin-left: 12em;">"These ample fields</span><br />
Nourished their harvests: here their herds were fed,<br />
When haply by their stalls the bison lowed,<br />
And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke.<br />
<span style="margin-left: 13em;">From the ground</span><br />
Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice<br />
Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn<br />
Of Sabbath worshippers."<br />
<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="smcap">Bryant.</span><br /></div>



<p class="p1">The villages of New-England are all more or less beautiful,
and the most beautiful of them all is, I believe, Northampton.
They have all the graceful weeping elm; wide roads
overshadowed with wood; mounds or levels of a rich verdure;
white churches, and comfortable and picturesque frame dwellings.
Northampton has these beauties and more. It lies
in the rich meadows which border the Connecticut, beneath
the protection of high wooded hills. The habitations of its
gentry crown the green knolls and terraces on which the
village stands, or half buried in gay gardens, or hidden under
clumps of elm. The celebrated Mount Holyoke and Mount
Tom are just at hand, and the Sugarloaf is in view; while
the brimming Connecticut winds about and about in the
meadows, as if unwilling, like the traveller, to leave such a
spot.</p>

<p>The pilgrims were not long in discovering the promise of
the rich alluvial lands amid which Northampton stands; and
their descendants established themselves here, as in the
midst of a wilderness, long before there were any settlements
between the spot on which they had sat down and the coast.
The perils of such an abode were extreme, but so were its
temptations; and here, for many years, did a handful of
whites continue to live, surrounded by red neighbours; now
trafficking, now fighting; sometimes agreeing to render mutual
service, but always on the watch against mutual injury.
So early as 1658 the township of Northampton (then called
Nonotuc) was purchased at the price set upon it by the Indians,
viz., for ninety square miles of land the sellers demanded
one hundred fathom of wampum by tale, and ten
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span>
coats; and that the purchasers should plough for the Indians
sixteen acres of land on the east side of the river the next
summer. The making the purchase was the smallest part
of the settlers' business; the defending themselves in the
wilderness, surrounded as they were by numerous tribes of
Indians, was a far more serious matter. The usual arrangement
of a village was planned with a regard to safety from
plunder and massacre. The surviving effect is that of
beauty, which the busy settlers cannot be supposed to have
much regarded at the time. The dwellings were erected in
one long street, each house within its own enclosure, and,
in many cases, fortified. The street was bordered with
trees, and in the midst stood the "meeting-house," often fortified
also. This street was, when it was possible, built
across the neck of a peninsula formed by the windings of
the river, or from hill to hill in the narrowest part of a valley.
The cattle which grazed during the day in the peninsula
or under the eye of the owners were driven at night
into the area between the rows of houses. Here and there
a village was surrounded with palisades. But no kind of
defence availed for any long period. From time to time
disasters happened to the most careful and the most valiant.
Fire was an agent of destruction which could not be always
defied. When the village was burned its inhabitants were
helpless. The women and children were carried off into
captivity, and the place lay desolate till a new party of adventurers
arrived to clear away the ruins and commence a
fresh experiment.</p>

<p>Traditions of the horrors of the Indian wars spring up
at every step in this valley, and make the stranger speculate
on what men and women were made of in the days
when they could voluntarily fix their abode among savage
foes, while there were safer places of habitation at their command
on the coast. The settlers seem, by the testimony
of all history, to have been possessed of spirit proportioned
to their needs. We hear of women being employed in the
cellars casting bullets, and handing them to their husbands
during an onset of the savages; and of a girl plucking a
saddle from under the head of a sleeping Indian, saddling a
horse, and galloping off, swimming rivers, and penetrating
forests till she reached her home. The fate of the family
of the Rev. John Williams, who were living in the valley of
the Connecticut at the end of the seventeenth century, and
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>
were broken up by the Indians in an attack on the village of
Deerfield, is a fair specimen of the chances to which residents
in such lodges in the wilderness were exposed.</p>

<p>The enemy came over the snow, which was four feet
deep, and hard enough to bear them up, and thus were enabled
to surmount the palisades. Not being expected at that
time of year, they met with no opposition. The inhabitants
had not time to rouse themselves from sleep before they
were tomahawked or captured. Out of a population of two
hundred and eighty, forty-seven were killed, and one hundred
and twelve made prisoners. Mr. Williams was the
minister of the settlement. Two of his children were killed
on the threshold of his own door. His son Eleazer escaped,
and was left behind. Mrs. Williams was one of the Mathers
of Northampton. She was marched off, with her husband
and several remaining children, in the direction of Canada;
but they were not allowed to be together and comfort each
other. It was a weary march for sufferers who carried
such heavy hearts into so horrible a captivity. Over wastes
of snow, through thawing brooks, among rugged forest-paths,
they were goaded on, not permitted to look back, or to loiter,
or to stop, except at the pleasure of their captors. Mrs.
Williams presently fell behind. She was in delicate health,
and unused to hardship like this. When her husband had
passed Green River, he looked back and saw her faltering
on the bank, and then stumbling into the water. He turned
to implore the savage who guarded him to allow him to go
back and help his wife. He was refused, and when he
looked again she had disappeared. Having fallen into the
water through weakness, an Indian had buried his tomahawk
in her scull, stepped over her body, and passed on. Her
remains were discovered and carried back to Deerfield for
interment.</p>

<p>For a few moments the captives had been tantalized with
a hope of release. The Indians were attacked during their
retreat by a small body of settlers, and pressed hard. At
this moment an Indian runner was despatched to the guard,
with orders to put all the prisoners to death. A ball laid
him low while he was on his errand; and the settlers being
compelled to give way, the order about the prisoners was
not renewed.</p>

<p>At night they encamped on the snow, digging away spaces
to lie down in, and spreading boughs of the spruce-fir for
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span>
couches. During the first night one of the captives escaped;
and in the morning Mr. Williams was ordered to tell his companions,
that if any more made their escape, the rest of the
prisoners should be burned.</p>

<p>At the close of a day's march, when they had advanced some
way on their long journey, a maidservant belonging to Mr.
Williams's family came to the pastor, requested his blessing,
and offered her farewell. He inquired what she meant.
She replied, with great quietness of manner, that she perceived
that all who lagged in the march were tomahawked;
that she had kept up with great difficulty through this day;
and that she felt she should perish thus on the morrow.
Mr. Williams examined into her state of body, and was convinced
that she was nearly exhausted. He gave his blessing,
and this was all he could do for her. He watched her
incessantly the next day. He saw her growing more feeble
every hour, but still calm and gentle. She kept up till late
in the afternoon, when she lagged behind; being urged, she
fell, and was despatched with the tomahawk. Two of the
prisoners were starved to death on the road, and fifteen
others were murdered like Mrs. Williams and her servant.</p>

<p>The pastor, with his remaining children, reached Canada,
where he remained, suffering great hardships, for two years
and a half. He was ransomed, with sixty-one others, and
returned to Boston, where he was waited upon by a deputation
from his old parish, and requested to resume his duties
among the remnant of his people. He actually returned,
and died in peace there twenty-three years afterward. It
appears that all his captive children but one were redeemed.
Two besides Eleazer were educated at Harvard College.
His little daughter Eunice was six years old when she was
carried away. She grew up to womanhood among the Indians,
and married a red man, retaining the name of Williams,
and adopting the Romish faith. Being brought to
Deerfield to see her family, she could not be persuaded to
remain; nor would she accommodate herself to the habits
of civilized life, preferring to sleep on the floor on a blanket
to using a bed. Some half-breed descendants of hers are
living on the borders of Lake Michigan.</p>

<p>The sufferers seemed to have consoled themselves with
turning their disasters into verse; sometimes piously, in
hymns, and sometimes in a lighter ballad strain, like the following:
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span>&mdash;</p>

<div style="margin-left: 5em;">
"'Twas nigh unto Pigwacket, on the eighth day of May,<br />
They spied a rebel Indian, soon after break of day;<br />
He on a bank was walking, upon a neck of land,<br />
Which leads into a pond, as we're made to understand.<br />
<hr />
Then up spoke Captain Lovewell, when first the fight began,<br />
'Fight on, my valiant heroes! you see they fall like rain.'<br />
For as we are inform'd, the Indians were so thick,<br />
A man could scarcely fire a gun, and some of them not hit."<br />
</div>

<p>Many of the half-breeds who have sprung from the wars
between the settlers and the natives have been missionaries
among the savages. Much doubt hangs over the utility of
Indian missions: if good has been done, it seems to be
chiefly owing to the offices of half-breeds, who modify the
religion to be imparted so as to suit it to the habits of mind
and life of the new converts. As far as I could learn, the
following anecdote is no unfair specimen of the way in which
missionaries and their religion are primarily regarded by the
savages to whom they are sent.</p>

<p>Mr. K., a missionary among a tribe of northern Indians,
was wont to set some simple refreshment&mdash;fruit and cider&mdash;before
his converts when they came from a distance to see
him. An old man, who had no pretensions to being a Christian,
desired much to be admitted to the refreshments, and
proposed to some of his converted friends to accompany
them on their next visit to the missionary. They told him
he must be a Christian first. What was that? He must
know all about the Bible. When the time came, he declared
himself prepared, and undertook the journey with
them. When arrived, he seated himself opposite the missionary,
wrapped in his blanket, and looking exceedingly
serious. In answer to an inquiry from the missionary, he
rolled up his eyes, and solemnly uttered the following words,
with a pause between each:</p>

<p>"Adam&mdash;Eve&mdash;Cain&mdash;Noah&mdash;Jeremiah&mdash;Beelzebub&mdash;Solomon&mdash;"</p>

<p>"What do you mean?" asked the missionary.</p>

<p>"Solomon&mdash;Beelzebub&mdash;Noah&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Stop, stop. What do you mean?"</p>

<p>"I mean&mdash;cider."</p>

<p>This is one way in which an unintelligible religion is received
by savages. Another resembles the mode in which
they meet offers of traffic from suspicious parties: "the
more you say bow and arrows, the more we won't make
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span>
them." Where Christianity is received among them with any
efficacy, it appears to be exactly in proportion to the skill of
the missionary in associating the new truth he brings with
that which was already sanctified in their hearts; in proportion
as the new religion is made a sequel of the old one, instead
of a substitution for it.</p>

<p>The dusky race was in my mind's eye as we followed the
windings of the river through the rich valley from Springfield
to Northampton. The very names of the places, the
hamlet of Hoccanum, at the foot of Mount Holyoke, and that
of Pascommuc, lying below Mount Tom, remind the traveller
how the possessors have been displaced from this fair land,
and how their descendants must be mourning their lost
Quonnecticut. Such sympathies soon wither away, however,
amid the stir and loveliness of the sunny village.</p>

<p>We had letters of introduction to some of the inhabitants
of Northampton, and knew that our arrival was expected;
but we little anticipated such eagerness of hospitality as we
were met with. The stage was stopped by a gentleman
who asked for me. It was Mr. Bancroft, the historian, then
a resident of Northampton. He cordially welcomed us as
his guests, and ordered the stage up the hill to his house;
such a house! It stood on a lofty terrace, and its balcony
overlooked first the garden, then the orchard stretching down
the slope, then the delicious village, and the river with its
meadows, while opposite rose Mount Holyoke. Far off in
the valley to the left lay Hadley, half hidden among trees;
and on the hills, still farther to the left, was Amherst, with
its college buildings conspicuous on the height.</p>

<p>All was in readiness for us, the spacious rooms with their
cool arrangements (it was the 7th of August), and the ladies
of the family with their ready merry welcome. It was past
noon when we arrived, and before the early dinner hour we
were as much at home as if we had been acquainted for
months. The American mirth, common everywhere, was
particularly hearty in this house; and as for us, we were
intoxicated with the beauty of the scene. From the balcony
we gazed as if it was presently to melt before our eyes.
This day, I remember, we first tasted green corn, one of the
most delicious of vegetables, and by some preferred to green
peas. The greatest drawback is the way in which it is necessary
to eat it. The cob, eight or ten inches long, is held
at both ends, and, having been previously sprinkled with salt,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span>
is nibbled and sucked from end to end till all the grains are
got out. It looks awkward enough: but what is to be done?
Surrendering such a vegetable from considerations of grace
is not to be thought of.</p>

<p>After dinner we walked in the blooming garden till summoned
within doors by callers. My host had already discovered
my taste for rambling, and determined to make me
happy during my short visit by driving me about the country.
He liked nothing better himself. His historical researches
had stored his memory with all the traditions of the valley,
of the state, and, I rather think, of the whole of New-England.
I find the entries in my journal of this and the next
two days the most copious of any during my travels.</p>

<p>Mr. Bancroft drove me to Amherst this afternoon. He
explained to me the construction of the bridge we passed,
which is of a remarkably cheap, simple, and safe kind for a
wooden one. He pointed out to me the seats and arrangements
of the villages we passed through, and amused and
interested me with many a tale of the old Indian wars. He
surprised me by the light he threw on the philosophy of society
in the United States; a light drawn from history, and
shed into all the present relations of races and parties to each
other. I had before been pleased with what I knew of the
spirit of Mr. Bancroft's History of the United States, which,
however, had not then extended beyond the first volume. I
now perceived that he was well qualified, in more ways than
one, for his arduous task.</p>

<p>We mounted the steep hill on which Amherst stands, and
stopped before the red brick buildings of the college. When
the horse was disposed of, Mr. Bancroft left me to look at
the glorious view, while he went in search of some one who
would be our guide about the college. In a minute he beckoned
me in, with a smile of great delight, and conducted me
into the lecture-room where Professor Hitchcock was lecturing.
In front of the lecturer was a large number of students,
and on either hand as many as forty or fifty girls.
These girls were from a neighbouring school, and from the
houses of the farmers and mechanics of the village. The
students appeared quite as attentive as if they had had the
room to themselves. We found that the admission of girls
to such lectures as they could understand (this was on geology)
was a practice of some years' standing, and that no evil
had been found to result from it. It was a gladdening sight,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span>
testifying both to the simplicity of manners and the eagerness
for education. I doubt whether such a spectacle is to
be seen out of New-England.</p>

<p>The professor showed us the Turkey Tracks, the great
curiosity of the place; and distinct and gigantic indeed they
were, deeply impressed in the imbedded stone. Professor
Hitchcock's name is well known among geologists from his
highly-praised work, A Report on the Geology, Mineralogy,
Botany, and Zoology of Massachusetts. We ascended to
the observatory, whence we saw a splendid variety of the
view I had been admiring all day, and we pronounced this
college an enviable residence.</p>

<p>It is a Presbyterian college, and is flourishing, as Presbyterian
colleges of New-England do, under the zeal of professors
who are not content with delivering courses of lectures,
but who work with the students, as much like companions
as teachers. The institution had been at work only ten
years, and at this time it contained two hundred and forty
undergraduates, a greater number than any in the state,
except, perhaps, Harvard.</p>

<p>The next day was a busy one. We were called away
from gazing from the balcony after breakfast, the carriage
being at the door. Two more carriages joined us in the
village, and we proceeded in the direction of Mount Holyoke.
Our road lay through rich unfenced cornfields and meadows
where the mowers were busy. There was a great contrast
between the agriculture here and in other parts of the state.
Here an annual inundation spares much of the toil of the
tiller. It seems as if little more were necessary than to
throw in the seed and reap the produce; while, in less-favoured
regions, the farmer may be seen ploughing round
the rocks which protrude from the soil, and bestowing infinite
pains on his stony fields. The carriages conveyed us a good
way up the far-famed hill. When it became too steep for
the houses, we alighted, and found the ascent easy enough.
There are rude but convenient ladders, broad and strong, at
difficult turns of the path, and large stones and roots of trees
afford a firm footing in the intervals. The most wayward
imagination could not conjure up the idea of danger, and
children may be led to the top in perfect safety.</p>

<p>On the summit is a building which affords shelter in case
of rain, and lemonade and toddy in case of thirst. There is
a fine platform of rock on which the traveller may rest
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span>
himself while he looks around over a space of sixty miles in almost
every direction. The valley is the most attractive object,
the full river coiling through the meadows, and the spires
of village churches being clustered at intervals along its
banks; but smokes rise on the hillsides, from the Green
Mountains in the north to the fading distance beyond Springfield
in the south. To the east the view extends nearly to
New-Haven (Connecticut), seventy miles off. Mount Holyoke
is eleven hundred feet above the river.</p>

<p>While I was absorbed in the contemplation of this landscape
I was tapped on the shoulder. When I turned a shipmate
stood smiling behind me. She highly enjoyed the odd
meeting on this pinnacle, and so did we. The face of a
pleasant shipmate is welcome everywhere, but particularly
in a scene which contrasts so strongly with those in which
we have lived together, as a mountain-top with the cabin of
a ship. Some person who loves contrast has entered a remarkable
set of names in the album on Mount Holyoke as
having just visited the spot, Hannah More, Lord Byron,
Martin Luther, &amp;c.</p>

<p>We returned by a shorter, but equally pretty road to dinner;
and presently after, as we were not at all tired, we set
off again for the Sugarloaf, ten miles up the valley. We
had a warm ride and a laborious scramble up the Sugarloaf;
but we were rewarded by a view which I think finer
than the one we saw in the morning, though not so various.
It commanded the whole valley with its entire circle of hills.
White dots of buildings on the hillsides spoke of civilization;
Amherst, with its red buildings, glowed in the sun; and the
river below was of a dark gray, presenting a perfect reflection
of its fringed banks, of the ox-team on the margin,
and of boys fishing among the reeds. Smokes rose
where brush was burning, indicating the foundation of new
settlements. In one of these places which was pointed out
to me an accident had happened the preceding spring, which
affords another hint of what the hearts of emigrant mothers
have sometimes to bear. A child of two years old wandered
away one afternoon from its parents' side, and was missing
when the day's work was done. The family and neighbours
were out in the woods for hours with torches, but they only
lost their own way without discovering the little one. In
the morning it was found, at a considerable distance from
home, lying under a bush as if asleep. It was dead,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span>
however: the cold of the night had seized it, and it was quite
stiff.</p>

<p>The sun set as we returned homeward with all speed,
having to dress for an evening party. While the bright glow
was still lingering in the valley, and the sky was beginning
to melt from crimson to the pale seagreen of evening, I saw
something sailing in the air like a glistening golden balloon.
I called the attention of my party to it just in time. It burst
in a broad flash and shower of green fire. It was the most
splendid meteor I ever saw. We pitied a quiet-looking
couple whom we met jogging along in a dearborn, and
whose backs had, of course, been turned to the spectacle.
They must have wondered at the staring and commotion
among our party. I saw an unusual number of falling-stars
before we reached home.</p>

<p>The parties, on all the three evenings when I was at
Northampton, were like the village parties throughout New-England.
There was an over proportion of ladies, almost
all of whom were pretty and all well dressed. There was
a good deal of party spirit among the gentlemen, and great
complaints of religious bigotry from the ladies. One inhabitant
of the place, the son of a Unitarian clergyman, was
going to leave it, chiefly on account, he told me, of the treatment
his family received from their Calvinistic neighbours.
While he was at home they got on pretty well; but he had
to go from home sometimes, and could not bear to leave his
wife to such treatment as she met with in his absence. This
was the worst case I heard of; but instances of a bigotry
nearly as outrageous reminded me painfully of similar cases
of pious cruelty at home. The manners towards strangers
in these social meetings are perfectly courteous, gay, and
friendly. I had frequent occasion to wonder why a foreign
Unitarian was esteemed so much less dangerous a person
than a native.</p>

<p>There was endless amusement to me in observing village
manners and ways of thinking. Sometimes I had to wait
for explanations of what passed before my eyes, finding
myself wholly at fault. At other times I was charmed with
the upright simplicity which villagers not only exhibit at
home, but carry out with them into the world.</p>

<p>In one Massachusetts village a large party was invited to
meet me. At teatime I was busily engaged in conversation
with a friend, when the teatray was brought to me by a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span>
young person in a plain white gown. After I had helped
myself, she still stood just before me for a long while, and
was perpetually returning. Again and again I refused more
tea, but she still came. Her pertinacity was afterward explained.
It was a young lady of the village who wished to
see me, and knew that I was going away the next day.
She had called on the lady of the house in the afternoon,
and begged permission to come in a plain gown as a waiter.
She was, of course, invited as a guest, but she would not
accept the invitation, and she was allowed to follow her
own fancy.</p>

<p>In another village I became acquainted with one of its
most useful residents, the schoolmaster, who has a passion
for music, and is organist of a church. It was delightful to
hear him revelling in his own music, pouring his soul out
over his organ. He has been to Rome, and indulged himself
with listening to the Miserere. He told me that two
monks whom he met in Italy, before reaching Rome, saw
him reading his Bible, with a Commentary lying before him.
In his own words,</p>

<p>"They told me I had better give over that. 'Give over
what?' says I. 'Why, reading your Bible, with that book
to help you.' 'Why shouldn't I read in my own Bible?'
says I. 'Because the pope won't like it,' said they. 'In
my humble opinion,' says I, 'it is far from plain what the
pope has to do with my duty and way of improving myself.
It's no wish of mine, I'm sure, to speak disrespectfully of
the pope, or to interfere with what he chooses to do in his
own sphere; but I must save my own soul in the way I
think right.' Well, they talked about the Inquisition, and
would fain have made me believe I was doing what was
very unsafe; so, after a good deal more argument, I settled
with myself what I would do. When I got to Rome I put
away the Commentary, thinking that that way of reading
was not necessary, and might be left to another time; but I
went on reading my Bible as usual.</p>

<p>"Well: when Passion Week came I took care to see
all that was going forward, and I was in the great square
when the pope came out to give the blessing. The square
was as full as ever it could hold, and I stood near the middle
of it. I found all the people were about to go down on
their knees. Now, you know, it is against my principles
altogether to go down on my knees before the pope or any
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span>
man; so I began to think what I should do. I thought the
right principle was to pay the same respect to the pope that
I would to any sort of chief ruler, but none, in particular, on
religious grounds; so I settled to do just what I should do
to the President of the United States. So, when the whole
crowd dropped on their knees in one moment, there I stood,
all alone, in the middle of the square. I knew the pope
must see me, and the people about him; but my hope was
that the crowd would be so occupied with their own feelings
that they would not notice me. Not so, however. One
looked at me, and then another, and then it spread, till I
thought that the whole crowd was looking at nothing but
me. Meantime I was standing with my body bent&mdash;about
this much&mdash;and my hat off, which I held so, above my
head. It happened the sun was very hot, and I got a bad
headache with keeping my head uncovered; but that was
not worth minding. Well, I was glad enough when the
people all rose on their feet again. But it was by no means
over yet. The pope came down, and walked through the
midst of the people; and, as it happened, he came just my
way. I was not sorry at the prospect of getting a near
view of him, so I just stood still till he came by. The people
kept dropping on their knees on either side of him as he
approached. Some of them tugged at me to do the same;
but, said I, 'Excuse me, I can't.' So, when the old pope
came as near to me as I am to you, he stopped, and looked
full in my face, while I stood bent, and my hat raised as
before, and thinking within myself, 'Now, sir, I am paying
you the same respect I would show to the President of the
United States, and I can't show any more to any one:' so,
after a good look at me, the old gentleman went on and the
people near seemed soon to have forgotten all about me.
And so I got off."</p>

<p>On the last day of my visit at Northampton I went into
the graveyard. Some of the inhabitants smiled at Mr. Bancroft
for taking me there, there being no fine monuments, no
gardens and plantations, as in more modern cemeteries; but
there were things which my host knew I should consider
more interesting. There were some sunken, worn, mossy
stones, which bore venerable pilgrims' names and pious inscriptions.
Several of the original settlers lie here; and
their graves, gay with a profusion of the golden rod, and
waving with long grass, are more interesting to the traveller
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span>
than if their remains reposed in a less primitive mode.
The stranger is taken by surprise at finding how much
stronger are the emotions excited among these resting-places
of the pilgrims than by the institutions in which their spirit
still lives. Their spirit lives in its faulty as well as its nobler
characteristics. I saw here the grave of a young girl,
who was as much murdered by fanaticism as Mary Dyar,
who was hanged for her Antinomianism in the early days of
the colony. The young creature, whose tomb is scarcely
yet grass-grown, died of a brain fever brought on by a revival.</p>

<p>I happened to be going the round of several Massachusetts
villages when the marvellous account of Sir John Herschel's
discoveries in the moon was sent abroad. The sensation
it excited was wonderful. As it professed to be a republication
from the Edinburgh Journal of Science, it was
some time before many persons, except professors of natural
philosophy, thought of doubting its truth. The lady of such
a professor, on being questioned by a company of ladies as
to her husband's emotions at the prospect of such an enlargement
of the field of science, excited a strong feeling of
displeasure against herself. She could not say that he believed
it, and would gladly have said nothing about it; but
her inquisitive companions first cross-examined her, and then
were angry at her skepticism. A story is going, told by
some friends of Sir John Herschel (but whether in earnest
or in the spirit of the moon story I cannot tell), that the astronomer
has received at the Cape a letter from a large
number of Baptist clergymen of the United States, congratulating
him on his discovery, informing him that it had been
the occasion of much edifying preaching and of prayer-meetings
for the benefit of brethren in the newly-explored regions;
and beseeching him to inform his correspondents
whether science affords any prospects of a method of conveying
the Gospel to residents in the moon. However it
may be with this story, my experience of the question with
regard to the other, "Do you not believe it?" was very extensive.</p>

<p>In the midst of our amusement at credulity like this, we
must remember that the real discoveries of science are likely
to be more faithfully and more extensively made known in the
villages of the United States than in any others in the world.
The moon hoax, if advantageously put forth, would have
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span>
been believed by a much larger proportion of any other nation
than it was by the Americans, and they are travelling
far faster than any other nation beyond the reach of such
deception. Their common and high schools, their lyceums
and cheap colleges, are exciting and feeding thousands of
minds, which in England would never get beyond the loom
or the ploughtail. If few are very learned in the villages of
Massachusetts, still fewer are very ignorant; and all have
the power and the will to invite the learning of the towns
among them, and to remunerate its administration of knowledge.
The consequence of this is a state of village society
in which only vice and total ignorance need hang the head,
while (out of the desolate range of religious bigotry) all
honourable tastes are as sure of being countenanced and respected
as all kindly feelings are of being reciprocated. I
believe most enlightened and virtuous residents in the villages
of New-England are eager to acknowledge that the
lines have fallen to them in pleasant places.</p>
<br />
<hr />


<h2><a name="Cambridge_Commencement" id="Cambridge_Commencement"></a>CAMBRIDGE COMMENCEMENT.</h2>

<div style="margin-left: 5em;">"A good way to continue their memories, while, having the advantage
of plural successions, they could not but act something remarkable
in such variety of being, and, enjoying the fame of their passed selves,
make accumulation of glory unto their last durations."&mdash;<span class="smcap">Sir Thomas
Browne.</span></div>


<p class="p1">The Pilgrim Fathers early testified to the value of education.
"When New-England was poor, and they were
but few in number, there was a spirit to encourage learning."
One of their primary requisitions, first by custom and
then by law, was, "That none of the brethren shall suffer so
much barbarism in their families as not to teach their children
and apprentices so much learning as may enable them
perfectly to read the English tongue." They next ordered,
"To the end that learning may not be buried in the graves
of our forefathers, every township, after the Lord hath increased
them to the number of fifty householders, shall appoint
one to teach all children to write and read; and where
any town shall increase to the number of one hundred families,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span>
they shall set up a grammar-school, the masters thereof
being able to instruct youth so far as they may be fitted
for the University."</p>

<p>This university was Harvard. In 1636 the General
Court had voted a sum equal to a year's rate of the whole
colony towards the erection of a college. Two years afterward,
John Harvard, who arrived at the settlements only
to die, left to the infant institution one half of his estate
and all his library. The state set apart for the college the
rent of a ferry. The wealthiest men of the community gave
presents which were thought profuse at the time, and beside
their names in the record stand entries of humbler gifts;
from each family in the colonies twelvepence, or a peck of
corn, or an equivalent in wampum-peag; and from individuals
the sums of five shillings, nine shillings, one pound,
and two pounds. There were legacies also; from one colonist
a flock of sheep; from another cotton cloth worth nine
shillings; from others a pewter flagon worth ten shillings, a
fruit-dish, a sugar-spoon, a silver-tipped jug, one great salt,
one small trencher salt. Afterward the celebrated Theophilus
Gale bequeathed his library to the college; and in
1731 Bishop Berkeley, after visiting the institution, presented
it with some of the Greek and Latin classics.</p>

<p>The year following John Harvard's bequest the Cambridge
printing-press was set up, the only press in America
north of Mexico. The General Court appointed licensers
of this press, and did not scruple to interfere with the licensers
themselves when any suspicion of heresy occurred
to torment the minds of the worthy fathers. Their supervision
over other departments of management was equally
strict. Mrs. Eaton, wife of the first president of the college,
was examined before the General Court on a complaint
of short or disagreeable commons urged by the students.
"The breakfast was two sizings of bread and a cue
(or Q, <i>quartus</i>) of beer; and the evening commons were a
pye." What became of Mrs. Eaton, further than that the
blame of the dissensions rested on her bad housewifery, I
do not know. Subsequently a law was passed "for reforming
the extravagancies of commencements," by which it
was provided that "henceforth no preparation nor provision
of either plumb cake, or roasted, boyled, or baked meates
or pyes of any kind shall be made by any commencer;"
no such was to have "any distilled lyquours in his
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span>
chamber, or any composition therewith," under the penalty of a
forfeiture of the good things, and a fine of twenty shillings.
There was another act passed, "that if any, who now doe
or hereafter shall stand for their degrees, presume to doe
anything contrary to the said act, or goe about to evade it
by <i>plain</i> cake, they shall forfeit the honours of the college."
Yet another law was passed to prohibit "the costly habits
of many of the scholars, their wearing gold or silver lace or
brocades, silk nightgowns, &amp;c., as tending to discourage
persons from giving their children a college education, and
as inconsistent with the gravity and decency proper to be
observed in this society."</p>

<p>For a hundred years after its establishment, Harvard College
enforced the practice, in those days common in Europe,
of punishing refractory students by corporeal infliction. In
Judge Sewell's manuscript diary the following entry is found,
dated June 15, 1674: "This was his sentence (Thos.
Sargeant's):&mdash;</p>

<p>"That being convicted of speaking blasphemous words
concerning the H.G., he should be therefore publickly
whipped before all the scholars.</p>

<p>"That he should be suspended as to taking his degree
of bachelor. (This sentence read before him twice at the
president's before the committee, and in the library before
execution.)</p>

<p>"Sit by himself in the hall uncovered at meals, during
the pleasure of the president and fellows, and being in all
things obedient, doing what exercise was appointed him by
the president, or else be finally expelled the college.</p>

<p>"The first was presently put in execution in the library
before the scholars. He kneeled down, and the instrument,
Goodman Hely, attended the president's word as to the performance
of his part in the work. Prayer was had before
and after by the president."</p>

<p>In 1733 a tutor was prosecuted for inflicting this kind of
punishment; yet, in the revised body of laws made in the
next year, we find the following: "Notwithstanding the
preceding pecuniary mulcts, it shall be lawful for the president,
tutors, and professors to punish undergraduates by
boxing, when they shall judge the nature or circumstances
of the offence call for it."</p>

<p>The times are not a little changed. Of late years the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span>
students have more than once appeared to have almost come
up to the point of boxing their tutors.</p>

<p>If Harvard is ever to recover her supremacy, to resume
her station in usefulness and in the affections of the people,
it must be by a renovation of her management, and a change
in some of the principles recognised by her. Every one is
eager to acknowledge her past services. All American
citizens are proud of the array of great men whom she has
sent forth to serve and grace the country; but, like some
other universities, she is falling behind the age. Her glory
is declining, even in its external manifestations; and it must
decline as long as the choicest youth of the community are
no longer sent to study within her walls.</p>

<p>The politics of the managers of Harvard University are
opposed to those of the great body of the American people.
She is the aristocratic college of the United States. Her
pride of antiquity, her vanity of pre-eminence and wealth,
are likely to prevent her renovating her principles and management
so as to suit the wants of the period; and she will
probably receive a sufficient patronage from the aristocracy,
for a considerable time to come, to encourage her in all her
faults. She has a great name, and the education she affords
is very expensive in comparison with all other colleges. The
sons of the wealthy will therefore flock to her. The attainments
usually made within her walls are inferior to those
achieved elsewhere, her professors (poorly salaried, when the
expenses of living are considered) being accustomed to lecture
and examine the students, and do nothing more. The
indolent and the careless will therefore flock to her. But,
meantime, more and more new colleges are rising up, and
are filled as fast as they rise, whose principles and practices
are better suited to the wants of the time. In them living
is cheaper, and the professors are therefore richer with
the same or smaller salaries; the sons of the yeomanry and
mechanic classes resort to them; and, where it is the practice
of the tutors to work with their pupils, as well as lecture
to them, a proficiency is made which shames the attainments
of the Harvard students. The middle and lower classes are
usually neither Unitarian nor Episcopalian, but "orthodox,"
as their distinctive term is; and these, the strength and hope
of the nation, avoid Harvard, and fill to overflowing the oldest
orthodox colleges; and, when these will hold no more,
establish new ones.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span></p>

<p>When I was at Boston the state of the University was a
subject of great mourning among its friends. Attempts had
been made to obtain the services of three gentlemen of some
eminence as professors, but in vain. The salaries offered
were insufficient to maintain the families of these gentlemen
in comfort, in such a place as Cambridge; though, at that
very time, the managers of the affairs of the institution were
purchasing lands in Maine. The Moral Philosophy chair
had been vacant for eight years. Two of the professors
were at the time laid by in tedious illnesses; a third was
absent on a long journey; and the young men of the senior
class were left almost unemployed. The unpopularity of
the president among the young men was extreme, and the
disfavour was not confined to them. The students had, at
different times within a few years, risen against the authorities;
and the last disturbances, in 1834, had been of a very
serious character. Every one was questioning what was to
be done next, and anticipating a further vacating of chairs
which it would be difficult to fill. I heard one merry lady
advise that the professors should strike for higher wages, and
thus force the council and supporters of the university into
a thorough and serious consideration of its condition and
prospects in relation to present and future times.</p>

<p>The salary of the president is above 2000 dollars. The
salaries of the professors vary from 1500 dollars to 500;
that is, from 375<i>l.</i> to 125<i>l.</i> Upon this sum they are expected
to live like gentlemen, and to keep up the aristocratic
character of the institution. I knew of one case where a
jealousy was shown when a diligent professor, with a large
family, made an attempt by a literary venture to increase
his means. Yet Harvard College is in buildings, library,
and apparatus, in its lands and money, richer than any other
in the Union.</p>

<p>The number of undergraduates in the years 1833 - 4 was
two hundred and sixteen. They cannot live at Harvard for
less than 200 dollars a year, independently of personal expenses.
Seventy-five dollars must be contributed by each
to the current expenses; fuel is dear; fifteen dollars are
charged for lodging within the college walls, and eighty are
paid for board by those who use their option of living in the
college commons. The fact is, I believe, generally acknowledged,
that the comparative expensiveness of living is
a cause of the depression of Harvard in comparison with its
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span>
former standing among other colleges; but this leads to a
supposition which does not to all appear a just one, that if
the expenses of poor students could be defrayed by a public
fund, to be raised for the purpose, the sons of the yeomanry
would repair once more to Harvard. A friend of the institution
writes, with regard to this plan,</p>

<p>"It would probably have the immediate effect of bringing
back that, perhaps, most desirable class of students, the sons
of families in the middling ranks in respect of property in
town and country, who, we fear, were driven away in great
numbers by the change in the amount of tuition fees in or
about 1807. They mean to pay to the full extent that others
around them do for whatever they have. This is what
they have been used to doing. It is their habit; perhaps it
is their point of honour; no matter which. But they are
obliged strictly to consult economy. And the difference of
an annual expense of twenty or thirty dollars, which their
fathers will have to spare from the profits of a farm or a
shop, and pinch themselves to furnish, is and ought to be,
with such, a very serious consideration. It is, in fact, a
consideration decisive, year by year, of the destination of
numbers of youth to whom the country owes, for its own
sake, the best advantages of education it can afford; of
those who, in moral and intellectual structure, are the bone
and sinew of the commonwealth, and on all accounts, personal
and public, entitled to its best training."<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></p>

<p>It may be doubted whether, if a gratis education to poor
students were to be dispensed from Harvard to-morrow, it
would rival in real respectability and proficiency the orthodox
colleges which have already surpassed her. Her management
and population are too aristocratic, her movement
too indolent, to attract young men of that class; and young
men of that class prefer paying for the benefits they receive:
they prefer a good education, economically provided,
so as to be within reach of their means, to an equally good
education furnished to them at the cost of their pride of independence.
The best friends of Harvard believe that it is
not by additional contrivances that her prosperity can be
restored; but by such a renovation of the whole scheme of
her management as shall bring her once more into accordance
with the wants of the majority, the spirit of the country and
of the time.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p>

<p>The first commencement was held in August, 1642, only
twenty years after the landing of the pilgrims. Mr. Peirce,
the historian of the University, writes: "Upon this novel
and auspicious occasion, the venerable fathers of the land,
the governor, magistrates, and ministers from all parts, with
others in great numbers, repaired to Cambridge, and attended
with delight to refined displays of European learning,
on a spot which but just before was the abode of savages.
It was a day which on many accounts must have been singularly
interesting." In attending the commencement of
1835 I felt that I was present at an antique ceremonial.</p>

<p>We had so arranged our movements as to arrive at Cambridge
just in time for the celebration, which always takes
place on the last Wednesday in August. We were the
guests of the Natural Philosophy professor and his lady, and
we arrived at their house before noon on Monday the 24th.
Next to the hearty greeting we received came the pleasure
of taking possession of my apartment, it looked so full of
luxury. Besides the comfort of complete furniture of the
English kind, and a pretty view from the windows, there
was a table covered with books and flowers, and on it a
programme of the engagements of the week. On looking
at the books I found among them a History and some Reports
of the University; so that it was my own fault if I
plunged into the business of the week without knowing the
whence and the wherefore of its observances.</p>

<p>The aspect of Cambridge is charming. The college
buildings have no beauty to boast of, it is true; but the
professors' houses, dropped around, each in its garden, give
an aristocratic air to the place, which I saw in no other
place of the size, and which has the grace of novelty. The
greensward, the white palings, and the gravel-walks are all
well kept, and nowhere is the New-England elm more flourishing.
The noble old elm under which Washington first
drew his sword spreads a wide shade over the ground.</p>

<p>After refreshing ourselves with lemonade we set out for
the Botanic Garden, which is very prettily situated and well
taken care of. Here I saw for the first time red water-lilies.
None are so beautiful to my eyes as the white; but the red
mix in well with these and the yellow in a large pond.
There were some splendid South American plants; but the
head gardener seemed more proud of his dahlias than of
any other individual of his charge. From a small cottage on
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span>
the terrace at the upper end of the garden came forth Mr.
Sparks, the editor of Washington's Correspondence. While
engaged in his great work, he lives in this delightful spot.
He took me into his study, and showed me his parchment-bound
collection of Washington's papers, so fearful in
amount that I almost wondered at the intrepidity of any editor
who could undertake to go through them. When one
looks at the shelf above shelf of thick folio volumes, it seems
as if Washington could have done nothing but write all his
life. I believe Mr. Sparks has now finished his arduous
task, and given to the world the last of his twelve ample
volumes. It is interesting to know that he received orders
for the book from the remotest corners of the Union. A
friend writes to me, "Two hundred copies have recently
gone to the Red River; and in Georgia, South Carolina,
and Alabama, the work is generously patronised. Can the
dead letter of such a man's mind be scattered through the
land without carrying with it something of his spirit?"</p>

<p>From the Botanic Garden we proceeded to the College,
where we visited a student's room or two, the Museum, our
host's lecture-room and apparatus, and the library.</p>

<p>The Harvard library was, in 1764, destroyed by fire (as
everything in America seems to be, sooner or later). The
immediate occasion of the disaster was the General Court
having sat in the library, and (it being the month of January)
had a large fire lighted there. One of the most munificent
contributors to the lost library was the benevolent
Thomas Hollis. He afterward assisted to repair the loss,
writing, "I am preparing and going on with my mite to
Harvard College, and lament the loss it has suffered exceedingly;
but hope a public library will no more be turned
into a council room." On this occasion there was a great
mourning. The governor sent a message of condolence to
the representatives; the newspapers bewailed it as a "ruinous
loss;" and the mother-country and the colonies were
stirred up to repair the mischief. Yet now, when the library
consists of 40,000 volumes, some of them precious
treasures, there seems as much carelessness as ever about
fire. This is vehemently complained of on the spot, one
honest reviewer declaring that he cannot sleep on windy
nights for thinking of the risk arising from the library being
within six feet of a building where thirty fires are burning,
day and night, under the care of students only, who are
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span>
required by their avocations to be absent three times a day.
It is to be wished that the Cambridge scholars would take
warning by the fate of the statue of Washington by Canova.
This statue was the property of the State of North
Carolina, and was deposited at Raleigh, the ornament and
glory of that poor state. A citizen expressed his uneasiness
at such a work of art being housed under a roof of
wood, and urged that a stone chapel should be built for it.
He was only laughed at. Not long after the statue was utterly
destroyed by fire, and there was a general repentance
that the citizen's advice had not been attended to.</p>

<p>Thomas Hollis was the donor of a fine Polyglott Bible
which I saw in the library, inscribed with his hand, he describing
himself a "citizen of the world." With his contributions
made before the fire he had taken great pains,
lavishing his care, first on the selection of the books, which
were of great value, and next on their bindings. He had
emblematical devices cut, such as the Caduceus of Mercury,
the Wand of Æsculapius, the Owl, the Cap of Liberty,
&amp;c.; and, when a work was patriotic in its character, it
had the cap of liberty on the back; when the book was of
solid wisdom (I suppose on philosophy or morals), there
was the owl; when on eloquence, the caduceus; when on
medicine, the Æsculapian wand, and so forth. All this ingenuity
is lost except in tradition. Five-and-thirty years
ago, Fisher Ames observed that Gibbon could not have
written his history at Cambridge for want of works of reference.
The library then consisted of less than 20,000 volumes.
Seven years ago there was no copy of Kepler's
Works in the library. Much has been done since that
time. The most obvious deficiencies have been supplied,
and the number of volumes has risen to upward of 40,000.
There is great zeal on the spot for a further enlargement of
this treasure; and the prevailing opinion is, that whenever
a proper building is erected, the munificence of individuals
will leave nothing to be complained of and little to be desired.
The names of donors of books are painted up in the
alcoves of the library, but the books are now assorted by
their subjects. There are portraits of some of the patrons
of the institution, two of which, by Copley, are good.</p>

<p>The rest of our first day at Cambridge was spent in society.
This was the first time of my meeting Professor
Norton, who, of all the theologians of America, impressed
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span>
me, as I believe he has impressed the Unitarians of England
generally, and certain other theologians, with the most
respect. In reach of mind, in reasoning power, in deep
devotional feeling, and, according to the universal testimony
of better judges than myself, in biblical learning, he has no
superior among the American divines, and, in some of these
respects, no peer. He is regarded with grateful veneration
by the worthiest of his pupils for the invaluable guidance he
afforded them, while professor, in their biblical studies;
though they cannot but grieve that his philosophical prejudices,
and his extreme dread and dislike of opposition to
his own opinions, should betray him into a tone of arrogance,
and excite in him a spirit of persecution, which, but
for ages of proof to the contrary, would seem to be incompatible
with so large a knowledge, and so humble and genuine
a faith as his. His being duly reverenced is the reason
of his having been hitherto unduly feared. His services to
theological science and to religion are gratefully appreciated;
and, naturally, more weight has, at least till lately,
been allowed to his opinions of persons and affairs than
should ever be accorded to those of a man among men.
But this is a temporary disadvantage. When the friends of
free inquiry and the champions of equal intellectual rights
have gone on a little longer in the assertion of their liberty,
Professor Norton's peculiarities will have lost their power
to injure, and his great qualities, accomplishments, and
services will receive a more ready and unmixed homage
than ever.</p>

<p>On the Tuesday several friends arrived to breakfast; and
we filled up the morning with visiting the admirably-conducted
Lunatic Asylum at Charlestown, and with a drive to
Fresh Pond, one of the pretty meres which abound in Massachusetts.
We dined at the house of another professor
close at hand. The house was full in every corner with
family connexions arrived for commencement. I remember
there were eleven children in the house. We were a
cheerful party at the long dinner-table, and a host of guests
filled the rooms in the evening. The ladies sat out on the
piazza in the afternoon, and saw the smoke of a fire far off.
Presently the firebells rang, and the smoke and glow increased;
and by dark it was a tremendous sight. It was
the great Charlestown fire which burned sixty houses.
Some of us mounted to the garrets, whence we could see a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span>
whole street burning on both sides, stack after stack of chimneys
falling into the flames. It is thought that the frequency
of fires in America is owing partly to the practice of carrying
woodashes from room to room; perhaps from general
carelessness about woodashes; and partly to the houses
being too hastily built, so that cracks ensue, sometimes in
the chimneys, and beams are exposed.</p>

<p>The important morning rose dark and dull, and soon
deepened into rain. It was rather vexatious that, in a region
where, at this time of year, one may, except in the valleys,
put by one's umbrella for three or four months, this
particular morning should be a rainy one. Friend after
friend drove up to the house, popped in, shook hands, and
popped out again, till an hour after breakfast, when it was
time to be setting out for the church. I was fortunate
enough to be placed in a projecting seat at a corner of the
gallery, over a flank of the platform, where I saw everything
and heard most of the exercises. The church is large, and
was completely filled. The galleries and half the area
were crowded with ladies, all gayly dressed; some without
either cap or bonnet, which had a singular effect. We were
sufficiently amused with observing the varieties of countenance
and costume which are congregated on such occasions,
and in recognising old acquaintances from distant
places till ten o'clock, when music was heard, the bar was
taken down from the centre door of the church, and students
and strangers poured in at the side-entrances, immediately
filling all the unoccupied pews. A student from Maryland
was marshal, and he ushered in the president, and attended
him up the middle aisle and the steps of the platform. The
governor of the state and his aids, the corporation and officers
of the college, and several distinguished visiters, took
their seats on either hand of the president. The venerable
head of Dr. Bowditch was seen on the one side, and Judge
Story's animated countenance on the other. The most eminent
of the Unitarian clergy of Massachusetts were there,
and some of its leading politicians. Mr. Webster stole in
from behind when the proceedings were half over, and retired
before they were finished. A great variety of exercises
were gone through by the young men: orations were
delivered, and poems, and dialogues, and addresses. Some
of these appeared to me to have a good deal of merit; two
or three were delivered by students who relied on their
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>
reputation at college, with a manner mixed up of pomposity and
effrontery, which contrasted amusingly with the modesty of
some of their companions, who did things much more worthy
of honour. I discovered that many, if not most of the
compositions, contained allusions to mob-law; of course,
reprobating it. This was very satisfactory, particularly if
the reprobation was accompanied with a knowledge of the
causes and a recognition of the real perpetrators of the recent
illegal violences; a knowledge that they have invariably
sprung out of a conflict of selfish interests with eternal
principles; and a recognition that their perpetrators have
universally been, at first or second hand, aristocratic members
of American society.</p>

<p>The exercises were relieved by music four times during
the morning; and then everybody talked, and many changed
places, and the intervals were made as refreshing as possible.
Yet the routine must be wearisome to persons who
are compelled to attend it every year. From my high
seat I looked down upon the top of a friend's head&mdash;one of
the reverend professors&mdash;and was amused by watching the
progress of his <i>ennui</i>. It would not do for a professor to
look wearied or careless; so my friend had recourse to an
occupation which gave him a sufficiently sage air while furnishing
him with entertainment. He covered his copy of
the programme with an infinite number of drawings. I saw
stars, laurel-sprigs, and a variety of other pretty devices
gradually spreading over the paper as the hours rolled on.
I tried afterward to persuade him to give me his handiwork
as a memorial of commencement, but he would not. At
length, a clever valedictory address in Latin, drolly delivered
by a departing student, caused the large church to
re-echo with laughter and applause.</p>

<p>The president then got into the antique chair from which
the honours of the University are dispensed, and delivered
their diplomas to the students. During this process we
departed, at half past four o'clock, the business being concluded
except the final blessing, given by the oldest clerical
professor.</p>

<p>At home we assembled, a party of ladies, without any
gentlemen. The gentlemen were all to dine in the College-hall.
Our hostess had happened to collect round her table
a company of ladies more or less distinguished in literature,
and all, on the present occasion at least, as merry as
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span>
children; or, which is saying as much, as merry as Americans
usually are. We had, therefore, a pleasant dining enough,
during which one of these clever ladies agreed to go with
us to the White Mountains on our return from Dr. Channing's
in Rhode Island. It was just the kind of day for
planning enterprises.</p>

<p>After dinner several of the gentlemen came in to tell us
what had been done and said at the hall. Their departure
was a signal that it was time to be dressing for the president's
levee. It was the most tremendous squeeze I encountered
in America, for it is an indispensable civility to
the president and the University to be seen at the levee.
The band which had refreshed us in the morning was playing
in the hall, and in the drawing-rooms there was a splendid
choice of good company. I believe almost every eminent
person in the state, for official rank or scientific and
literary accomplishment, was there. I was presented with
flowers as usual, and was favoured with some delightful introductions,
so that I much enjoyed the brief hour of our
stay. We were home by eight o'clock, and felt ourselves
quite at rest again in our hostess's cool drawing-room, where
the family party sat refreshing themselves with Champagne
and conversation till the fatigues of commencement were forgotten.
My curiosity had been so roused by the spectacles
of this showy day, that I could not go to rest till I had run
over the history of the University which lay on my table.
On such occasions I found it best to defer till the early
morning the making notes of what I had seen. Many things
which appear confused when looked at so near are, like
the objects of the external world, bright and distinct at sunrise;
but, then, the journal should be written before the
events of a new day begin.</p>

<p>Mr. Sparks breakfasted with us on the morning of the
27th. He brought with him the pass given by Arnold to
André, and the papers found in André's boots. He possesses
also the Reports of the West Point fortifications in
Arnold's undisguised handwriting. The effect is singular of
going from André's monument in Westminster Abbey to the
shores of the Hudson, where the treachery was transacted,
and to Mr. Sparks's study, where the evidence lies clear
and complete.</p>

<p>After breakfast we proceeded once more to the church, in
which were to be performed the rites of the Phi Beta Kappa
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span>
Society. This society consists of the élite of the scholars
who owe their education to Harvard, and of distinguished
professional men. Its general object is to keep alive the
spirit, and perpetuate the history of scholarship. Every
member is understood to owe his election to some evidence
of distinction in letters, though the number of members is so
great as to prove that no such supposition has become a
rule. The society holds an annual celebration in Cambridge
the day after commencement, when public exercises
take place in the church, and the members dine together in
the College-hall.</p>

<p>We saw the society march in to music, and take possession
of the platform as on the preceding day. They were,
on the whole, a fine-looking set of men, and interesting to a
stranger as being the élite of the lettered society of the republic.
A traveller could not be expected to understand
why they were so numerous, nor what were the claims of
the greater number.</p>

<p>Prayers were said by the chaplain of the society, and then
a member delivered an address. This address was and is
to me a matter of great surprise. I do not know what was
thought of it by the members generally; but if its doctrine
and sentiments are at all sanctioned by them, I must regard
this as another evidence, in addition to many, that the minority
in America are, with regard to social principles, eminently
in the wrong. The traveller is met everywhere
among the aristocracy of the country with what seems to
him the error of concluding that letters are wisdom, and that
scholarship is education. Among a people whose profession
is social equality, and whose rule of association is universal
self-government, he is surprised to behold the assumptions
of a class, and the contempt which the few express
for the many, with as much assurance as if they lived in
Russia or England. Much of this is doubtless owing to the
minds of the lettered class having been nourished upon the
literature of the Old World, so that their ideas have grown
into a conformity with those of the subjects of feudal institutions,
and the least strong-minded and original indiscriminately
adopt, not merely the language, but the hopes and apprehensions,
the notions of good and evil which have been
generated amid the antiquated arrangements of European
society; but, making allowance for this, as quite to be expected
of all but very strong and original minds, it is still
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span>
surprising that, within the bounds of the republic, the insolence
should be so very complacent, the contempt of the
majority so ludicrously decisive as it is. Self-satisfied, oracular
ignorance and error are always as absurd as they are
mournful; but when they are seen in full display among a
body whose very ground of association is superiority of
knowledge and of the love of it, the inconsistency affords a
most striking lesson to the observer. Of course I am not
passing a general censure on the association now under notice;
for I know no more of it than what I could learn from
the public exercises of this day, and a few printed addresses
and poems. I am speaking of the tone and doctrine of the
orator of the day, who might be no faithful organ of the society,
but whose ways of thinking and expressing himself
were but too like those of many literary and professional
men whom I met in New-England society.</p>

<p>The subject of the address was the "Duties of Educated
men in a Republic;" a noble subject, of which the orator
seemed to be aware at the beginning of his exercise. He
well explained that whereas, in all the nominal republics of
the Old World, men had still been under subjection to arbitrary
human will, the new republic was established on the
principle that men might live in allegiance to truth under the
form of law. He told that the primary social duty of educated
men was to enlighten public sentiment as to what truth
is, and what law ought, therefore, to be. But here he diverged
into a set of monstrous suppositions, expressed or
assumed: that men of letters are the educated men of society
in regard not only to literature and speculative truth, but
to morals, politics, and the conduct of all social affairs; that
power and property were made to go eternally together; that
the "masses" are ignorant; that the ignorant masses naturally form
a party against the enlightened few; that the
masses desire to wrest power from the wealthy few; that,
therefore, the masses wage war against property; that industry
is to be the possession of the many, and property of
the few; that the masses naturally desire to make the right
instead of to find it; that they are, consequently, opposed to
law; and that a struggle was impending in which the whole
power of mind must be arrayed against brute force. This
extraordinary collection of fallacies was not given in the
form of an array of propositions, but they were all taken for
granted when not announced. The orator made large reference
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span>
to recent outrages in the country; but, happily for the
truth and for the reputation of "the masses," the facts of the
year supplied as complete a contradiction as could be desired
to the orator of the hour. The violences were not
perpetrated by industry against property, but by property
against principle. The violators of law were, almost without
an exception, members of the wealthy and "educated"
class, while the victorious upholders of the law were the
"industrious" masses. The rapid series of victories since
gained by principle over the opposition of property, and without
injury to property&mdash;holy and harmless victories&mdash;the
failure of the law-breakers in all their objects, and their virtual
surrender to the sense and principle of the majority, are
sufficient, one would hope, to enlighten the "enlightened;"
to indicate to the lettered class of American society, that
while it is truly their duty to extend all the benefits of education
which it is in their power to dispense to "the
masses," it is highly necessary that the benefit should be
reciprocated, and that the few should be also receiving an
education from the many. There are a thousand mechanics'
shops, a thousand loghouses where certain members of
the Phi Beta Kappa Society, the orator of the day for one,
might learn new and useful lessons on morals and politics,
on the first principles of human relations.</p>

<p>I have had the pleasure of seeing the address delivered
before the Phi Beta Kappa Society at its last celebration,
an address differing most honourably from the one I was
present at. The address of last August was by Mr. R.
Waldo Emerson, a name which is a sufficient warrant on
the spot for the absence from his production of all aristocratic
insolence, all contempt of man or men, in any form
and under any combination. His address breathes a truly
philosophical reverence for humanity, and exhibits an elevated
conception of what are the right aims and the reasonable
discipline of the mind of a scholar and thinker. Whatever
the reader may conclude as to the philosophical doctrine
of the address and the mode in which it is conveyed&mdash;whether
he accuse it of mysticism or hail it as insight&mdash;he
cannot but be touched by the spirit of devotedness, and
roused by the tone of moral independence which breathe
through the whole. The society may be considered as having
amply atoned, by this last address, for the insult
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span>
rendered by its organ (however unconsciously) to republican
morals by that of 1835.</p>

<p>The address was followed by the reading of the poem,
whose delivery by its author I have before mentioned as
being prevented by his sudden and alarming illness. The
whole assembly were deeply moved, and this was the most
interesting part of the transactions of the day.</p>

<p>The society marched out of the church to music, and,
preceded by the band, to the college, and up the steps of the
hall to dinner, in the order of seniority as members.</p>

<p>We hastened home to dress for dinner at the president's,
where we met the corporation of the University. My seat
was between Dr. Bowditch and one of the professors; and
the entertainment to us strangers was so great and so novel,
that we were sorry to return home, though it was to meet
an evening party no less agreeable.</p>

<p>The ceremonial of commencement-week was now over,
but not the bustle and gayety. The remaining two days
were spent in drives to Boston and to Bunker Hill, and in
dinner and evening visits to Judge Story's, to some of the
professors, and to Mr. Everett's, since governor of the state.</p>

<p>The view from Bunker Hill is fine, including the city and
harbour of Boston, the long bridges and the Neck which
connect the city with the mainland, the village of Medford,
where the first American ship was built, and the rising
grounds which advantageously limit the prospect. The
British could scarcely have had much leisure to admire the
view while they were in possession of the hill, for the colonists
kept them constantly busy. I saw the remains of the
work which was the only foothold they really possessed.
They roamed the hills and marched through the villages,
but had no opportunity of settling themselves anywhere else.
Their defeat of the enemy was more fatal to themselves than
to the vanquished, as they lost more officers than the Americans
had men engaged.</p>

<p>A monument is in course of erection, but it proceeds very
slowly for want of funds. It is characteristic of the people
that funds should fall short for this object, while they
abound on all occasions when they are required for charitable,
religious, or literary uses. The glory of the Bunker
Hill struggle is immortal in the hearts of the nation, and
the granite obelisk is not felt to be wanted as an expression.
When it will be finished no one knows, and few seem to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span>
care, while the interest in the achievement remains as enthusiastic
as ever.</p>

<p>While we were surveying the ground a very old man
joined us with his plan of the field. It was well worn, almost
tattered; but he spread it out once more for us on a
block of the monumental granite, and related once again, for
our benefit, the thousand times told tale. He was in the
battle with his musket, being then fifteen years old. Many
were the boys who struck some of the first blows in that
war; and of those boys one here and there still lives, and
may be known by the air of serene triumph with which he
paces the field of his enterprise, once soaked with blood,
but now the centre of regions where peace and progress have
followed upon the achievement of freedom.</p>
<br />
<hr />



<h2><a name="The_White_Mountains" id="The_White_Mountains"></a>THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.</h2>

<div style="margin-left: 5em;">"Hast thou entered the storehouses of the snow?"</div>

<div style="text-align: center;"><i>Book of Job.</i></div>


<p class="p1">One of the charms of such travelling as that of the English
in the United States is its variety. The stopping to
rest for a month at a farmhouse after a few weeks of progress
by stage, with irregular hours, great fatigues, and indifferent
fare, is a luxury which those only can understand
who have experienced it; and it is no less a luxury to hie
away from a great city, leaving behind its bustle and formalities,
and the fatigues of sightseeing and society, to
plunge into the deepest mountain solitude. I have a vivid
recollection of the dance of spirits amid which we passed
the long bridge at Boston on our way out to New-Hampshire,
on the bright morning of the 16th of September. Our
party consisted of four, two Americans and two English.
We were to employ eight or ten days in visiting the White
Mountains of New-Hampshire, returning down the valley of
the Connecticut. The weather was brilliant the whole time,
and I well remember how gay the hedges looked this first
morning, all starred over with purple, lilach, and white
asters, and gay with golden rod; with which was intermixed,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span>
here and there, a late pale brier rose. The orchards were
cheerful with their apple-cropping. There was scarcely
one which had not its ladder against a laden tree, its array
of baskets and troughs beneath, and its company of children
picking up the fruit from the grass. What a contrast to the
scenery we were about to enter upon!</p>

<p>Of the earlier part of this trip (our visit to Lake Winnipiseogee
and the Red Mountain) I gave an account in my
former work,<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> little
supposing that I should ever return to
the subject. My narrative must now be taken up from the
point where I then dropped it.</p>

<p>From the summit of Red Mountain I had seen what kind
of scenery we were to pass through on our road to Conway.
It was first mountain and wild little valleys, and then dark
pine scenery; barrens, with some autumnal copses, and intervals
of lake and stream. Lake Ossippee looked like
what I fancy the wildest parts of Norway to be; a dark
blue expanse, slightly ruffled, with pine fringing all its
ledges, and promontories, bristling with pines, jutting into
it; no dwellings, and no sign of life but a pair of wildfowl,
bobbing and ducking, and a hawk perched on the tiptop of
a scraggy blighted tree.</p>

<p>In the steamboat on Lake Winnipiseogee there was a
party whom we at once concluded to be bride, bridegroom,
and bridemaid. They were very young, and the state of
the case might not have occurred to us but for the obvious
pride of the youth in having a lady to take care of. Our
conjectures were confirmed by the peculiar tone in which he
spoke of "my wife" to the people of the inn in giving orders.
It had a droll mixture of pride and awkwardness; of novelty
with an attempt to make the words appear quite familiar.
For some days we were perpetually meeting this party, and
this afternoon they introduced themselves to me, on the
ground of their having expected to see me at Portsmouth on
my way to the White Mountains. I imagine they would
have been too busy with their wedding arrangements to have
cared much about me if I had gone. I was glad we fell in
with them, as it added an interest to the trip. We looked
at the scenery with their eyes, and pleased ourselves with
imagining what a paradise these landscapes must appear to
the young people; what a sacred region it will be to them
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span>
when they look back upon it in their old age, and tell the
youth of those days what the White Mountains were when
they towered in the midst of a wilderness.</p>

<p>We all took up our quarters at the inn at Conway; and
the next morning we met again at breakfast, and improved
our acquaintance by sympathizing looks about the badness
of everything on the table. Eggs were a happy resource,
for the bread was not eatable. We did not start till ten,
our party having bespoken a private conveyance, and the
horses having to be sent for to a distance of eight miles.
So the wedding-party had the companionship of our luggage
instead of ourselves in the stage; and we four stepped
merrily into our little open carriage, while the skirts of the
morning mist were drawing off from the hilltops, and the
valley was glowing in a brilliant autumn sunshine. This
was to be the grand day of the journey; the day when we
were to pass the Notch; and we were resolved to have it to
ourselves, if we could procure a private conveyance from
stage to stage.</p>

<p>We struck across the valley, which is intersected by the
Saco river. Never did valley look more delicious; shut in
all round by mountains, green as emerald, flat as water, and
chumped and fringed with trees tinted with the softest autumnal
hues. Every reach of the Saco was thus belted and
shaded. We stopped at Pendexter's, the pretty house well
known to tourists; having watered the horses, we went on
another stage, no less beautiful, and then entered upon the
wilderness. For seven miles we did not see a single
dwelling; and a head now and then popped out of the stage
window, showing that our friends "the weddingers" were
making sure of our being near, as if the wilderness of the
scene made them relish the idea of society.</p>

<p>The mountains had opened and closed in every direction
all the morning; they now completely shut us in, and looked
tremendous enough, being exceedingly steep and abrupt,
bare, and white where they had been seamed with slides, and
in other parts dark with stunted firs. At the end of seven
miles of this wilderness we arrived at the elder Crawford's,
a lone house invested with the grateful recollections of a
multitude of travellers. The Crawfords, who live twelve miles
apart, lead a remarkable life, but one which seems to
agree well with mind and body. They are hale, lively men,
of uncommon simplicity of manners, dearly loving company,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span>
but able to make themselves happy in solitude. Their
year is passed in alternations of throngs of guests with entire
loneliness.<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> During
the long dreary season of thaw
no one comes in sight; or, if a chance visiter should approach,
it is in a somewhat questionable shape, being no
other than a hungry bear, the last of his clan. During two
months, August and September, while the solitaries are trying
to get some sort of harvest out of the impracticable soil,
while bringing their grain from a distance, a flock of summer
tourists take wing through the region. Then the Crawfords
lay down beds in every corner of their dwellings, and
spread their longest tables, and bustle from morning till
night, the hosts acting as guides to every accessible point in
the neighbourhood, and the women of the family cooking
and waiting from sunrise till midnight. After the 1st of October
comes a pause, dead silence again for three months,
till the snow is frozen hard, and trains of loaded sleighs appear
in the passes. Traders from many distant points
come down with their goods, while the roads are in a state
which enables one horse to draw the load of five. This is
a season of great jollity; and the houses are gay with roaring
fires, hot provisions, good liquor, loud songs, and romantic
travellers' tales; tales of pranking wild beasts, bold
sleigh-drivers, and hardy woodsmen.</p>

<p>The elder Crawford has a pet album, in which he almost
insists that his guests shall write. We found in it some of
the choicest nonsense and "brag" that can be found in the
whole library of albums. We dined well on mutton, eggs,
and whortleberries with milk. Tea was prepared at dinner
as regularly as bread throughout this excursion. While the
rest of the party were finishing their arrangements for departure,
I found a seat on a stone, on a rising ground opposite,
whence I could look some way up and down the pass,
and wonder at leisure at the intrepidity which could choose
such an abode.</p>

<p>We proceeded in an open wagon, the road winding amid
tall trees, and the sunshine already beginning to retreat up
the mountain sides. We soon entered the secluded valley
where stands the dwelling of the Willeys, the unfortunate
family who were all swept away in one night by a slide
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span>
from the mountain in the rear of the
house.<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> No one lives
in that valley now, and this is not to be wondered at, so
desolate is its aspect. The platform on which the unharmed
house stands is the only quiet green spot in the pass. The
slides have stripped the mountains of their wood, and they
stand tempest-beaten, seamed, and furrowed; while beneath
lies the wreck of what was brought down by the great slide
of 1826, a heap of rock and soil, bristling with pine-trunks
and upturned roots, half hidden by a rank new vegetation,
which will in time turn all the chaos into beauty.</p>

<p>A dark pine hill at the end of this pass is the signal of
the traveller's approach to the Notch. We walked up a
long ascent, the road overhanging a ravine, where rocks
were capriciously tumbled together, brought down, doubtless,
by a winter-torrent. At present, instead of a torrent, there
were two sparkling waterfalls leaping down the mountain.
The Notch is, at the narrowest part, only twenty-two feet
wide. The weather was so still that we were scarcely
aware of the perpetual wind, which is one characteristic of
the pass. There the wind is always north or south; and it
ordinarily blows so strong as to impair the traveller's pleasure
in exploring the scene. It merely breathed cool upon us as
we entered the tremendous gateway formed by a lofty perpendicular
rock on the right hand and a steep mountain on
the left. When we were through and had rejoined our
wagon, my attention was directed to the Profile, an object
which explains itself in being named. The sharp rock certainly
resembles a human face; but what then? There is
neither wonder nor beauty in it. I turned from it to see the
infant Saco bubble forth from its spring among stones and
bushes, under the shelter of the perpendicular rock, and in a
semicircular recess of the greenest sward. Trees sprang
from sharp projections, and wrenched themselves out of
crevices, giving the last air of caprice to the scene.</p>

<p>We were just in time for the latest yellow light. Twilight
stole on, and we grew silent. The stars appeared early to
us on our shadowy way, and birds flitted by to their homes.
A light still lingered on the mountain stream, when Sirius
was tremblingly reflected in it. When the lights of Ethan
Crawford's dwelling were seen twinkling in the distance, we
were deep in the mutual recitation of poetry. As we drove
up to the open door, Mr. D. said, quietly, as he looked up
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span>
into the heavens, "Shall we get out, or spend the evening
as we are?" We got out, and then followed supper, fiddle,
and dancing, as I have elsewhere related.<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a></p>

<p>We proposed to ascend Mount Washington the next
morning if the weather should allow. It is a difficult and
laborious ascent for all travellers, and few ladies venture
upon the enterprise; but the American lady of our party
was fully disposed to try her strength with me. I rose very
early, and, seeing that the mountain peak looked sharp and
clear, never doubted that I ought to prepare myself for the
expedition. On coming down, however, I was told that
there was rather too much wind, and some expectation of
rain. By noon, sure enough, while we were upon Mount
Deception (so called from its real being so much greater
than its apparent height), we saw that there was a tempest
of wind and snow about the mountain top. This peak is
the highest in the Union. It rises 6634 feet above the level
of the sea, 4000 feet of this height being clothed with wood,
and the rest being called the bald part of the mountain.
We spent our day delightfully in loitering about Mount Deception,
in tracking the stream of the valley through its
meadows and its thickets of alders, and in watching the
course and explosion of storms upon the mountains. Some
gay folks from Boston were at Crawford's, and they were
not a little shocked at seeing us pack ourselves and our luggage
into a wagon in the afternoon, for a drive of eighteen
miles to Littleton. We should be upset; we should break
down; we should be drowned in a deluge; they should pick
us up on the morrow. We were a little doubtful ourselves
about the prudence of the enterprise; but a trip to Franconia
Defile was in prospect for the next day, and we wished that
our last sight of the White Mountains should be when they
had the evening sun upon them. Our expedition was wholly
successful; we had neither storm, breakage, nor overturn,
and it was not sunset when we reached and walked up the
long hill which was to afford us the last view of the chain.
Often did we stand and look back upon the solemn tinted
mountains to the north, and upon the variegated range behind,
sunny in places, as if angels were walking there and
shedding light from their presence.</p>

<p>We passed the town of Bethlehem, consisting, as far as
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span>
we could see, of one house and two barns. It was no more
than six o'clock when we reached Littleton; so, when we
had chosen our rooms, out of a number equally tempting
from their cleanliness and air of comfort, we walked out to
see what the place looked like. Our attention was caught
by the endeavours of a woman to milk a restless cow, and
we inadvertently stood still to see how she would manage.
When she at last succeeded in making the animal stand,
she offered us milk. We never refused kindness which
might lead to acquaintanceship; so we accepted her offer,
and followed her guidance into her house, to obtain a basin
to drink out of. It was a good interior. Two pretty girls,
nicely dressed, sat, during the dusk, by a blazing fire.
Their talkative father was delighted to get hold of some new
listeners. He sat down upon the side of the bed, as if in
preparation for a long chat, and entered at large into the
history of his affairs. He told us how he went down to
Boston to take service, and got money enough to settle himself
independently in this place; and how much better he
liked having a house of his own than working for any
amount of money in a less independent way. He told us
how Littleton flourishes by the lumber-trade, wood being
cut from the hills around, and sent floating down the stream
for five miles, till it reaches the Connecticut, with whose
current it proceeds to Hartford. Twenty years ago there
was one store and a tavern in the place; now it is a wide-spreading
village on the side of a large hill, which is stripped
of its forest. The woods on the other bank of the river
are yet untouched. Scarcely a field is to be seen under
tillage, and the axe seems almost the only tool in use.</p>

<p>We were admirably cared for at Gibb's house at Littleton,
and we enjoyed our comforts exceedingly. It appeared that
good manners are much regarded in the house, some of
the family being as anxious to teach them to strangers as to
practice them themselves. In the morning, one of my American
friends and I, being disposed to take our breakfast at
convenient leisure, sat down to table when all was ready, our
companions (who could make more haste) not having appeared.
A young lady stood at the side-table to administer
the steaming coffee and tea. After waiting some time my
companion modestly observed,</p>

<p>"I should like a cup of coffee, if you please."
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p>

<p>There was no appearance of the observation having taken
effect, so my friend spoke again:</p>

<p>"Will you be so good as to give me a cup of coffee?"</p>

<p>No answer. After a third appeal, the young lady burst
out with,</p>

<p>"Never saw such manners! To sit down to table before
the other folks come!"</p>

<p>I hope she was pacified by seeing that our friends, when
they at length appeared, did not resent our not having waited
for them.</p>

<p>We set out early in an open wagon for a day's excursion
to Franconia Defile, a gorge in the mountains which is too
frequently neglected by travellers who pass through this
region. Before we reached Franconia some part of our
vehicle gave way. While it was in the hands of the blacksmith
we visited the large ironworks at Franconia, and sat
in a boat on the sweet Ammonoosuc, watching the waters
as they fell over the dam by the ironworks. When we set
off again our umbrellas were forgotten; and as we entered
upon the mountain region, the misty, variegated peaks told
that storm was coming. The mountain sides were more
precipitous than any we had seen, and Mount Lafayette
towered darkly above us to the right of our winding road.
We passed some beautiful tarns, fringed with trees, and
brimming up so close to the foot of the precipices as to leave
scarcely a footpath on their margin. A pelting rain came
on, which made us glad to reach the solitary dwelling of the
pass, called the Lafayette Hotel. This house had been
growing in the woods thirteen weeks before, and yet we
were far from being among its first guests. The host, two
boys, and a nice-looking, obliging girl, wearing a string of
gold beads, did their best to make us comfortable. They
kindled a blazing wood fire, and the girl then prepared a dinner
of hot bread and butter, broiled ham, custards, and good
tea. When the shower ceased we went out and made ourselves
acquainted with the principal features of the pass,
sketching, reciting, and watching how the mists drove up
and around the tremendous peaks, smoked out of the fissures,
and wreathed about the woods on the ledges. The
scene could not have been more remarkable, and scarcely
more beautiful in the brightest sunshine. It was not various;
its unity was its charm. It consisted of a narrow
rocky road, winding between mountains which almost overhung
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span>
the path, except at intervals, where there were recesses
filled with woods.</p>

<p>After dinner our host brought in the album of the house,
for even this new house had already its album. When we
had given an account of ourselves, we set out, in defiance of
the clouds, for the Whirlpool, four miles at least farther on.
On the way we passed a beautiful lake, overhung by ash,
beech, birch, and pine, with towering heights behind. Hereabout
the rain came on heavily, and continued for three
hours. The Whirlpool is the grand object of this pass, and
it is a place in which to spend many a long summer's day.
A full mountain stream, issuing from the lake we had left
behind, and brawling all along our road, here gushes through
a crevice into a wide basin, singularly overhung by a projecting
rock, rounded and smoothed as if by art. Here the
eddying water, green as the Niagara floods, carries leaves
and twigs round and round, in perpetual swift motion, a portion
of the waters brimming over the lower edge of the great
basin at each revolution, and the pool being replenished from
above. I found a shelter under a ledge of rocks, and here I
could have stood for hours, listening to the splash and hiss,
and watching the busy whirl. The weather, however, grew
worse every moment; the driver could not keep the seats of
the wagon dry any longer; and after finding, to our surprise,
that we had stayed half an hour by the pool, we jumped
into our vehicle and returned without delay. There were
no more wandering gleams among the mountains; but, just
as we descended to the plain, we saw the watery sun for a
moment, and were cheered by a bright amber streak of sky
above the western summits. By the time we recovered our
umbrellas there was no farther need of them.</p>

<p>It soon became totally dark; and, if there had been any
choice, the driver would have been as glad as ourselves to
have stopped. But we were wet, and there were no habitations
along the road; so we amused ourselves with watching
one or two fireflies, the last of the season, and the driver
left the horses to find their own way, as he was unable to
see a yard in any direction. At last the lights of Littleton
appeared, the horses put new spirit into their work, and we
arrived at Gibb's door before eight o'clock. The ladies of
the house were kind in their assistance to get us dried and
warmed, and to provide us with tea.</p>

<p>Our course was subsequently to Montpelier (Vermont),
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span>
and along the White River till we joined the Connecticut,
along whose banks we travelled to Brattleborough, Deerfield,
and Northampton. The scenery of New-Hampshire
and Vermont is that to which the attention of travellers will
hereafter be directed, perhaps more emphatically than to the
renowned beauties of Virginia. I certainly think the Franconia
Defile the noblest mountain-pass I saw in the United
States.</p>
<br />
<hr />

<h2><a name="Channing" id="Channing"></a>CHANNING.</h2>

<div style="margin-left: 5em;">"And, let me tell you, good company and good discourse are the
very sinews of virtue."&mdash;<span class="smcap">Izaak Walton.</span></div>


<p class="p1">There is no task more difficult than that of speaking of
one's intimate friends in print. It is well that the necessity
occurs but seldom, for it is a task which it is nearly impossible
to do well. Some persons think it as dangerous as it
is difficult; but I do not feel this. If a friendship be not
founded on a mutual knowledge so extensive as to leave
nothing to be learned by each of the opinions of the other
regarding their relation; and if, moreover, either party,
knowing what it is to speak to the public&mdash;the act of all acts
most like answering at the bar of eternal judgment&mdash;can yet
be injuriously moved by so much of the character and circumstances
being made known as the public has an interest
in, such a friendship is not worthy of the name; and if it
can be thus broken up, it had better be so. In the case of
a true friendship there is no such danger; for it is based
upon something very different from mutual ignorance, and
depends upon something much more stable than the ignorance
of the world concerning the parties.</p>

<p>Dr. Channing is, of all the public characters of the United
States, the one in whom the English feel the most interest.
After much consideration, I have decided that to omit, because
the discussion is difficult to myself, the subject most
interesting to my readers, and one on which they have, from
Dr. Channing's position, a right to information, would be
wrong. Accounts have already been given of him; one, at
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span>
least, to his disadvantage. There is no sufficient reason
why a more friendly one should be withheld, while the account
is strictly limited to those circumstances and appearances
which might meet the observation of a stranger or a
common acquaintance. All revelations made to me through
the hospitalities of his family or by virtue of friendship will
be, of course, carefully suppressed.</p>

<p>Dr. Channing spends seven or eight months of the year
in Rhode Island, at Oakland, six miles from Newport. There
I first saw him, being invited by him and Mrs. Channing to
spend a week with them. This was in September, 1835.
I afterward stayed a longer time with them in Boston.</p>

<p>The last ten miles of the journey to Dr. Channing's
house from Boston is very pretty in fine weather. The
road passes through a watery region, where the whims of
sunshine and cloud are as various and as palpable as at sea.
The road passes over a long bridge to the island, and affords
fine glimpses of small islands in the spreading river, and of
the distant main with its breakers. The stage set me down
at the garden-gate at Oakland, whither my host came out
to receive me. I knew it could be no other than Dr. Channing,
but his appearance surprised me. He looked younger
and pleasanter than I had expected. The common engraving
of him is undeniably very like, but it does not altogether
do him justice. A bust of him was modelled by
Persico the next winter, which is an admirable likeness;
favourable, but not flattering. Dr. Channing is short, and
very slightly made. His countenance varies more than its
first aspect would lead the stranger to suppose it could. In
mirth it is perfectly changed, and very remarkable. The
lower part of other faces is the most expressive of mirth;
not so with Dr. Channing's, whose muscles keep very composed,
while his laughter pours out at his eyes. I have
seen him laugh till it seemed doubtful where the matter
would end, and I could not but wish that the expression of
face could be dashed into the canvass at the moment. His
voice is, however, the great charm. I do not mean in the
pulpit: of what it is there I am not qualified to speak, for I
could not hear a tone of his preaching; but in conversation
his voice becomes delightful after one is familiarized with it.
At first his tones partake of the unfortunate dryness of his
manner; but, by use, they grow, or seem to grow, more and
more genial, till, at last, the ear waits and watches for them.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span>
Of the "repulsiveness" of his manners on a first acquaintance
he is himself aware; though not, I think, of all the
evil it causes, in compelling mere strangers to carry away a
wrong idea of him, and in deterring even familiar acquaintances
from opening their minds, and letting their speech run
on as freely to him as he earnestly desires that it should.</p>

<p>It might not be difficult to account for this manner, but
this is not the place in which we have to do with any but
the facts of the case. The natural but erroneous conclusion
of most strangers is, that the dryness proceeds from
spiritual pride; and all the more from there being an appearance
of this in Dr. Channing's writings&mdash;in the shape
of rather formal declarations of ways of thinking as his
own, and of accounts of his own views and states of mind&mdash;still
as his own. Any stranger thus impressed will very
shortly be struck, be struck speechless, by evidences of humility,
of generous truth, and meek charity, at such variance
with the manner in which other things have been said as to
overthrow all hasty conclusions. It was thus with me, and I
know that it has been so with others. Those superficial observers
of Dr. Channing who, carrying in their own minds
the idea of his being a great man, suppose that the same idea
is in his, and even kindly account for his faults of manner
on this ground, do him great injustice, whatever may be his
share of the blame of it. No children consulting about
their plays were ever farther from the idea of speaking like
an oracle than Dr. Channing; and the notion of condescending&mdash;of
his being in a higher, while others are in a lower
spiritual state&mdash;would be dismissed from his mind, if it ever
got in, with the abhorrence with which the good chase away
the shadows of evil from their souls. I say this confidently,
the tone of his writings notwithstanding; and I say it, not
as a friend, but from such being the result of a very few
hours' study of him. Whenever his conversation is not
earnest&mdash;and it is not always earnest&mdash;it is for the sake of
drawing out the person he is talking with, and getting at his
views. The method of conversation is not to be defended&mdash;even
on the ground of expediency&mdash;for a person's real
views are not to be got at in this way, no one liking to be
managed; but Dr. Channing's own part in this kind of conversation
is not played in the spirit of condescension, but of
inquiry. One proof of this is the use he makes of the views
of the persons with whom he converses. Nothing is lost
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span>
upon him. He lays up what he obtains for meditation;
and it reappears, sooner or later, amplified, enriched, and
made perfectly his own. I believe that he is, to a singular
degree, unconscious of both processes, and unaware of his
part in them, both the drawing out of information and the
subsequent assimilation; but both are very evident to the
observation of even strangers.</p>

<p>One of the most remarkable instances of all this is in the
case of Mr. Abdy's visit to Dr. Channing and its results.
Mr. Abdy has thought fit to publish the conversation he had
with Dr. Channing, and had an undoubted right to do so, as
he gave fair warning on the spot that he visited Dr. Channing
as a public character, and should feel himself at liberty
to report the circumstances of his visit. It is not necessary
to repeat the substance of the conversation as it stands in
Mr. Abdy's book; but it is necessary to explain that Mr.
Abdy was not aware of his host's peculiarities of manner
and conversation, and that he misunderstood him; and that,
on the other hand, no stranger could be expected to make
allowance for the unconsciousness which Dr. Channing expressed
of the condition of the free coloured population of
America. Some mutual friends of the two gentlemen tried
to persuade Mr. Abdy not to publish the conversation he
had with Dr. Channing till he knew him better; and Mr.
Abdy, very reasonably, thought that what was said was
said, and might, honourable warning having been given, be
printed.</p>

<p>Immediately after Mr. Abdy's departure, Dr. Channing
took measures to inform himself of the real state of the case
of the blacks; and, within the next month, preached a thorough-going
abolition sermon. He laid so firm a grasp on
the fundamental principles of the case as to satisfy the farsighted
and practised abolitionists themselves who were
among his audience. The subject was never again out of
his mind; and during my visit the next autumn, our conversation
was more upon that topic than any other. Early in
the winter after he published his book on slavery. This
has since been followed by his Letter to Birney, and by his
noble Letter to Clay on the subject of Texas, of all his
works the one by which his most attached friends and admirers
would have him judged and remembered.</p>

<p>No one out of the United States can have an idea of the
merit of taking the part which Dr. Channing has adopted on
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span>
this question. Abroad, whatever may be thought of the
merits of the productions, the act of producing them does
not seem great. It appears a simple affair enough for an
influential clergyman to declare his detestation of outrageous
injustice and cruelty, and to point out the duty of his fellow-citizens
to do it away. But it is not a very easy or simple
matter on the spot. Dr. Channing lives surrounded by the
aristocracy of Boston, and by the most eminent of the clergy
of his own denomination, whose lips are rarely opened on
the question except to blame or to ridicule the abolitionists.
The whole matter was, at that time, considered "a low subject,"
and one not likely, therefore, to reach his ears. He
dislikes associations for moral objects; he dislikes bustle
and ostentation; he dislikes personal notoriety; and, of
course, he likes no better than other people to be the object
of censure, of popular dislike. He broke through all these
temptations to silence the moment his convictions were settled;
I mean not his convictions of the guilt and evil of
slavery, but of its being his duty to utter his voice against
it. From his peaceful and honoured retirement he came
out into the storm, which might, and probably would, be
fatal to his reputation, his influence, his repose, and, perhaps,
to more blessings than even these. Thus the case
appears to the eye of a passing traveller.</p>

<p>These bad consequences have only partially followed, but
he could not anticipate that. As it has turned out, Dr. Channing's
reputation and influence have risen at home and
abroad precisely in proportion to his own progress on the
great question; to the measure of justice which he learned
by degrees to deal out to the abolitionists, till, in his latest
work, he reached the highest point of all. His influence is
impaired only among those to whom it does not seem to
have done good; among those who were vain of him as a
pastor and a fellow-citizen, but who have not strength and
light to follow his guidance in a really difficult and obviously
perilous path. He has been wondered at and sighed over
in private houses, rebuked and abused in Congress, and
foamed at in the South; but his reputation and influence are
far higher than ever before; and by his act of self-devotion he
has been, on the whole, a great gainer, though not, of course,
holding a position so enviable (though it may look more so)
as that of some who moved earlier, and have risked and
suffered more in the same cause.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span></p>

<p>Dr. Charming bore admirably the wrath he drew upon
himself by breaking silence on the slavery question. Popular
hatred and the censure of men whom he respected were
a totally new experience to one who had lived in the midst
of something like worship; and, though they reached him
only from a distance, they must have made him feel that the
new path he had at his years struck into was a thorny one.
He was not careless of censure, though he took it quietly.
He read the remarks made in Congress on his book, re-examined
the grounds of what he had said that was questioned
about the morals of the South, with the intention of retracting
anything which he might have stated too strongly.
Finding that he had, in his assertions, kept within the truth,
he appeared satisfied. But he could feel for others who
were exposed in the same cause. When I was staying in
his house at the end of the winter, I was one morning sealing
up my papers in his presence, in order to their being
put in a place of safety, news having reached us the night
before of a design to Lynch me in the West, where I had
been about to take a journey. While I was sealing, Dr.
Channing told me that he hoped I should, on my return to
England, boldly expose the fact that I was not allowed the
liberty of going where I would in the United States. I told
him I should not, while there was the far stronger fact that
the natives of the country were not allowed to use this their
constitutional liberty. Dr. Channing could not, at that time,
have set his foot within the boundaries of half the states
without danger to his life; but he appeared more moved at
my case than I ever saw him about his own. No doubt
we both felt ashamed to be concerned about ourselves while
others were suffering to the extremity, to the loss of fortune,
liberty, and life. Still, to Dr. Channing, the change in the
temper of a large portion of the nation towards him must
have been no light trial.</p>

<p>He loves the country retirement in which I first saw him,
for his habit of mind is not one which renders him indifferent
to the objects about him. He never sits in his study for
hours together, occupied with books and thoughts, but, even
when most deeply engaged in composition, walks out into
his garden so frequently, that the wonder to persons who use
different methods is how, amid so many interruptions, he
keeps up any continuity of thought or accomplishes any
amount of composition at all. He rarely has his pen in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span>
his hand for more than an hour at a time, and does not,
therefore, enter into the enjoyments of writers who find the
second hour twice as productive and pleasurable as the
first, and the third as the second, and who grudge moving
under five or six hours. Instead of the delight of this continuous
labour, Dr. Channing enjoys the refreshment of a
change of objects. In his last publication, as in some former
ones, he affords an indication of this habit of his, which,
to those who know him, serves as a picture of himself in
his garden, sauntering alone in his gray morning-gown, or
chatting with any of his family whom he may meet in the
walks. "I have prepared this letter," he says, "not amid
the goadings, irritations, and feverish tumults of a crowded
city, but in the stillness of retirement, amid scenes of peace
and beauty. Hardly an hour has passed in which I have
not sought relief from the exhaustion of writing by walking
abroad amid God's works, which seldom fail to breathe tranquillity,
and which, by their harmony and beneficence, continually
cheer me, as emblems and prophecies of a more
harmonious and blessed state of human affairs than has yet
been known." He has frequently referred in conversation,
even to strangers, and once at least in print, to the influence
on his mind of having passed his boyhood on the seashore;
and to this shore he lost no time in taking me. He liked
that we should be abroad almost all day. In the morning
we met early in the garden; at noon he drove me, or we
went in the carriage, to some point of the shore; and in
the afternoon we walked to the glen, where, truly, any one
might be thankful to go every summer evening and autumn
afternoon. The way was through a field, an orchard, a
narrow glen, shadowy with rocks and trees, down to the
shore, where the sea runs in between the island and the
mainland. The little coves of clear blue water, the boats
moving in the sunlight, the long distant bridge on the left
hand, and the main opening and spreading on the right,
made up a delicious scene, the favourite haunt of Dr. Channing's
family. To the more distant shore of the ocean itself
he drove me in his gig, even to Purgatory.<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> By-the-way,
he showed me Berkeley's house, of gray stone, rather sunk
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span>
among trees, built by the bishop in a rather unpromising
spot, selected on account of the fine view of Newport, the
downs, the beach, and the sea, which is obtained from the
ridge of the hill over which he must pass on his way to
and from the town. The only beauty which the scene lacked
when I saw it was a brighter verdure. It was the end of
summer, and the downs were not green. They were
sprinkled over with dwellings and clumps of trees; rocks
jutted out for the waves to break upon, the spray dashing to a
great height; on the interval of smooth sand the silver waves
spread noiselessly abroad and retired, while flocks of running
snipes and a solitary seagull were the only living things
visible. This interval of smooth beach is bounded inland
by the pile of rocks which was Berkeley's favourite resort,
and where the conversations in the Minute Philosopher are
supposed to have taken place. They are not a lofty, but a
shelvy, shadowy pile, full of recesses, where the thinker
may sit sheltered from the heat, and of platforms, where he
may lie basking in the sun.</p>

<p>Purgatory is a deep and narrow fissure in the rock where
the sea flows in; one of those fissures which, as Dr. Channing
told me, are a puzzle to geologists. The surfaces of the severed
rocks are as smooth as marble, though the split has
taken place through the middle of very large stones. These
rocks are considered remarkable specimens of pudding-stone.
After fearfully looking down into the dark floods of
Purgatory, we wandered about long among the piles of rocks,
the spray dashing all around us. Birds and spiders have
thought fit to make their homes amid all the noise and commotion
of these recesses. Webs were trembling under
the shelves above the breakers, and swallows' nests hung
in the crevices. These are the spots in which Dr. Channing
passed his boyhood, and here were the everlasting
voices which revealed to him the unseen things for which
he is living.</p>

<p>The one remarkable thing about him is his spirituality;
and this is shown in a way which must strike the most careless
observer, but of which he is himself unconscious. He
is not generally unconscious; his manner, indeed, betokens
a remarkable self-consciousness; but he is not aware of
what is highest in himself, though painfully so of some other
things. Every one who converses with him is struck with
his natural, supreme regard to the true and the right; with
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span>
the absence of all suspicion that anything can stand in competition
with these. In this there is an exemption from all
professional narrowness, from all priestly prejudice. He
is not a man of the world: anxious as he is to inform himself
of matters of fact and of the present condition of affairs
everywhere, he does not succeed well; and this deficiency,
and a considerable amount of prejudice on philosophical subjects,
are the cause of his being extensively supposed to be
more than ordinarily professional in his views, judgments,
and conduct. But in this I do not agree, nor does any one,
I believe, who knows him. No one sees more clearly than
he the necessity of proving and exercising principles by
hourly action in all kinds of worldly business. No one is
more free from attachment to forms, or more practically convinced
that rules and institutions are mere means to an end.
He showed this, in one instance out of a thousand, by proposing
to his congregation some time ago that they should
not always depend on their pastors for the guidance of their
worship, but that any members who had anything to say
should offer to do so. As might have been foreseen, every
one shrank from being concerned in so new an administration
of religion; but Dr. Channing was disappointed that
the effort was not made. No one, again, is more free from
all pride of virtue. His charity towards frailty is as singular
as his reprobation of spiritual vices is indignant. The
genial side of his nature is turned to the weak, and the sorely
tempted and the fallen best know the real softness and meekness
of his character. He is a high example of the natural
union of lofty spirituality with the tenderest sympathy with
those who are the least able to attain it. If the fallen
need the help of one into whose face they would look without
fear, Dr. Channing is that one, even though he may be
felt to be "repulsive" by those who have no particular claim
upon his kindness; and as for spiritual pride, when it has
once passed his credulity, and got within the observation of
his shrewdness, it had better be gone out of the reach of his
rebuke.</p>

<p>It may be seen that I feel the prevalent fear of him to be
ill-grounded. There is little gratification to one's self-complacency
to be expected in his presence. He never flatters,
and he is more ready to blame than to praise; but his blame,
like every other man's, should go for what it is worth; should
be welcome in as far as it is deserved, and should pass for
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span>
nothing where it is not. But there is no assumption and
no bitterness in his blame; it is merely the expression of an
opinion, and it leaves no sting. All intercourse with him
proceeds on the supposition that the parties are not caring
about their petty selves, but about truth and good, and that
all are equal while engaged in this pursuit. There is no
room for mutual fear in such a case. He one day asked an
intimate friend, a woman of great simplicity and honesty,
some question about a sermon he had just delivered. She
replied that she could not satisfy him, because she had not
been able to attend to the sermon after the first sentence or
two; and he was far better pleased with the answer than
with the flatteries which are sometimes addressed to him
about his preaching. This lady's method is that in which
Dr. Channing's intimate friends speak to him, and not as to
a man who is to be feared.</p>

<p>I have mentioned prejudice on philosophical subjects to
be a drawback on his liberality. This might have been the
remark of a perfect stranger, as long as his celebrated note
on Priestley remains unretracted in public, whatever he may
say about it in private. His attachment to the poetry of
philosophy&mdash;the mysticism prevalent among the divines of
New-England who study philosophy at all&mdash;and his having
taken no means to review his early decisions against the
philosophers of another school, are the cause of a prejudice
as to the grounds, and an illiberality as to the tendencies of
any other mental philosophy than his own, the results of
which are exhibited in that note. This is not the only instance
in Dr. Channing's life, as in the lives of other cautious
men, where undue caution has led to rashness. His reason
for writing that note was a fear lest, the American Unitarians
being already too cold, they should be made colder by philosophical
sympathy with the Unitarians of England. This
fear led to the rashness of concluding the English Unitarians
to be generally disciples of Priestley; of attributing to
Priestley's philosophy the coldness of the English Unitarians;
and of concluding Priestley to be the perfect exponent
of the philosophy which the American divines of Dr. Channing's
way of thinking declare to be opposed to spiritualism.</p>

<p>Disposed as Dr. Channing is to an excess of caution both
by constitution and by education, he appears to be continually
outgrowing the tendency. He has shown what his
moral courage is by proofs which will long outlast his
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span>
indications of slowness in admitting the full merits of the abolitionists.
Here, again, his caution led him into rashness;
into the rashness of giving his sanction to charges and prejudices
against them, the grounds of which he had the means
of investigating. This is all over now, however; and it was
always a trifle in comparison with the great services he was
at the same time rendering to a cause which the abolitionists
cared for far more than for what the whole world, or any
part of it, thought of their characters. He is now completely
identified with them in the view of all who regard
them as the vanguard in the field of human liberties.</p>

<p>When I left his door at the close of my first visit to him,
and heard him talked of by the passengers in the stage, I
was startled by the circumstance into a speculation on the
varieties of methods and degrees in which eminent authors
are revealed to their fellow-men. There is, to be sure, the
old rule, "by their fruits ye shall know them;" but the whole
harvest of fruits is in some cases so long in coming in, that
the knowledge remains for the present very imperfect. As
a general rule, earnest writers show their best selves in their
books; in the series of calm thoughts which they record in
the passionless though genial stillness of their retirement,
whence the things of the world are seen to range themselves
in their right proportions, in their justest aspect; and where
the glow of piety and benevolence is not damped by, but
rather consumes fears and cares which relate to self, and
discouragement arising from the faults of others. In such
cases a close inspection of the life impairs, more or less, the
impression produced by the writings. In other cases there
is a pretty exact agreement between the two modes of action,
by living and writing. This is a rarer case than the
other; and it happens either when the principles of action
are so thoroughly fixed and familiarized as to rule the whole
being, or when the faults of the mind are so intimately connected
with its powers as to be kept in action by the exercise
of those powers in solitude, as they are by temptations in
the world.</p>

<p>There is another case rarer still; when an earnest writer,
gifted and popular, still falls below himself, conveying an
impression of faults which he has not, or not in the degree
in which they seem to appear. In such an instance a casual
acquaintance may leave the impression what it was,
while a closer inspection cannot but be most grateful to the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span>
observer. In my opinion, this is Dr. Channing's case. His
writings are powerful and popular abroad and at home, and
have caused him to be revered wherever they are known;
but revered as an exalted personage, a clerical teacher, conscious
of his high station, and endeavouring to do the duties
of it. A slight acquaintance with him must alter this impression,
without, perhaps, improving it. When he becomes
a companion, the change is remarkable and exhilarating.
He drops glorious thoughts as richly as in his pages, while
humble and gentle feelings shine out, and eclipse the idea
of teaching and preaching. The ear listens for his steps and
his voice, and the eye watches for the appearance of more of
his writings, not as for a sermon or a lesson, but as a new
hint of the direction which that intellect and those affections
are taking which are primarily employed in watching over
the rights and tendencies, and ameliorating the experience
of those who occupy his daily regards.</p>
<br />
<hr />


<h2><a name="Mutes_and_Blind" id="Mutes_and_Blind"></a>MUTES AND BLIND.</h2>

<div style="margin-left: 5em;">"Another noble response to the battle-cry of the Prince of Peace,
summoning his hosts to the conquest of suffering and the rescue of humanity."
&mdash;<i>Rationale of Religious Inquiry.</i></div>

<div style="margin-left: 10em;">
"Vicaria linguae manus."<br />
<br />
"Protected, say enlightened, by the ear."<br />
<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="smcap">Wordsworth.</span></div>


<p class="p1">Some weeping philosophers of the present day are fond
of complaining of the mercenary spirit of the age, and insist
that men are valued (and treated accordingly), not as men,
but as producers of wealth; that the age is so mechanical,
that individuals who cannot act as parts of a machine for
creating material comforts and luxuries are cast aside to be
out of the way of the rest. What do such complainers
make of the lot of the helpless in these days? How do
they contrive to overlook or evade the fact that misery is
recognised as a claim to protection and solace, not only in
individual cases, which strike upon the sympathies of a single
mind, but by wholesale; unfortunates, as a class, being
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span>
cared for on the ground of their misfortunes? Are deformed
and deficient children now cast out into the wastes to perish?
Is any one found in this age who is of Aristotle's opinion,
that the deaf and dumb must remain wholly brutish?
Does any one approve the clause of the code of Justinian by
which deaf-mutes are deprived of their civil rights? Will
any one now agree with Condillac, that the deaf and dumb
have no memory, and, consequently, are without reasoning
power? If every one living is wiser than to believe these
things, he owes his wisdom to the benevolent investigation
which has been made into the condition of these isolated and
helpless beings; an investigation purely benevolent, as it
proceeded on the supposition that they were irremediably deficient.
The testimony of their best benefactors goes to
prove this. The Abbé de l'Epée, Sicard, Guyot of Groningen,
Eschke of Berlin, Cæsar of Leipsic, all began their labours
in behalf of the deaf and dumb with the lowest notion
of the capabilities of the objects of their care, and the
humblest expectations as to what could be done for them.
Sicard acknowledged a change of views when his experience
had become enlarged. He says, "It will be observed that
I have somewhat exaggerated the sad condition of the deaf
and dumb in their primitive state, when I assert that virtue
and vice are to them without reality. I was conducted to
these assertions by the fact that I had not yet possessed the
means of interrogating them upon the ideas which they had
before their education; or that they were not sufficiently instructed
to understand and reply to my questions."<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> It
should be remembered, to Sicard's honour, and that of other
benefactors of the deaf and dumb, that their labours were
undertaken more in pity than in hope, in benevolence which
did not look for, though it found reward. None were more
astonished than they at the revelation which took place of
the minds of the dumb when the power of expression was
given them; when, for instance, one of them, Peter Desloges,
declared, with regard to his deaf and dumb acquaintance,
"There passes no event at Paris, in France, or in the
four quarters of the globe, which does not afford matter of
ordinary conversation among them." The deaf and dumb
are prone to hyperbolical expression, of which the above
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span>
sentence may be taken as an instance; but it is founded in
fact.</p>

<p>The benevolence which undertook the care of this class of
unfortunates, when their condition was esteemed hopeless,
has, in many cases, through a very natural delight at its own
success, passed over into a new and opposite error, particularly
in America, where the popular philosophy of mind
comes in aid of the delusion. From fearing that the deaf
and dumb had hardly any capacities, too many of their
friends have come to believe them a sort of sacred, favoured
class, gifted with a keener apprehension, a more subtile
reason, and a purer spirituality than others, and shut out
from little but what would defile and harden their minds.
Such a belief may not be expressed in propositions or allowed
on a full statement; but much of the conversation on
the condition of the class proceeds on such an idea; and, in
my own opinion, the education of deaf-mutes is and will be
materially impaired by it. Not only does it give rise to
mistakes in their treatment, but there is reason to fear bad
effects from the disappointment which must sooner or later
be occasioned. If this disappointment should act as a
damper upon the exertions made in behalf of the deaf and
dumb, it will be sad, for only a very small number are yet
educated at all in any country, and they are far more numerous
than is generally supposed. In 1830, the total
number of deaf and dumb of all ages in the United States
was 6106. Of a teachable age the number was 2000, of
whom 466 were in course of education. The number of
deaf-mutes in Europe at the same time was 140,000. It is
of great importance that the case of so large a class of society
should be completely understood, and rescued from
one extreme of exaggeration as it has been from the other.</p>

<p>When at New-York I paid a visit one morning, in company
with a clergyman, to the mother of a young lady who
was deaf and dumb, and for whose education whatever advantages
were obtainable by money and pains had been procured.
My clerical friend shared, I believe, the popular notions
about the privileged condition of the class the young
lady belonged to. Occasion arose for my protesting against
these notions, and declaring what I had reason to think the
utmost that could be done for deaf-mutes in the present state
of our knowledge. The clergyman looked amazed at my
speaking thus in the presence of the mother; but I knew
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span>
that experience had taught her to agree with me, and that
her tenderness made her desire that her daughter's situation
should be fully understood, that she might receive due allowance
and assistance from those who surrounded her.
The mother laid her hand on mine, and thanked me for
pleading the cause of the depressed against those who expected
too much from them. She said that, after all that
could be done, the knowledge of deaf-mutes was generally
confined and superficial; their tastes frivolous; their tempers
wilful and hasty; their whole mental state puerile;
and she added that, as long as all this was not allowed, they
would be placed in positions to which they were unequal,
and which they did not understand, and would not be so
amply provided as they might be with enjoyments suited to
their condition.</p>

<p>This is not the place in which to enter upon the interesting
inquiry into the principles of the education of the deaf
and dumb; a deep and wide subject, involving matters important
to multitudes besides the class under notice. Degerando
observed that the art of instructing deaf-mutes, if traced
back to its principles, terminates in the sciences of psychology
and general grammar. A very superficial view of the
case of the class shows something of what the privation really
is, and, consequently, furnishes hints as to the treatment
by which it may be in part supplied. Many kind-hearted
people in America, and not a few in Europe, cry out, "They
are only deprived of one sense and one means of expression.
They have the infinite human spirit within them, active and
irrepressible, with infinite objects in its view. They lose
the pleasures of the ear; they lose one great opportunity of
spiritual action, both on the world of matter and on human
minds; but this is compensated for by the activity of the
soul in other regions of thought and emotion; and their contemplation
of their own objects is undisturbed, in comparison
with what it would be if they were subject to the vulgar associations
with which we have to contend."</p>

<p>It is true that the deaf from birth are deficient in one sense
only, while they are possessed of four; but the one in which
they are deficient is, beyond all estimate, the most valuable
in the formation of mind. The eye conveys, perhaps, more
immediate and vivid pleasures of sense, and is more requisite
to external and independent activity; so that, in the case of
the loss of a sense after the period of education, the privation
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span>
of sight is a severer misfortune, generally speaking, than
the loss of hearing. But, in the case of deficiency from birth,
the deaf are far more unfortunate than the blind, from the
important power of abstraction being in them very feeble in
its exercise, and sadly restricted in the material on which it
has to work. The primary abstractions of the blind from
birth will be less perfect than those of other children, the
great class of elements from visual objects being deficient;
but when they come to the second and more important class
of abstractions; when from general qualities of material objects
they pass on to the ideas compounded from these, their
disadvantages disappear at each remove; till, when intellectual
and moral subjects open before them, they may be
considered almost on equal terms with the generality of
mankind. These intellectual and moral ideas, formed gradually
out of lower abstractions, are continually corrected,
modified, and enlarged by intercourse with the common run
of minds, alternating with self-communion. This intercourse
is peculiarly prized by the blind, from their being precluded
from solitary employments and amusements; and the same
preclusion impels them to an unusual degree of self-communion;
so that the blind from birth are found to be, when
well educated, disposed to be abstract in their modes of
thought, literal in their methods of expression, and earnest
and industrious in the pursuit of their objects. Their deficiencies
are in general activity, in cheerfulness, and in individual
attachments.</p>

<p>The case of the deaf from birth is as precisely opposite
as can be imagined, and much less favourable. They labour
under an equal privation of elementary experience;
and, in addition, under an almost total absence of the means
of forming correct abstractions of the most important kinds.
Children in general learn far less of the most essential
things by express teaching than by what comes to them in
the course of daily life. Their wrong ideas are corrected,
their partial abstractions are rectified and enriched by the
incessant unconscious action of other minds upon theirs.
Of this kind of discipline the deaf-mute is deprived, and the
privation seems to be fatal to a healthy intellectual and moral
growth. He is taught expressly what he knows of intellectual
and moral growth. He is taught expressly what he
knows of intellectual and moral affairs; of memory, imagination,
science, and sagacity; of justice, fortitude, emotion,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span>
and conscience. And this through imperfect means of expression.
Children, in general, learn these things unconsciously
better than they learn anything by the most complete
express teaching. So that we find that the deaf-mute
is ready at defining what he little understands, while the
ordinary child feelingly understands what he cannot define.
This power of definition comes of express teaching, but by
no means implies full understanding. Its ample use by the
deaf and dumb has led to much of the error which exists
respecting their degree of enlightenment. They are naturally
imitative, from everything being conveyed to them by
action passing before the eye; and those who observe them
can scarcely avoid the deception of concluding that the imitative
action, when spontaneous, arises from the same state
of mind which prompted the original action. It is surprising
how long this delusion may continue. The most watchful
person may live in the same house with a deaf-mute for
weeks and months, conversing on a plain subject from time
to time, with every conviction of understanding and being
understood, and find at length a blank ignorance, or an
astounding amount of mistake existing in the mind of his
dumb companion, while the language had been fluent and
correct, and every appearance of doubt and hesitation excluded.
There need be no conceit and no hypocrisy all this
time in the mind of the deaf-mute. He believes himself in
the same state of mind with those who say the same thing,
and has no comprehension that that which is to him literal
is to them a symbol. While nothing can be easier than to
conduct the religious education of the blind, since all the attributes
of Deity are exercised towards them, in inferior degrees,
by human invisible beings, it is difficult to ascertain
what is gained by deaf-mutes under a process of instruction
in religion. No instance has been known, I understand, of
a deaf-mute having an idea of God prior to instruction. For
a long time, at least, the conception is low, the idea pictorial;
and, if it ceases to be so, the teacher cannot confidently
pronounce upon it; the common language of religion being
as easily accommodated by superficial minds to their own
conceptions, as adopted by minds which mean by it something
far higher and deeper. A pupil at Paris, who was
considered to have been effectually instructed in the first
principles of religion, was discovered, after a lapse of years,
to have understood that God was a venerable old man living
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span>
in the clouds; that the Holy Spirit was a dove surrounded
with light; and that the devil was a monster dwelling in a
deep place. Life, with its truths conveyed under appearances,
is to them what German and other allegorical stories
are to little children. They perceive and talk glibly about
the pictorial part, innocently supposing it the whole; while
they are as innocently supposed, by unpractised observers,
to perceive the philosophical truth conveyed in the picture.</p>

<p>It is often said that, if the blind have the advantage of
communication with other minds by conversation, the deaf
have it by books. This is true; but, alas! to books must
be brought the power of understanding them. The grand
disadvantage of the deaf is sustained antecedently to the use
of books; and, though they gain much knowledge of facts
and other advantages by reading, books have no power to
remedy the original faulty generalization by which the minds
of deaf-mutes are kept narrow and superficial. If a remedy
be ever found, it seems as if it must be by rendering their
intercourse by the finger-alphabet and writing much more
early than it is, and as nearly as possible general. If it
could be general, and take place as early as speech usually
does, they would still be deprived, not only of all inarticulate
sounds and the instruction which they bring, but of the immense
amount of teaching which comes through the niceties
of spoken language, and of all that is obtained by hearing
conversation between others; but, still, the change from almost
total exclusion, or from intercourse with no minds
but those suffering under the same privation, and those of
three or four teachers, to communion with a variety of the
common run of persons, would be so beneficial that it is
scarcely possible to anticipate its results. But the finger-alphabet
is not yet practised, or likely to be practised beyond
the sufferers themselves and their teachers and families;
and before a deaf and dumb child can be taught reading
and writing, the mischief to his mind is done.</p>

<p>As for the general intellectual and moral characteristics
of deaf-mutes, they are precisely what good reasoners would
anticipate. The wisest of the class have some originality
of thought, and most have much originality of combination.
They are active, ingenious, ardent, impressible, and strongly
affectionate towards individuals; but they are superficial,
capricious, passionate, selfish, and vain. They are like a
coterie of children, somewhat spoiled by self-importance,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span>
and prejudiced and jealous with regard to the world in whose
intercourses they do not share. So far from their feeling
ashamed of their singularity, generally speaking, they look
down upon people who are not of their coterie. It is well
known that deaf and dumb parents sometimes show sorrow
that their children can hear and speak, not so much from a
selfish fear of alienation, as from an idea that they themselves
are somehow a privileged class. The delight of
mutes in a school is to establish a sign-language which their
teachers cannot understand, and they keep up a strong <i>esprit
de corps</i>. This is maintained, among other means, by a
copious indulgence in ridicule. Their very designations of
individuals are derived from personal peculiarities, the remembrance
of which is never lost. If any visiter folds his
arms, sneezes, wears a wig, has lost a tooth, or, as in the
case of Spurzheim, puts his hand up for a moment to shade
his eyes from the sun, the mark becomes his designation
for ever.</p>

<p>Much has been said and written about whether people
always think in words. Travellers in a foreign country are
surprised to find how soon and constantly they detect themselves
thinking in the language of that country. Degerando
took pains to ascertain how deaf-mutes think. The uninstructed
can, of course, know nothing of words. It seems
that their thoughts are few, and that they consist of the images
of visual objects passing merely in the order of memory,
<i>i. e.</i>, in the order in which they are presented. As
soon as the pupils become acquainted with language, and
with manual signs of abstract ideas, they use these signs as
we do words. Degerando clearly ascertained that they use
gesticulation in their private meditations; a remarkable fact.</p>

<p>The first efforts towards erecting an institution for the education
of the deaf and dumb in America were made in 1815,
at Hartford, Connecticut. This institution, called the American
Asylum, from its having been aided by the general
government, has always enjoyed a high reputation. I lament
that I was prevented seeing it by being kept from
Hartford by bad weather. The Pennsylvania Institution
followed in 1821; and the New-York Asylum, opened in
1818, began to answer the hopes of its founders only in
1830. These two I visited. There are two or three
smaller schools in different parts of the Union, and there
must yet be many more before the benevolent solicitude of
society will be satisfied.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span></p>

<p>The number of deaf-mutes in Pennsylvania was, at the
period of the last census, seven hundred and thirty; six
hundred and ninety-four being whites, and thirty-six persons
of colour. As usual, it is discovered on inquiry that, in a
large majority of cases, the hearing was lost in childhood,
and not deficient from birth; so that it is to the medical profession
that we must look for a diminution of this class of
unfortunates. The number of pupils in the Institution in
1833 was seventy-four, thirty-seven of each sex; and of
deaf-mute assistants six. The buildings, gardens, and arrangements
are admirable, and the pupils look lively and
healthy.</p>

<p>They went through some of their school exercises in the
ordinary manner for our benefit. Many of them were unintelligible
to us, of course; but when they turned to their large
slates, we could understand what they were about. A
teacher told a class of them, by signs, a story of a Chinese
who had fish in his pond, and who summoned the fish by
ringing a bell, and then fed them by scattering rice. All
told it differently as regarded the minor particulars, and it
was evident that they did not understand the connexion of
the bell with the story. One wrote that the fishes came at
the <i>trembling</i> of the bell; but the main circumstances were
otherwise correct. They all understood that the fishes got
the rice. When they were called upon to write what <i>smooth</i>
meant, and to describe what things were smooth, they instanced
marble, the sky, the ocean, and <i>eloquence</i>. This
was not satisfactory; the generalization was imperfect, and
the word eloquence meaningless to them. Nor did they
succeed much better in introducing certain phrases, such as
"on account of," "at the head of," into sentences; but one
showed that he knew that the president was at the head of
the United States. Then the word "glorious" was given,
and their bits of chalk began to work with great rapidity.
One youth thought that a woman governing the United
States would be glorious; and others declared Lord Brougham
to be glorious. The word "cow" was given; and out
of a great number of exercises, there was not one which
mentioned milk. Milk seemed almost the only idea which
a cow did not call up. The ideas appeared so arbitrarily
connected as to put all our associations at fault. One exercise
was very copious. The writer imagined a cow amid
woods and a river, and a barn, whence the thought, by some
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span>
imperceptible link, fastened upon Queen Elizabeth's dress,
which was glorious, as was her wisdom; and this, of course,
brought in Lord Brougham again. He is the favourite hero
of this institution. Prior to our visit, a youth of sixteen,
who had been under instruction less than four years, was
desired to prepare a composition, when he presented the
following</p>

<div style="text-align: center;">FABLE.</div>

<p>"Lord Chancellor Brougham remains in the city of London.
He is the most honourable man in England, for his
mind is very strong, excellent, and sharp. I am aware that
I am beneath Brougham in great wisdom and influence. It
afforded me great pleasure to receive a letter from Brougham,
and I read in it that he wanted me to pay a visit to him
with astonishment. Soon after I came to the conclusion that
I would go to London and visit Brougham. I prepared all
my neat clothes and some other things in my large trunk.
After my preparation I shook hands with all my relations
and friends living in the town of C., and they looked
much distressed, for they thought that I would be shipwrecked
and eaten by a large and strong fish. But I said
to them, I hoped that I should reach London safely, and that
I should return to the United States safely. They said yes
with great willingness, and they told me that I must go and
see them again whenever I should return from London to
the United States. I sailed in a large ship and saw many
passengers, with whom I talked with much pleasure, that I
might get much advantage of improvement. I slept in the
comfortable cabin, and it was agreeable to me to stay in it.
I saw the waves very white with great wonder, and I was
astonished at the great noise of the storm, which was so
gloomy that I could not endure the tempest of it. I perceived
the country of England, and I hoped I would reach
there in great safety. Many passengers were much pleased
to arrive at the country. I met Brougham unexpectedly in
the street, and he went with me to his beautiful house, and
I talked with him for a long time. He asked me to tarry
with him several months, because he wished to converse
with me about the affairs of the Institution, and the pupils,
and teachers. He said that he loved all the pupils, because
he pitied those who were deaf and dumb, so that he wished
that all of the pupils could go to his house and be at the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span>
large feast. I walked with Brougham through the different
streets of London, and I saw many interesting curiosities
and excellent houses. I had the pleasure of seeing William
IV. in the palace by the favour of Brougham, and he was
delighted to talk with me for a long time. At length
Brougham parted with me with great regret. I reached the
United States, and I found myself very healthy. I went to
my relations and friends again, and they were much pleased
to talk with me about my adventures, the matter of London,
and the character of Lord Chancellor Henry Brougham.
I was struck with vast wonder at the city of London. I
have made my composition of the fable of Brougham."</p>

<p>A pretty little girl told the pupils a humorous story by
signs; and her action was so eloquent that, with little help
from the teacher, we were able to make it all out. It was
a story of a sailor and his bargain of caps; and the child
showed a knowledge of what goes on on board a ship which
we should scarcely have expected from her. Her imitation
of heaving the lead, of climbing the rigging, and of exchanging
jokes upon deck, was capital. It was an interesting
thing to see the eyes of all her companions fixed on her, and
the bursts of laughter with which they greeted the points of
the story.</p>

<p>The apparatus-room is full of pretty things, and the diversity
of the appeals to the eye is wonderful. A paper sail
is enclosed in the receiver, from which the air is exhausted
in the view of the pupils. As they cannot hear the air
rushing back, the fluttering of this paper sail is made use of
to convey the fact to them. The natural sciences afford a
fine field of study for them, as far as they occasion the recognition
of particular facts. The present limited power of
generalization of the learners, of course, prevents their
climbing to the heights of any science; but an immense
range of facts is laid open to them by studies of this nature,
in which they usually show a strong interest. The Philadelphia
pupils are lectured to by a deaf and dumb teacher,
who passes a happy life in the apparatus-room. He showed
us several mechanical contrivances of his own; among
the rest, a beautiful little locomotive engine, which ran on a
tiny railroad round two large rooms. The maker testified
infinite glee at the wonder and interest of a child who was
with us, who raced after the engine, round and round the
rooms, with a grave countenance, for as long as we could
stay.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span></p>

<p>In the girls' workroom there were rows of knitters, straw-platters,
and needle-women. The ingenuity they put into
their work is great. The nicety of the platting of dolls'
straw-bonnets cannot be surpassed; and I am in possession
of a pair of worsted gloves, double knitted, of the size of
my thumb-nail, of which every finger is perfect in its proportions.
Perhaps this may be the class of American society
destined to carry on the ingenuity of handiworks to
perfection, as the Shakers seem to be appointed to show
how far neatness can go. One little girl who was knitting
in the workroom is distinguished from the rest by being able
to speak. So the poor little thing understands the case.
She can speak two words, "George" and "brother," having
become deaf when she had learned this much of language.
She likes being asked to speak, and gives the two words in
a plaintive tone, much like the inarticulate cry of a young
animal.</p>

<p>I visited the New-York Institution in company with several
ladies, two of whom were deaf and dumb, and had been
pupils in the school. One of these had married a teacher,
and had been left a widow, with three children, the year before.
She was a most vivacious personage, and evidently a
favourite among the pupils. The asylum is a large building,
standing on high ground, and with great advantages of space
about it. It contains 140 out of the 1066 deaf-mutes existing
in the State of New-York. The pupils are received up
to the age of 25 years; and there was one of 27 from North
Carolina, who was making great progress. The girls' dormitory,
containing 80 beds, was light, airy, and beautifully
neat; the small philosophical apparatus, museum, and library
were in fine order, and a general air of cheerfulness pervaded
the institution.</p>

<p>I had had frequent doubts whether nearly all the pupils
in these asylums were perfectly deaf: on this occasion I
caused my trumpet to be tried on several, and found that
some could hear, and some imitate the sounds conveyed
through it. The teachers rather discouraged the trial, and
put away all suggestions about the use of these means of
getting at the minds of their pupils. They were quite sure
that the manual methods of teaching were the only ones by
which their charge can profit. It is natural that, wedded as
they are to the methods which to a certain extent succeed in
the asylum, they should not like any interference with these;
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span>
but surely the guardians of these institutions should see that,
while so few out of the large number of deaf-mutes can be
provided with education, those few should be of a class to
whom no other means are open. The totally deaf should
be first served, in all reason and humanity; and those who
have any hearing at all should have the full advantage of the
remains of the sense. The most meager instruction by oral
language is worth far more than the fullest that can be given
by signs and the finger alphabet. In their case the two
should be united where it is possible; but especially the ear
should be made use of as long as there are any instruments
by which it may be reached. My own belief is that there
are, in these institutions and out of them, many who have
been condemned to the condition of mutes who have hearing
enough to furnish them with speech, imperfect to the listener,
perhaps, but inestimable as an instrument of communication,
and of accuracy and enlargement of thought. I would
strongly urge upon the benevolent under whose notice the
cases of deaf young children may come, that they should
try experiments with every eartrumpet that has been invented
before they conclude that the children are perfectly
deaf, and must, therefore, be dumb.</p>

<p>I may mention here that I some time ago discovered, by
the merest accident, that I could perfectly hear the softest
notes of a musical snuffbox by putting it on my head. The
effect was tremendous, at first intolerably delicious. It immediately
struck me that this might be a resource in the case
of deaf-mutes. If the deafness of any was of a kind which
would admit of the establishment of means of hearing anything,
there was no saying how far the discovery might be
improved. The causes and kinds of deafness vary almost
as the subjects; and there might be no few who could hear
as I did, and with whom some kind of audible communication
might be established. I wrote to New-York, and begged
two of my friends to go out to the asylum with musical
boxes, and try the effect. Their report was that they believed
none of the pupils could hear at all by this method.
But I am not yet fully satisfied. So few of them have the
slightest idea of what hearing is, they show that their notion
is so wide of the mark, and they are so inexpert at giving an
account of their feelings, that I have not given up the matter
yet. At any rate, no harm can be done by offering the suggestion
to any who may be disposed to take it up.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span>
We went to the New-York asylum without notice, and
walked immediately into one of the classrooms, where the
pupils were at a historical lesson, each standing before a
slate as tall as himself. In a minute, while the five ladies of
our party were taking their seats, an archlooking lad wrote
down in the middle of his lesson about Richard I. and John,
that I was there, describing me as the one next the lady in
green, and giving a short account of me for the edification of
his companions. It was almost instantly rubbed out, before
it was supposed we had seen it. We could not make out
by what means he knew me.</p>

<p>The lessons here were no more satisfactory than elsewhere
as to any enlargement or accuracy of thought in the
pupils. I doubt whether the means of reaching their wants
have yet been discovered, for nothing can exceed the diligence
and zeal with which the means in use are applied.
Their repetition of what they had been taught was so far superior
to what they could bring out of their own minds, as
to convince us that the reproduction was little more than an
act of memory. They told us the history of Richard I. and
John with tolerable accuracy; but they gave us the strangest
accounts of the seasons of the year that ever were seen. A
just idea occurred, however, here and there. A boy mentioned
swimming as a seasonable pleasure; and others
fruits; and one girl instanced "convenience of studying"
as an advantage of cool weather. In geography, but little
if any progress had been made; and the arithmetic was not
much more promising. Everything that can be done is
zealously done, but that all is very little. The teachers declare
that the greatest difficulty is with the tempers of their
pupils. They are suspicious and jealous; and when they
once get a wrong idea, and go into a passion upon it, there
is no removing it; no possibility of explanation remains.
They are strongly affectionate, however, towards individuals,
and, as we could bear witness, very sudden in their attachments.
We doubtless owed much to having two deaf
and dumb ladies in our party; but, when we went away,
they crowded round us to shake hands again and again, and
waved their hats and kissed their hands from the windows
and doors as long as we remained in sight.</p>

<p>Among the exercises in composition which are selected
for the annual report of this institution, there is one which is
no mere recollection of something read or told, but an actual
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span>
account of a piece of personal experience; and so far superior
to what one usually sees from the pens of deaf-mutes,
that I am tempted to give a portion of it. It is an account,
by a lad of fifteen, of a journey to Niagara Falls.</p>

<p>"And soon we went into the steamboat. The steamboat
stayed on the shore for a long time. Soon the boat left it and
sailed away over the Lake Ontario. We were happy to
view the lake, and we stayed in the boat all night. The
next morning we arrived at Lewistown, and after breakfast
we entered one of the stages for Niagara Falls. About
12 o'clock we arrived at Niagara Falls and entered Mr. B.'s
uncle's house. I was soon introduced to Mr. B.'s uncle,
aunt, and cousins by himself. After dinner we left the house
of his uncle for the purpose of visiting the falls, which belong
to his uncles, Judge and General Porter, and we crossed
the rapids; but we stopped at a part of the bridge and viewed
the rapids with a feeling of interest and curiosity. The
rapids appeared to us beautiful, and violent, and quarrelsome.
Soon we left it, and went to one of the islands to
see the falls. When we arrived in a portion situated near
the falls, we felt admiration and interest, and went near the
river and saw the falls. We felt much wonder. The falls
seemed to us angry and beautiful. We stayed in the part
near the falls for a long time, and felt amazement. We
went into the staircase and descended, and we were very tired
of descending in it, and we went to the rock to view the falls.
The falls are about one hundred and sixty feet in height.
We saw the beautiful rainbow of red, green, blue, and yellow
colours. One day we went to the river and crossed it by
means of a ferryboat, and left it. We went to the Canada
side, and arrived at Table Rock. Mr. B. dressed himself
in some old coarse clothes, and then he descended and went
under the sheet of the falls. I felt earnest and anxious to
go into it. In a few minutes he returned to me, and soon
we went back to the river, and crossed the river, and came
home, and soon sat down and dined. We went to the island
and found some plant whose name I did not know. I had
never seen it. When we were on the United States side we
could see Canada. One day we again went to the ferry to
cross the river, and went to Table Rock. We dressed ourselves
in some old clothes, and entered under the falls with
curiosity and wonder. We stayed at Niagara Falls a week.
I wonder how the water of the Niagara River never is exhausted."
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span></p>

<p>That so much power of expression as this can be attained
is, to those who reflect what grammar is, and what a variety
of operations is required in putting it to use at all, a great
encouragement to persevere in investigating the minds of
the deaf and dumb, and in teaching them, in the hope that
means may at length be found of so enlarging their intercourses
at an early age as to create more to be expressed,
as well as to improve the mode of expression. Those who
may aid in such a conquest over difficulty will be great benefactors
to mankind. Greater still will be the physicians
who shall succeed in guarding the organ of hearing from
early accident and decay. It should not be forgotten by
physicians or parents that, in the great majority of cases,
the infirmity of deaf-mutes is not from birth.</p>

<p>The education of the blind is a far more cheering subject
than that of the deaf and dumb. The experiments
which have been made in regard to it are so splendid, and
their success so complete, that it almost seems as if little
improvement remained to be achieved. It appears doubtful
whether the education of the blind has ever been carried on
so far as at present in the United States; and there is one
set of particulars, at least, in which we should do well to
learn from the new country.</p>

<p>I am grieved to find in England, among some who ought
to inform themselves fully on the subject, a strong prejudice
against the discovery by which the blind are enabled to read,
for their own instruction and amusement. The method of
printing for the blind, with raised and sharp types, on paper
thicker and more wetted than in the ordinary process of
printing, is put to full and successful use at the fine institution
at Boston. Having seen the printing and the books,
heard the public readings, and watched the private studies
of the blind, all the objections brought to the plan by those
who have not seen its operation appear to me more trifling
than I can express.</p>

<p>The pupils do the greater part of the printing; the laying
on the sheets, working off the impressions, &amp;c. By means
of recent improvements, the bulk of the books (one great objection)
has been diminished two thirds; the type remaining
so palpable that new pupils learn to read with ease in a few
weeks. Of course, the expense is lessened with the bulk;
and a further reduction may be looked for as improvement
advances and the demand increases. Even now the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span>
expense is not great enough to be an objection in the way of
materially aiding so small a class as the blind.</p>

<p>I have in my possession the alphabet, the Lord's prayer,
some hymns, and a volume on grammar, printed for the use
of the blind; and six sets of all that has been printed at the
Boston press, with the exception of the Testament, are on
the way to me.<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> It
is my wish to disperse this precious
literature where it may have the fairest trial; and I shall be
happy to receive any aid in the distribution which the active
friends of the blind may be disposed to afford.</p>

<p>The common letters are used, and not any abbreviated
language. I think this is wise; for thus the large class of
persons who become blind after having been able to read are
suited at once; and it seems desirable to make as little difference
as possible in the instrument of communication used
by the blind and the seeing. It appears probable that, before
any very long time, all valuable literature may be put
into the hands of the blind; and the preparation will take
place with much more ease if the common alphabet be used,
than if works have to be translated into a set of arbitrary
signs. It is easy for a blind person, previously able to read,
to learn the use of the raised printing. Even adults, whose
fingers' ends are none of the most promising, soon achieve
the accomplishment. An experiment has been made on a
poor washerwoman with the specimens I brought over.
She had lost her sight eight years; but she now reads, and
is daily looking for a new supply of literature from Boston,
which a kind friend has ordered for her.</p>

<p>It will scarcely be believed that the objection to this exercise
which is most strongly insisted on is, that it is far better
for the blind to be read to than that they should read to
themselves. It seems to me that this might just as well be
said about persons who see; that it would save time for one
member only of a family to read, while the others might
thus be saved the trouble of learning their letters. Let the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span>
blind be read to as much as any benevolent person pleases;
but why should they not also be allowed the privilege of private
study? Private reading is of far more value and interest
to them than to persons who have more diversified occupations
in their power. None could start this objection who
had seen, as I have, the blind at their private studies. Instead
of poring over a book held in the hand, as others do,
they lay their volume on the desk before them, lightly touch
the lines with one finger of the right hand, followed by one
finger of the left, and, with face upturned to the ceiling,
show in their varying countenances the emotions stirred up
by what they are reading. A frequent passing smile, an occasional
laugh, or an animated expression of grave interest
passes over the face, while the touch is exploring the meaning
which it was till lately thought could enter only through the
eye or the ear. They may be seen going back to the beginning
of a passage which interests them, reading it three or
four times over, dwelling upon it as we do upon the beauties
of our favourite authors, and thus deriving a benefit which
cannot be communicated by public reading.</p>

<p>One simple question seems to set this matter in its true
light. If we were to become blind to-morrow, should we
prefer depending on being read to, or having, in addition to
this privilege, a library which we could read for ourselves?</p>

<p>As to the speed with which the blind become able to read,
those whom I heard read aloud about as fast as the better
sort of readers in a Lancasterian school; with, perhaps, the
interval of a second between the longer words, and perfect
readiness about the commonest little words.</p>

<p>Alphabetical printing is far from being the only use the
Boston press is put to. The arithmetical, geometrical, and
musical signs are as easily prepared; and there is an atlas
which far surpasses any illustrations of geography previously
devised. The maps made in Europe are very expensive,
and exceedingly troublesome to prepare, the boundaries of
sea and land being represented by strings glued on to the
lines of a common map, pasted on a board. The American
maps are embossed; the land being raised, and the water
depressed; one species of raised mark being used for
mountains, another for towns, another for boundaries; the
degrees being marked by figures in the margin, and the most
important names in the same print with their books. These
maps are really elegant in appearance, and seem to serve
all purposes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span></p>

<p>"Do you think," said I, to a little boy in the Blind School
at Philadelphia, "that you could show me on this large map
where I have been travelling in the United States?"</p>

<p>"I could, if you'd tell me where you have been," replied he.</p>

<p>"Well, I will tell you my whole journey, and you shall
show my friends here where I have been."</p>

<p>The little fellow did not make a single mistake. Up
rivers, over mountains, across boundaries, round cataracts,
along lakes, straight up to towns went his delicate fingers,
as unerringly as our eyes. This <i>is</i> a triumph. It brings
out the love of the blind pupils for geography; and with this,
the proof that there are classes of ideas which we are ignorant
or heedless of, and which yield a benefit and enjoyment
which we can little understand, to those to whom they serve
instead of visual ideas. What is our notion of a map and of
the study of geography, putting visual ideas out of the question?
The inquiry reminds one of Saunderson's reply from
his deathbed to the conversation of a clergyman who was
plying the blind philosopher with the common arguments in
Natural Theology: "You would fain have me allow the
force of your arguments, drawn from the wonders of the
visible creation; but may it not be that they only seem to
you wonderful? for you and other men have always been
wondering how I could accomplish many things which seem
to me perfectly simple."</p>

<p>The best friends and most experienced teachers of the
blind lay down, as their first principle in the education of
their charge, that the blind are to be treated in all possible
respects like other people; and these respects are far more
numerous than the inexperienced would suppose. One of
the hardest circumstances in the lot of a blind child is that
his spirits are needlessly depressed, and his habits made
needlessly dependant. From his birth, or from the period
of his loss of sight, he never finds himself addressed in the
every-day human voice. He hears words of pity from
strangers, uttered in tones of hesitating compassion; and
there is a something in the voices of his parents when they
speak to him which is different from their tone towards their
other children. Everything is done for him. He is dressed,
he is fed, he is guided. If he attempts to walk alone, some
one removes every impediment which lies in his way. A
worse evil than even helplessness arises out of this method
of treatment. The spirits and temper are injured. The
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span>
child is depressed when some one is not amusing him, and
sinks into apathy when left to himself. If there is the
slightest intermission or abatement of tenderness in the tone
in which he is addressed, he is hurt. If he thinks himself
neglected for a moment, he broods over the fancied injury,
and in his darkness and silence nourishes bad passions.
The experienced students of the case of the blind hint at
worse consequences still arising from this pernicious indulgence
of the blind at home. Unless the mind be fully and
independently exercised, and unless the blind be drawn off
from the contemplation of himself as an isolated and unfortunate,
if not injured being, the animal nature becomes too
strong for control, and some species of sensual vice finishes
the destruction which ill-judged indulgence began.</p>

<p>In the New-England Institution at Boston, the pupils are
treated, from the time of their entrance, like human beings
who come to be educated. All there are on an equality, except
a very few of the people about the house. The teachers
are blind, and so all have to live on together on the same
terms. It is a community of persons with four senses. It is
here seen at once how inexpressibly absurd it is to be spending
time and wasting energy in bemoaning the absence of a
fifth power, while there are four existing to made use of.
The universe is around them to be studied, and life is before
them to be conquered; and here they may be set vigorously
on their way. At first the pupils bitterly feel the want of
the caressing and pampering they have been used to at home.
Some few, who have come in too late, are found to have
been irretrievably incapacitated by it; but almost all revive
in a surprisingly short time, and experience so much enjoyment
from their newly-acquired independence, their sense of
safety, their power of occupation, the cessation of all pity
and repining, and the novel feeling of equality with those
about them, that they declare themselves to have entered
upon a new life. Many drop expressions resembling that
of one of the pupils, who declared that she never thought before
that it was a happy thing to live.</p>

<p>Their zeal about their occupations appears remarkable to
those who do not reflect that holyday is no pleasure to the
blind, and idleness a real punishment, as it is the one thing
of which they have had too much all their lives. They are
eager to be busy from morning till night; and the care of
their teachers is to change their employments frequently, as
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span>
there is but little suspension of work. They have a playground,
with swings and other means of exercise; but one
of the greatest difficulties in the management is to cause
these to be made a proper use of. The blind are commonly
indisposed to exercise; and in the New-England Institution
little is done in this way, though the pupils are shut out into
the open air once, and even twice a day in summer, the
house doors actually closed against them. They sit down
in groups and talk, or bask in some sunny corner of the
grounds, hurrying back at the first signal to their books,
their music, their mat and basket making, sewing, and travels
on the map.</p>

<p>Another great difficulty is to teach them a good carriage
and manners. Blind children usually fall into a set of disagreeable
habits while other children are learning to look
about them. They wag their heads, roll their eyes, twitch
their elbows, and keep their bodies in a perpetual seesaw
as often as they are left to themselves; and it is surprising
how much time and vigilance are required to make them sit,
stand, and walk like other people. As all directions to this
purpose must appear to them purely arbitrary, their faith in
their instructers has to be drawn upon to secure their obedience
in these particulars, and the work to be done is to
break the habits of a life; so that it really seems easier to
them to learn a science or a language than to hold up
their heads and sit still on their chairs. The manners
of the blind usually show a great bashfulness on the surface
of a prodigious vanity. This is chiefly the fault
of the seeing with whom they have intercourse. If their
compassionate visiters would suppress all tears and sighs,
make an effort to forget all about the sense that is absent,
and treat them, on the ground of the other four, as they
would treat all other pupils in any other school, the demeanour
of the blind would nearly cease to be peculiar.
Their manners are rectified easily enough by the only
method which can ever avail for the cure of bad manners;
by cultivating their kindly feelings and their self-respect,
and by accustoming them to good society.</p>

<p>The studies at the institution at Boston are appointed according
to the principles laid down in the valuable report of
the gentleman, Dr. Howe, who studied the case of the blind
in Europe, and who is now at the head of the establishment
under our notice. Among other principles is this, "that
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span>
the blind can attain as much excellence in mathematical,
geographical, astronomical, and other sciences, as many seeing
persons; and that he can become as good a teacher of
music, language, mathematics, and other sciences; all this
and yet more can he do." The ambition, from the very beginning
of the enterprise, was far higher than that of rescuing
a few hundreds of blind persons from pauperism and dependant
habits; it was proposed to try how noble a company
of beings the blind might be made, and thus to do justice to
the individuals under treatment, and to lift up the whole
class of the sightless out of a state of depression into one of
high honour, activity, and cheerfulness. The story, besides
being a pleasant one, is a fair illustration of American
charity in its principles and in its methods, and I will therefore
give it in brief. I do not believe there exists in American
literature any work breathing a more exhilarating spirit
of hopefulness, a finer tone of meek triumph, than the Reports
of the New-England Institution for the Education of
the Blind.</p>

<p>It appears to be only about five-and-forty years since the
education of the blind was first undertaken; and it is much
more recently that any just idea has been formed by anybody
of the actual number of the blind. Even now few
are aware how numerous they are. The born-blind are far
fewer than those who lose their sight in infancy. Taken
together, the numbers are now declared to be, in Egypt,
one blind to every three hundred; in Middle Europe, one to
every eight hundred; in North Europe, one in a thousand.
In the United States, the number of blind is supposed to be
eight thousand at the very least.</p>

<p>The announcement of this fact caused a great sensation
in New-England. The good folks there who had been accustomed
to bestow their kindness each on some sightless
old man or woman, or some petted blind child in his own
village, had not thought of comparing notes to ascertain how
many such cases there were, and were quite unaware of the
numbers who in towns sit wearing their cheerless lives away
by their relations' firesides; no immediate stimulus of want
sending them forth into the notice of the rich and the philanthropic.</p>

<p>The first step was the passing of an act by the legislature
of Massachusetts, incorporating trustees of the New-England
Asylum for the Blind. These trustees sent Dr. Howe to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span>
Europe to study the similar institutions there, and bring back
the necessary teachers and apparatus. Dr. Howe's report
on his return is extremely interesting. He brought over a
blind teacher from Paris, who, besides being skilled in the
art of communicating knowledge, is learned in the classics,
history, and mathematics. With him came a blind mechanic
from Edinburgh, who instructs the pupils in the different
kinds of manufacture, on which many of them depend for a
subsistence.</p>

<p>Six young persons were taken at random from different
parts of the State of Massachusetts, and put under tuition.
They were between the ages of six and twenty years. At
the end of five months all these six could read correctly by the
touch; had proceeded farther in arithmetic than seeing children
usually do in the same time; knew more of geography;
had made considerable attainment in music; and offered for
sale moccasins and doormats of as good quality and appearance
as any sold in the shops of Boston. The legislature
testified its satisfaction by voting an annual appropriation of
six thousand dollars to the institution, on condition of its
boarding and educating, free of cost, twenty poor blind persons
from the State of Massachusetts.</p>

<p>The public was no less delighted. Every one began to
inquire what he could do. Money was given, objects were
sought out; but some rallying-point for all the effort excited
was wanted. This was soon supplied. A wealthy citizen
of Boston, Colonel Perkins, offered his mansion and outbuildings
in Pearl-street as a residence for the pupils, if,
within a given time, funds were raised to support the establishment.
This act of munificence fully answered the purposes
of the generous citizen who performed it. Within
one month upward of fifty thousand dollars were contributed
and placed to the credit of the institution. The legislatures
of three other New-England states have made appropriations
for the object; an estate joining Colonel Perkins's
has been purchased and thrown into a playground; the
establishment contains five officers and about fifty pupils,
and it is in contemplation to increase the accommodations
so as to admit more. The funds are ample, and the means
of instruction of a very superior kind.</p>

<p>The business of the house is carried on by the pupils as
far as possible, and mechanical arts are taught with care and
diligence; but the rule of the establishment is to improve
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span>
the mental resources of the pupils to the utmost. Those
who cannot do better are enabled to earn their livelihood by
the making of mats, baskets, and mattresses; but a higher
destination is prepared for all who show ability to become
organists of churches, and teachers of languages and science.
I saw some of the pupils writing, some sewing, some
practising music, some reading. I was struck with an expression
of sadness in many of their faces, and with a listlessness
of manner in some; but I am aware that, owing to
the illness of the director and some other circumstances, I
saw the establishment to great disadvantage. I believe,
however, that not a few of its best friends, among whom
may perchance be included some of its managers themselves,
would like to see more mirthful exercises and readings
introduced in the place of some of the exclusively religious
contemplations offered to the pupils. The best homage
which the guardians of the blind could offer to Him
whose blessing they invoke is in the thoroughly exercised
minds of their charge; minds strong in power, gay in innocence,
and joyous in gratitude.</p>

<p>The institution which I had the best means of observing,
and which interested me more than any charitable establishment
in America, was the Philadelphia Asylum for the
Blind. It was humble in its arrangements and numbers
when I first went, but before I left the country it seemed in
a fair way to flourish. It is impossible to overrate the merits
of Mr. Friedlander, its principal, in regard to it. The
difficulties with which he had to struggle, from confined
space, deficient apparatus, and other inconveniences resulting
from narrow means, would have deterred almost any
one else from undertaking anything till better aid could be
provided. But he was cheered by the light which beamed
out daily more brightly from the faces of his little flock of
pupils, and supported by the intellectual power which they
manifested from period to period of their course. Of the
eleven he found, to his delight, that no fewer than "six
were endowed with remarkable intellectual faculties, and
three with good ones; while, with regard to the remaining
two, the development of their minds might still be expected."
A larger dwelling was next engaged; the legislature showed
an interest in the institution, and I have no doubt it is by
this time flourishing.</p>

<p>Mr. Friedlander and the matron, Miss Nicholls, had
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span>
succeeded in rectifying the carriage and manners of nearly all
their pupils. As to their studies, the aim is as high as in
the New-England Institution, and will, no doubt, be equally
successful. The music was admirable, except for the pronunciation
of words in the singing. It was a great pleasure
to me to go and hear their musical exercises, they formed so
good a band of instrumentalists, and sang so well. There
were horns, flutes, violins, and the piano. As for humbler
matters, besides the ornamental works of the girls, the
fringes, braids, lampstands, &amp;c., I saw a frock made by
one of them during the leisure hours of one week. The
work was excellent, the gathers of the skirt being stocked
into the waistband as evenly and regularly as by a common
mantuamaker. The girls' hair was dressed like that of
other young ladies, only scarcely a hair was out of its place;
and each blind girl dresses her own hair. They peel potatoes
with the utmost accuracy, and as quickly as others.
But, with all this care, their cultivation of mind is most attended
to. The girls stand as good an examination as the
boys in mental arithmetic, geography, and reading aloud.</p>

<p>Before I left Philadelphia the annual meeting of the public
in the Music Hall, to see the progress of Mr. Friedlander's
pupils, took place. I was requested to write the address to
be delivered by one of the blind in the name of the rest; and
now I found what the difficulty is to an inexperienced person,
of throwing one's self into the mind of a being in such
different circumstances, and uttering only what he might say
with truth. I now saw that the common run of hymns and
other compositions put into the mouths of the blind become
no less cant when uttered by them, than the generality of
the so-called religious tracts which are written for the poor.
The blind do not know what they miss in not receiving the
light of the sun; and they would never spontaneously lament
about it, nor would they naturally try to be submissive
and resigned about privations which they are only by inference
aware of. Their resignation should be about evils
whose pressure they actually feel. To a blind child it is a
greater pain to have a thorn in its foot than not to have eyes;
to a blind man it is a greater sorrow not to have got his temper
under control than to be shut out from the face of nature.
The joy of the sightless should, in the same manner,
be for the positive powers they hold and the achievements
they grasp, and not for what others call compensations for
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span>
what they do not miss. To bear all this in mind, and to
conceive one's thoughts accordingly; to root out of the expression
of thought every visual image, and substitute such,
derived from other senses, as may arise naturally from the
state of mind of the blind, is no easy task, as any one may
find who tries. It led me into a speculation on the vast
amount of empty words which the blind must swallow while
seeking from books their intellectual food. We are all apt
in reading to take in, as true and understood, a great deal
more than we verify and comprehend; but, in the intercourses
of the blind, what a tremendous proportion does the
unreal bear to the real which is offered them!</p>

<p>I saw at the Deaf and Dumb Asylum at Boston one of
those unhappy beings, the bare mention of whose case excites
painful feelings of compassion. I was told that a
young man who was deaf, dumb, and blind was on the premises,
and he was brought to us. Impossible as it was to
hold communication with him, we were all glad when, after
standing and wandering awkwardly about, he turned from
us and made his way out. He is not quite blind. He can
distinguish light from darkness, but cannot be taught by any
of the signs which are used with his deaf-mute companions.
His temper is violent, and there seems to be no way of increasing
his enjoyments. His favourite occupation is piling
wood, and we saw him doing this with some activity, mounted
on the woodpile.</p>

<p>It is now feared that the cases of this tremendous degree
of privation are not so few as has been hitherto supposed.
In a Memorial of the Genoa Deaf and Dumb Institution, it is
stated that there are seven such cases in the Sardinian
States on the mainland of Italy; and the probability is that
about the same proportion as in other kinds of infirmity exists
among other nations. Copious accounts have been
given of three sufferers of this class; and a fourth, Hannah
Lamb, who was accidentally burned to death in London at
the age of nine years, has been mentioned in print. The
three of whom we have been favoured with copious accounts
are James Mitchell, who is described to us by Dugald Stewart;
Victoria Morisseau, at Paris, by M. Bébian; and Julia
Brace, at Hartford (Connecticut), by Mrs. Sigourney. All
these have given evidence of some degree of intellectual activity,
and feeling of right and wrong; enough to constitute
a most affecting appeal to those who are too late to aid them,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span>
but who may possibly be the means of saving others from
falling into their state. The obligation lies chiefly on the
medical profession. Every enlightened member of that profession
laments that little is known about the diseases of the
ear and their treatment. Whenever this organ, with its liabilities,
becomes as well understood as that of sight, the
number of deaf-mutes will doubtless be much reduced, and
such cases as that of poor Julia Brace will probably disappear;
at least the chances of the occurrence of such will be
incalculably lessened.</p>

<p>The generosity of American society, already so active and
extensive, will continue to be exerted in behalf of sufferers
from the privation of the senses, till all who need it will be
comprehended in its care. No one doubts that the charity
will be done. The fear is lest the philosophy which should
enlighten and guide the charity should be wanting. Such
sufferers are apt to allure the observer, by means of his tenderest
sympathies, into the imaginative regions of philosophy.
Science and generosity equally demand that the allurement
should be resisted. If observers will put away all
mere imaginations respecting their charge; if they will cease
to approach them as superior beings in disguise, and look
upon them as a peculiar class of children more than ordinarily
ignorant, and ignorant in a remarkable direction, facts
may be learned relative to the formation of mind and the exercise
of intellect which may give cause to the race of ordinary
men to look upon their infirm brethren with gratitude
and love, as the medium through which new and great blessings
have been conferred. By a union of inquirers and experimenters,
by the speculative and practical cordially joining
to work out the cases of human beings with four senses,
the number might perhaps be speedily lessened of those
who, seeing, see not, and who, hearing, hear not nor understand.</p>
<br />
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="Nahant" id="Nahant"></a>NAHANT.</h2>

<div style="margin-left: 5em;">
"A breath of our free heaven and noble sires."</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="smcap">Hemans.</span><br />
</div>


<p class="p1">The whole coast of Massachusetts Bay is well worth the
study of the traveller. Nothing can be more unlike than the
aspect of the northern and southern extremities of the bay.
Of Cape Ann, the northern point, with its bold shores and
inexhaustible granite quarries, I have given some account in
another book.<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> Not
a ledge of rock is to be seen near Cape
Cod, the southern extremity; but, instead of it, a sand so
deep that travellers who have the choice of reaching it by
horse or carriage prefer going over the last twenty miles on
horseback; but then the sandhills are of so dazzling a whiteness
as to distress the eyes. The inhabitants are a private
race of fishermen and saltmen, dwelling in ground-floor
houses, which are set down among the sand ridges without
plan or order. Some communication is kept up between
them and a yet more secluded race of citizens, the inhabitants
of Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard, two islands which
lie south of the southern peninsula of the bay. I much regretted
that I had no opportunity of visiting these islands.
Some stories that are abroad about the simplicity of the natives
are enough to kindle the stranger's curiosity to see so
fresh a specimen of human nature. In Nantucket there is
not a tree, and scarcely a shrub. It is said that a fisherman's
son, on accompanying his father for the first time to
the mainland, saw a scrubby apple-tree. In great emotion,
he cried, "Oh father! look there! what a beautiful tree!
and what are those beautiful things on it? Are they lemons?"
It was not my fortune to see any citizen of the
United States who did not know an apple-tree at sight. It
must be highly instructive to take a trip from this remarkable
place across the bay to Nahant, in the month of August.</p>

<p>It was October when I visited Nahant, and all the gay
birds of the summer had flown. I was not sorry for this,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span>
for fine people may be seen just as well in places where
they are less in the way than on this rock. Nahant is a
promontory which stretches out into the bay a few miles
north of Boston; or it might rather be called two islands,
connected with each other and with the mainland by ridges
of sand and pebbles. The outermost of the islands is the
larger, and it measures rather above a mile and a half in
circumference. The whole promontory was bought, in the
seventeenth century, by a certain farmer Dexter, of an Indian
chief, Black Willy, for a suit of clothes. Probably the
one party was as far as the other from foreseeing what use
the place would be put to in the coming days. Nahant is
now the resort of the Boston gentry in the hot months.
Several of them have cottages on the promontory; and for
those who are brought by the indefatigable steamboat, there
is a stupendous hotel, the proportion of which to the place
it is built on is as a man-of-war would be riding in one of
the lovely Massachusetts ponds. Some middle-aged gentlemen
remember the time when there was only one house
on Nahant; and now there are balls in this hotel, where the
extreme of dress and other luxury is seen, while the beach
which connects the rock with the mainland is gay with hundreds
of carriages and equestrians on bright summer mornings.</p>

<p>This beach consists of gray sand, beaten so hard by the
action of the waves from the harbour on one side and the
bay on the other, that the wheels of carriages make no impression,
and the feet of horses resound as on the hardest
road. It is the most delightful place for a drive or a gallop
that can be imagined, except to the timorous, who may
chance to find their horses frightened when the waves are
boisterous on either hand at once. We entered upon it when
the water was nearly at its height, and the passage was narrow.
We had passed through the busy town of Lynn, and
left its many hundreds of shoemaking families at their work
behind us. We had passed many a field where the shoemaker,
turned farmer for the season, was manuring his land
with fishheads and offal; and now we burst into a region
where no sounds of labour were heard, few signs of vegetation
seen. We were alone with our own voices and the
dashing of the sea, which seemed likely to take us off our
feet.</p>

<p>When we reached Great Nahant, several picturesque
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span>
cottages of the gentry came into view. All had piazzas, and
several were adorned with bright creeping plants. No inhabitants
were visible. Some rows of miserable young
trees looked as if they were set up in order to be blown
down. Many attempts have been made to raise forest-trees,
but hitherto in vain. Some large willows grow in a partially
sheltered spot, and under these are the boarding-houses
of the place. The verdure is scanty, of course, and this is
not the kind of beauty to be looked for in Nahant. The
charms of the place are in the distant views, and among the
picturesque and intricate rocks.</p>

<p>The variety contained within the circuit of a mile and a
half is fully known only to the summer residents; but
we saw something of it. At one moment we were prying
into the recesses of the Swallows' Cave, listening to the
rumbling of the waves within it, making discoveries of
birds' nests, and looking up through its dark chasms to the
sky. At the next we caught a view, between two rising
grounds, of Boston, East Boston, and Chelsea, sitting afar
off upon the sunny waters. Here and there was a quiet
strip of beach, where we sat watching the rich crop of weed
swayed to and fro by the spreading and retreating of the
translucent waters; and then at intervals we came to where
the waves boil among the caverns, making a busy roar in
the stillest hour of the stillest day. Here all was so chill
and shadowy that the open sea, with its sunny sail and
canopy of pearly clouds, looked as if it were quite another
region, brought into view by some magic, but really lying
on the other side of the world.</p>

<p>There is a luxurious bathing-place for ladies, a little
beach so shut in by rocks, along the top of which runs a
high fence, that the retirement is complete. Near it is the
Spouting Horn, where we sat an unmeasured time, watching
the rising tide spouting more magnificently every moment
from the recess called The Horn. Every wave rushed
in and splashed out again with a roar, the fragments of seaweed
flying off like shot. A clever little boy belonging to
our party was meantime abroad among the boarding-houses,
managing to get us a dinner. He saved us all the trouble,
and came to summon us, and show us the way. His father
could not have managed better than he did.</p>

<p>We rambled about in the afternoon till we could no longer
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span>
conceal from ourselves that the sun was getting low. We
intended to describe a circuit in returning, so as to make as
much of our road as possible lie along the beach. Never
was the world bathed in a lovelier atmosphere than this
evening. The rocks, particularly the island called Egg
Rock, were of that soft lilach hue which harmonizes with
the green sea on sunny evenings. While this light was
brightest, we suddenly came upon a busy and remarkable
scene&mdash;the hamlet of Swampscot, on the beach&mdash;the place
where novel-readers go to look for Mucklebacket's cottage,
so much does it resemble the beach scenes in the Antiquary.
Boats were drawn up on the shore, the smallest boats, really
for use, that I ever saw. They are flatbottomed, and are
tenanted by one man, or, at most, two, when going out for
cod. The men are much cramped in these tiny boats, and
need exercise when they come to shore, and we saw a company
playing at quoits at the close of their working-day.
Many children were at play, their little figures seen in black
relief against the sea, or trailing long shadows over the
washed and glistening sands. Women were coming homeward
with their milkpans or taking in their linen from the
lines. All were busy, and all looked joyous. While my
companions were bargaining for fish I had time to watch the
singular scene; and when it was necessary to be gone, and
we turned up into the darkening lanes away from the sea,
we looked back to the last moment upon this busy reach
of the bright shore.</p>

<p>The scenery of Massachusetts Bay is a treasure which
Boston possesses over and above what is enjoyed by her
sister cities of the East. New-York has a host of beauties
about her, it is true; the North River, Hoboken, and Staten
Island; but there is something in the singularity of Nahant
and the wild beauty of Cape Ann more captivating than the
crowded, fully-appropriated beauties round New-York. Philadelphia,
Baltimore, and Washington have no environs which
can compare with either of the Northern cities. The islands
which lie off Charleston, and where the less opulent
citizens repair for health in the hot months, are praised more
for their freshness and fertility than for any romantic beauty;
and the coasts of the South are flat and shoaly. The
South has the advantage in the winter, when none but the
hardiest fishermen can be abroad to watch the march of the
wintry storms over the Northern sea and sky; but in summer
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span>
and autumn, when the Southerners who cannot afford
to travel are panting and sickening in the glare among sands
and swamps, the poorest of the citizens of Massachusetts
may refresh himself amid the seabreezes on the bright promontories
or cool caverns of his native shore.</p>
<br />
<hr />

<h2><a name="Signs_of_the_Times_in_Massachusetts" id="Signs_of_the_Times_in_Massachusetts"></a>SIGNS OF THE TIMES IN MASSACHUSETTS.</h2>

<div style="margin-left: 5em;">"II ne faut pas une bien grande force d'esprit pour comprendre que
ni les richesses ni le pouvoir ne rendent heureux. Assez de gens sentent
cette vérité. Mais de ceux qui la connoissent pleinement et se
conduisent en conséquence, le nombre en est si petit qu'il semble que ce
soit là l'effort le plus rare de la raison humaine."&mdash;<span class="smcap">Paul Louis Courier.</span></div>

<p class="p1">Some few years hence it will be difficult to believe what
the state of the times was in some parts of the United States,
and even in the maritime cities, in 1835. The system of
terrorism seems now to be over. It did not answer its purpose,
and is dropped; but in 1835 it was new and dreadful.
One of the most hideous features of the times was the ignorance
and unconcern of a large portion of society about what
was being done and suffered by other divisions of its members.
I suppose, while Luther was toiling and thundering,
German ladies and gentlemen were supping and dancing as
usual; and while the Lollards were burning, perhaps little
was known or cared about it in warehouses and upon farms.
So it was in America. The gentry with whom I chiefly associated
in New-York knew little of the troubles of the
abolitionists in that city, and nothing about the state of the
anti-slavery question in their own region. In Boston I heard
very striking facts which had taken place in broad daylight
vehemently and honestly denied by many who happened to
be ignorant of what had been done in their very streets.
Not a few persons applied to me, a stranger, for information
about the grand revolution of the time which was being
transacted, not only on their own soil, but in the very city
of their residence. A brief sketch of what I saw and experienced
in Boston during the autumn of 1835 will afford
some little information as to what the state of society actually
was.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span></p>

<p>At the end of August a grand meeting was held at Faneuil
Hall in Boston. The hall was completely filled with the
gentry of the city, and some of the leading citizens took the
responsibility and conducted the proceedings of the day.
The object of the meeting was to sooth the South, by directing
public indignation upon the abolitionists. The pretext
of the assembly was, that the Union was in danger; and
though the preamble to the resolutions declared disapprobation
of the institution of slavery, the resolutions themselves
were all inspired by fear of or sympathy with slaveholders.
They reprobated all agitation of the question, and held out
assurances to the South that every consideration should be
made subordinate to the grand one of preserving the Union.
The speeches were a disgrace to the constituents of a democratic
republic, pointed as they were against those rights of
free discussion and association at the time acted upon by
fellow-citizens, and imbued with deference for the South.
In the crowded assembly no voice was raised in disapprobation
except when a speaker pointed to the portrait of Washington
as "that slaveholder;" and even then the murmur
soon died into silence. The gentlemen went home, trusting
that they had put down the abolitionists and conciliated the
South. In how short a time did the new legislature of the
State pass, in that very city, a series of thorough-going abolition
resolutions, sixteen constituting the minority! while
the South had already been long despising the half-and-half
doctrine of the Faneuil Hall meeting!</p>

<p>Meantime, the immediate result of the proceeding was
the mob of which I have elsewhere given an
account.<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a>
After that mob the regular meetings of the abolitionists were
suspended for want of a place to meet in. Incessant attempts
were made to hire any kind of public building, but
no one would take the risk of having his property destroyed
by letting it to so obnoxious a set of people. For six weeks
exertions were made in vain. At last a Boston merchant,
who had built a pleasant house for himself and his family,
said, that while he had a roof over his head, his neighbours
should not want a place in which to hold a legal meeting for
honest objects; and he sent an offer of his house to the ladies
of the Anti-slavery Society. They appointed their meeting
for three o'clock in the afternoon of Wednesday, November
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span>
18. They were obliged to make known their intentions
as they best could, for no newspaper would admit their advertisements,
and the clergy rarely ventured to give out
their notices, among others, from the pulpit.</p>

<p>I was at this time slightly acquainted with three or four
abolitionists, and I was distrusted by most or all of the body
who took any interest in me at all. My feelings were very
different from theirs about the slaveholders of the South;
naturally enough, as these Southern slaveholders were nothing
else in the eyes of abolitionists, while to me they
were, in some cases, personal friends, and, in more, hospitable
entertainers. It was known, however, that I had declared
my intention of attending an abolition meeting. This
was no new resolution. From the outset of my inquiry into
the question, I had declared that, having attended colonization
meetings, and heard all that the slaveholders had to say
for themselves and against abolitionists, I felt myself bound
to listen to the other side of the question. I always professed
my intention of seeking acquaintance with the abolitionists,
though I then fully and involuntarily believed two or
three charges against them which I found to be wholly
groundless. The time was now come for discharging this
duty.</p>

<p>On the Monday, two friends, then only new acquaintances,
called on me at the house of a clergyman where I was staying,
three miles from Boston. A late riot at Salem was
talked over, a riot in which the family of Mr. Thompson
had been driven from one house to another three times in
one night, the children being snatched from their beds, carried
abroad in the cold, and injuriously terrified. It was
mentioned that the ladies of the Anti-slavery Society were
going to attempt a meeting on the next Wednesday, and I
was asked whether I was in earnest in saying that I would
attend one of their meetings. Would I go to this one if I
should be invited? I replied that it depended entirely on the
nature of the meeting. If it was merely a meeting for the
settlement of accounts and the despatch of business, where
I should not learn what I wanted, I should wait for a less
perilous time; if it was a <i>bonâ fide</i> public meeting, a true
reflection of the spirit and circumstances of the time and
the cause, I would go. The matter was presently decided
by the arrival of a regular official invitation to me to attend
the meeting, and to carry with me the friend who was my
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span>
travelling companion, and any one else who might be disposed
to accompany me.</p>

<p>Trifling as these circumstances may now appear, they
were no trifles at the time; and many considerations were
involved in the smallest movement a stranger made on the
question. The two first things I had to take care of were
to avoid involving my host in any trouble I might get into,
and to afford opportunity to my companion to judge for herself
what she would do. My host had been reviled in the
newspapers already for having read a notice (among several
others) of an anti-slavery meeting from Dr. Channing's pulpit,
where he was accidentally preaching. My object was
to prevent his giving an opinion on anything that I should
do, that he might not be made more or less responsible for
my proceedings. I handed the invitation to my companion,
with a hint not to speak of it. We separately made up our
minds to go, and announced our determination to our host
and hostess. Between joke and earnest, they told us we
should be mobbed; and the same thing was repeated by
many who were not in joke at all.</p>

<p>At two o'clock on the Wednesday we arrived at the house
of a gentleman where we were to meet a few of the leading
abolitionists, and dine, previous to the meeting. Our host
was miserably ill that day, unfit to be out of his chamber;
but he exerted himself to the utmost, being resolved to escort
his wife to the meeting. During dinner, the conversation
was all about the Southern gentry, in whose favour I
said all I could, and much more than the party could readily
receive; which was natural enough, considering that they
and I looked at the people of the South from different points
of view. Before we issued forth on our expedition I was
warned once more that exertions had been made to get up
a mob, and that it was possible we might be dispersed by
violence. When we turned into the street where the house
of meeting stood, there were about a dozen boys hooting before
the door, as they saw ladies of colour entering. We
were admitted without having to wait an instant on the steps,
and the door was secured behind us.</p>

<p>The ladies assembled in two drawing-rooms, thrown into
one by the folding-doors being opened. The total number
was a hundred and thirty. The president sat at a small table
by the folding-doors, and before her was a large Bible,
paper, pens, and ink, and the secretary's papers. There
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span>
were only three gentlemen in the house, its inhabitant, the
gentleman who escorted us, and a clergyman who had
dined with us. They remained in the hall, keeping the
front door fastened, and the back way clear for our retreat,
if retreat should be necessary. But the number of hooters
in the streets at no time exceeded thirty, and they treated us
to nothing worse than a few yells.</p>

<p>A lady who sat next me amused me by inquiring, with
kindness, whether it revolted my feelings to meet thus in
assembly with people of colour. She was as much surprised
as pleased with my English deficiency of all feeling
on the subject. My next neighbour on the other hand was
Mrs. Thompson, the wife of the anti-slavery lecturer, who
had just effected his escape, and was then on the sea. The
proceedings began with the reading of a few texts of Scripture
by the president. My first impression was that the
selection of these texts gave out a little vainglory about the
endurance of persecution; but when I remembered that this
was the reunion of persons who had been dispersed by a
mob, and when I afterward became aware how cruelly many
of the members had been wounded in their moral sense,
their domestic affections, and their prospects in life, I was
quite ready to yield my too nice criticism. A prayer then
followed, the spirit of which appeared to me perfect in hopefulness,
meekness, and gentleness. While the secretary
was afterward reading her report, a note was handed to me,
the contents of which sunk my spirits fathom deep for the
hour. It was a short pencil note from one of the gentlemen
in the hall; and it asked me whether I had any objection to
give a word of sympathy to the meeting, fellow-labourers as
we had long been in behalf of the principles in whose defence
they were met. The case was clear as daylight to
my conscience. If I had been a mere stranger, attending
with a mere stranger's interest to the proceedings of a party
of natives, I might and ought to have declined mixing myself
up with their proceedings. But I had long before published
against slavery, and always declared my conviction
that this was a question of humanity, not of country or race;
a moral, not a merely political question; a general affair,
and not one of city, state, party, or nation. Having thus
declared on the safe side of the Atlantic, I was bound to act
up to my declaration on the unsafe side, if called upon. I
thought it a pity that the call had been made, though I am
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span>
now very glad that it was, as it was the means of teaching
me more of the temper and affairs of the times than I could
have known by any other means, and as it ripened the regard
which subsisted between myself and the writer of the
note into a substantial, profitable, and delightful friendship;
but, at the moment, I foresaw none of these good consequences,
but a formidable array of very unpleasant ones. I
foresaw that almost every house in Boston, except those of
the abolitionists, would be shut against me; that my relation
to the country would be completely changed, as I
should be suddenly transformed from being a guest and an
observer to being considered a missionary or a spy; and results
even more serious than this might reasonably be anticipated.
During the few minutes I had for consideration, the
wife of the writer of the note came to me, and asked what I
thought of it, begging me to feel quite at liberty to attend to
it or not, as I liked. I felt that I had no such liberty. I was
presently introduced to the meeting, when I offered the note
as my reason for breaking the silence of a stranger, and
made the same declarations of my abhorrence of slavery
and my agreement in the principles of the abolitionists which
I had expressed throughout the whole of my travels through
the South.</p>

<p>Of the consequences of this simple affair it is not my intention
to give any account, chiefly because it would be impossible
to convey to my English readers my conviction of
the smallness of the portion of American society which was
concerned in the treatment inflicted upon me. The hubbub
was so great, and the modes of insult were so various, as
to justify distant observers in concluding that the whole nation
had risen against me. I soon found how few can make
a great noise, while the many are careless or ignorant of
what is going on about a person or a party with whom they
have nothing to do; and while not a few are rendered more
hearty in their regard and more generous in their hospitality
by the disgraces of the individual who is under the oppression
of public censure. All that I anticipated at the moment
of reading the note came to pass, but only for a time.
Eventually, nothing remained which in the slightest degree
modified my opinions or impaired my hopes of the society I
was investigating.</p>

<p>The secretary's report was drawn up with remarkable
ability, and some animating and beautiful letters were read
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span>
from distant members of the association. The business
which had been interrupted by violence was put in train
again; and, when the meeting broke up, a strong feeling of
satisfaction visibly pervaded it. The right of meeting was
vindicated; righteous pertinacity had conquered violence,
and no immediate check to the efforts of the society was to
be apprehended.</p>

<p>The trials of the abolitionists of Boston were, however,
not yet over. Two months before, the attorney-general of
the state had advocated in council the expected demand of
the South, that abolitionists should be delivered up to the
Slave States for trial and punishment under Southern laws.
This fact is credible to those, and, perhaps, to those only, who
have seen the pamphlet in reply to Dr. Channing's work on
Slavery attributed to this gentleman. The South was not
long in making the demand. Letters arrived from the governors
of Southern States to the new governor of Massachusetts,
demanding the passing of laws against abolitionism in all
its forms. The governor, as was his business, laid these
letters before the legislature of his state. This was the only
thing he could do on this occasion. Just before, at his entrance
upon his office, he had aimed his blow at the abolitionists
in the following passages of his address. The same
delusion (if it be mere delusion) is visible here that is shared
by all persons in power, who cannot deny that an evil exists,
but have not courage to remove it; a vague hope that
"fate, or Providence, or something," will do the work which
men are created to perform; men of principle and men of
peace, like the abolitionists; victims, not perpetrators of
violence. "As the genius of our institutions and the character
of our people are entirely repugnant to laws impairing
the liberty of speech and of the press, even for the sake of
repressing its abuses, the patriotism of all classes of citizens
must be invoked to abstain from a discussion which, by exasperating
the master, can have no other effect than to render
more oppressive the condition of the slave; and which,
if not abandoned, there is great reason to fear will prove
the rock on which the Union will split." ... "A conciliatory
forbearance," he proceeds to say, "would leave this whole
painful subject where the Constitution leaves it, with the
states where it exists, and in the hands of an all-wise Providence,
who in his own good time is able to cause it to disappear,
like the slavery of the ancient world, under the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span>
gradual operation of the gentle spirit of Christianity." The
time is at hand. The "gradual operation of the gentle
spirit of Christianity" had already educated the minds and
hearts of the abolitionists for the work they are doing, but
which the governor would fain have put off. It thus appears
that they had the governor and attorney-general of the
state against them, and the wealth, learning, and power of
their city. It will be seen how their legislature was affected
towards them.</p>

<p>As soon as they were aware of the demands of the Southern
governors, they petitioned their legislature for a hearing,
according to the invariable practice of persons who believe
that they may be injured by the passing of any proposed
law. The hearing was granted, as a matter of course;
and a committee of five members of the legislature was appointed
to hear what the abolitionists had to say. The place
and time appointed were the Senate Chamber, on the afternoon
of Friday, the 4th of March.</p>

<p>The expectation had been that few or none but the parties
immediately concerned would be present at the discussion
of such "a low subject;" but the event proved that
more curiosity was abroad than had been supposed. I went
just before the appointed hour, and took my seat with my
party, in the empty gallery of the Senate Chamber. The
abolitionists dropped in one by one; Garrison, May, Goodell,
Follen, E.G. Loring, and others. The committee treated
them with ostentatious neglect, dawdling away the time,
and keeping them waiting a full hour beyond the appointed
time. The gallery filled rapidly, and more and more citizens
entered the room below. To our great delight, Dr.
Channing made his appearance there. At length it was
manifest that the Senate Chamber was not large enough;
and we adjourned to the Hall of Representatives, which was
soon about two thirds filled.</p>

<p>I could not have conceived that such conduct could have
been ventured upon as that of the chairman of the committee.
It was so insulting as to disgust the citizens present, whatever
might be their way of thinking on the question which
brought them together. The chairman and another of the
five were evidently predetermined. They spared no pains
in showing it, twisting the meaning of expressions employed
by the pleaders, noting down any disjointed phrase which
could be made to tell against those who used it, conveying
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span>
sarcasms in their questions and insult in their remarks. Two
others evidenced a desire to fulfil their function, to hear what
the abolitionists had to say. Dr. Channing took his seat behind
the pleaders; and I saw with pleasure that he was
handing them notes, acting on their side as decisively, and
almost as publicly as if he had spoken. After several unanswerable
defences against charges had been made, and
Mr. Loring had extorted the respect of the committee by a
speech in which he showed that a legislative censure is more
injurious than penal laws, it was Dr. Follen's turn to speak.
He was presently stopped by the chairman, with a command
that he should be respectful to the committee; with an intimation
that the gentlemen were heard only as a matter of
favour. They protested against this, their hearing having
been demanded as a matter of right; they refused to proceed,
and broke up the conference.</p>

<p>Much good was done by this afternoon's proceedings.
The feeling of the bystanders was, on the whole, decidedly
in favour of the pleaders, and the issue of the affair was
watched with much interest. The next day the abolitionists
demanded a hearing as a matter of right; and it was granted
likewise as an affair of course. The second hearing was
appointed for Tuesday the 8th, at the same place and hour.</p>

<p>Some well-meaning friends of the abolitionists had in the
interval advised that the most accomplished, popular, and
gentlemanly of the abolitionists should conduct the business
of the second day; that the speeches should be made
by Dr. Follen, Messrs. Loring and Sewall, and one or
two more; and that Garrison and Goodell, the homely,
primitive, and eminently suffering men of the apostleship,
should be induced to remain in the background. The advice
was righteously rejected; and, as it happened, theirs
were the speeches that went farthest in winning over the
feeling of the audience to their side. I shall never forget
the swimming eye and tremulous voice with which a noble
lady of the persecuted party answered such a suggestion as
I have mentioned. "Oh," said she, "above all things, we
must be just and faithful to Garrison. You do not know
what we know; that, unless we put him, on every occasion,
into the midst of the <i>gentlemen</i> of the party, he will be torn
to pieces. Nothing can save him but his being made one
with those whom his enemies will not dare to touch." As
for Mr. Goodell, he had been frequently stoned. "He was
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span>
used to it." They appeared in the midst of the professional
gentlemen of the association, and did the most eminent service
of the day.</p>

<p>The hall was crowded, and shouts of applause broke forth
as the pleaders demolished an accusation or successfully
rebutted the insolence of the chairman. Dr. Follen was
again stopped, as he was showing that mobs had been the
invariable consequence of censures of abolitionism passed by
public meetings in the absence of gag-laws. He was desired
to hold his tongue, or to be respectful to the committee; to which
he replied, in his gentlest and most musical
voice, "Am I, then, to understand that, in speaking ill of
mobs, I am disrespectful to the committee?" The chairman
looked foolish enough during the applauses which followed
this question. Dr. Follen fought his ground inch by
inch, and got out all he had to say. The conduct of the
chairman became at last so insufferable, that several spectators
attempted a remonstrance. A merchant was silenced;
a physician was listened to, his speech being seasoned with
wit so irresistible as to put all parties into good-humour.</p>

<p>The loudly-expressed opinion of the spectators as they
dispersed was, that the chairman had ruined his political career,
and, probably, filled the chair of a committee of the
legislature for the last time. The result of the affair was
that the report of the committee "spoke disrespectfully" of
the exertions of the abolitionists, but rejected the suggestion
of penal laws being passed to control their operations. The
letters from the South therefore remained unanswered.</p>

<p>The abolitionists held a consultation whether they should
complain to the legislature of the treatment their statements
had received, and of the impediments thrown in the way of
their self-justification. They decided to let the matter rest,
trusting that there were witnesses enough of their case to
enlighten the public mind on their position. A member of
the legislature declared in his place what he had seen of the
treatment of the appellants by the chairman, and proposed
that the committee should be censured. As the aggrieved
persons made no formal complaint, however, the matter was
dropped. But the faith of the abolitionists was justified.
The people were enlightened as to their position; and in the
next election they returned a set of representatives, one of
whose earliest acts was to pass a series of anti-slavery resolutions
by a majority of 378 to 16.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span></p>

<p>These were a few of the signs of the times in Massachusetts
when I was there. They proved that, while the aristocracy
of the great cities were not to be trusted to maintain
the great principles on which their society was based, the
body of the people were sound.</p>
<br />
<hr />



<h2><a name="Hot_and_Cold_Weather" id="Hot_and_Cold_Weather"></a>HOT AND COLD WEATHER.</h2>

<div style="margin-left: 5em;">

"Weigh me the fire; or canst thou find<br />
A way to measure out the wind;<br />
Show me that world of stars, and whence<br />
They noiseless spill their influence!<br />
This if thou canst."<br />
<br />
</div>

<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="smcap">Herrick.</span><br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 10em;">
"Sic vita."<br />
</div>


<p class="p1">I believe no one attempts to praise the climate of New-England.
The very low average of health there, the prevalence
of consumption and of decay of the teeth, are evidences
of an unwholesome climate which I believe are universally
received as such. The mortality among children throughout
the whole country is a dark feature of life in the United
States. I do not know whether any investigation has been
made into the numbers who die in infancy; but there can be
no mistake in assuming that it is much greater than among
the classes in Europe who are in a situation of equal external
comfort. It was afflicting to meet with cases of bereavement
which seem to leave few hopes or objects in life; it is
afflicting to review them now, as they rise up before my
mind. One acquaintance of mine had lost four out of six
children; another five out of seven; another six out of
seven; another thirteen out of sixteen; and one mourner
tells me that a fatality seems to attend the females of his
family, for, out of eighteen, only one little granddaughter
survives; and most of this family died very young, and of
different kinds of disease. Never did I see so many wo-worn
mothers as in America. Wherever we went in the
North, we heard of "the lung fever" as of a common complaint,
and children seemed to be as liable to it as grown persons.
The climate is doubtless chiefly to blame for all this,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span>
and I do not see how any degree of care could obviate much
of the evil. The children must be kept warm within doors;
and the only way of affording them the range of the house is
by warming the whole, from the cellar to the garret, by
means of a furnace in the hall. This makes all comfortable
within; but, then, the risk of going out is very great. There
is far less fog and damp than in England, and the perfectly
calm, sunny days of midwinter are endurable; but the least
breath of wind seems to chill one's very life. I had no idea
what the suffering from extreme cold amounted to till one
day, in Boston, I walked the length of the city and back
again in a wind, with the thermometer seven degrees and a
half below zero. I had been warned of the cold, but was
anxious to keep an appointment to attend a meeting. We
put on all the merinoes and furs we could muster; but we
were insensible of them from the moment the wind reached
us. My muff seemed to be made of ice; I almost fancied
I should have been warmer without it. We managed getting
to the meeting pretty well, the stock of warmth we had
brought out with us lasting till then. But we set out cold
on our return; and, by the time I got home, I did not very
well know where I was and what I was about. The stupefaction
from cold is particularly disagreeable, the sense of
pain remaining through it; and I determined not to expose
myself to it again. All this must be dangerous to children;
and if, to avoid it, they are shut up during the winter, there
remains the danger of encountering the ungenial spring.</p>

<p>It is a wretched climate. The old lines would run in my
head,</p>

<div style="margin-left: 5em;">
<span style="margin-left: 3em;">"And feel, by turns, the bitter change</span><br />
Of fierce extremes, extremes by change more fierce:<br />
From beds of raging fire to starve in ice<br />
Their soft ethereal warmth, and there to pine<br />
Immoveable, infixed, and frozen round,<br />
Periods of time, thence hurried back to fire."<br />
</div>

<p>The fiery part of the trial, however, I did not much mind;
for, after the first week of languor, I enjoyed the heat, except
for the perpetual evidence that was before us of the
mischief or fatality of its effects to persons who could not sit
in the shade, and take it quietly, as we could. There were
frequent instances of death in the streets, and the working-people
suffer cruelly in the hot months. But the cold is a
real evil to all classes, and, I think, much the most serious of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span>
the two. I found the second winter more trying than the
first, and I hardly know how I should have sustained a
third.</p>

<p>Every season, however, has its peculiar pleasures; and
in the retrospect these shine out brightly, while the evils
disappear.</p>

<p>On a December morning you are awakened by the domestic
scraping at your hearth. Your anthracite fire has
been in all night; and now the ashes are carried away,
more coal is put on, and the blower hides the kindly red
from you for a time. In half an hour the fire is intense,
though, at the other end of the room, everything you touch
seems to blister your fingers with cold. If you happen to
turn up a corner of the carpet with your foot, it gives out a
flash; and your hair crackles as you brush it. Breakfast
is always hot, be the weather what it may. The coffee is
scalding, and the buckwheat cakes steam when the cover is
taken off. Your host's little boy asks whether he may go
coasting to-day, and his sisters tell you what day the schools
will all go sleighing. You may see boys coasting on Boston
Common all the winter day through; and too many in
the streets, where it is not so safe. To coast is to ride on a
board down a frozen slope; and many children do this in
the steep streets which lead down to the Common, as well
as on the snowy slopes within the enclosure where no carriages
go. Some sit on their heels on the board, some on
their crossed legs. Some strike their legs out, put their
arms a-kimbo, and so assume an air of defiance amid their
velocity. Others prefer lying on their stomachs, and so
going headforemost; an attitude whose comfort I never could
enter into. Coasting is a wholesome exercise for hardy
boys. Of course they have to walk up the ascent, carrying
their boards between every feat of coasting; and this affords
them more exercise than they are at all aware of taking.</p>

<p>As for the sleighing, I heard much more than I experienced
of its charms. No doubt early association has something
to do with the American fondness for this mode of locomotion;
and much of the affection which is borne to music,
dancing, supping, and all kinds of frolic, is transferred to
the vehicle in which the frolicking parties are transported.
It must be so, I think, or no one would be found to prefer a
carriage on runners to a carriage on wheels, except on an
untrodden expanse of snow. On a perfectly level and crisp
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span>
surface I can fancy the smooth rapid motion to be exceedingly
pleasant; but such surfaces are rare in the neighbourhood
of populous cities. The uncertain, rough motion in
streets hillocky with snow, or on roads consisting for the
season of a ridge of snow with holes in it, is disagreeable,
and provocative of headache. I am no rule for others as to
liking the bells; but to me their incessant jangle was a great
annoyance. Add to this the sitting, without exercise, in a
wind caused by the rapidity of the motion, and the list of
<i>désagrémens</i> is complete. I do not know the author of a
description of sleighing which was quoted to me, but I admire
it for its fidelity. "Do you want to know what sleighing
is like? You can soon try. Set your chair on a springboard
out in the porch on Christmas day; put your feet in
a pailful of powdered ice; have somebody to jingle a bell
in one ear, and somebody else to blow into the other with
the bellows, and you will have an exact idea of sleighing."</p>

<p>I was surprised to find that young people whose health is
too delicate to allow them to do many simple things, are not
too delicate to go out sleighing in an open sleigh. They
put hot bricks under their feet, and wrap up in furs; but the
face remains exposed, and the breathing the frosty air of a
winter's night, after dancing, may be easily conceived to be
the cause of much of the "lung fever" of which the stranger
hears. The gayest sleighing that I saw was on the day
when all the schools in Boston have a holyday, and the
pupils go abroad in a long procession of sleighs. The
multitude of happy young faces, though pinched with cold,
was a pretty sight.</p>

<p>If the morning be fine, you have calls to make, or shopping
to do, or some meeting to attend. If the streets be coated
with ice, you put on your India-rubber shoes&mdash;unsoled&mdash;to
guard you from slipping. If not, you are pretty sure to
measure your length on the pavement before your own door.
Some of the handsomest houses in Boston, those which
boast the finest flights of steps, have planks laid on the steps
during the season of frost, the wood being less slippery than
stone. If, as sometimes happens, a warm wind should be
suddenly breathing over the snow, you go back to change
your shoes, India-rubbers being as slippery in wet as leather
soles are on ice. Nothing is seen in England like the
streets of Boston and New-York at the end of the season
while the thaw is proceeding. The area of the street had
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span>
been so raised that passengers could look over the blinds of
your ground-floor rooms; when the sidewalks become full
of holes and puddles, they are cleared, and the passengers
are reduced to their proper level; but the middle of the
street remains exalted, and the carriages drive along a ridge.
Of course, this soon becomes too dangerous, and for a season
ladies and gentlemen walk; carts tumble, slip, and slide,
and get on as they can; while the mass, now dirty, not only
with thaw, but with quantities of refuse vegetables, sweepings
of the poor people's houses, and other rubbish which
it was difficult to know what to do with while every place
was frozen up, daily sinks and dissolves into a composite
mud. It was in New-York and some of the inferior streets
of Boston that I saw this process in its completeness.</p>

<p>If the morning drives are extended beyond the city, there
is much to delight the eye. The trees are cased in ice;
and when the sun shines out suddenly, the whole scene
looks like one diffused rainbow, dressed in a brilliancy which
can hardly be conceived of in England. On days less
bright, the blue harbour spreads in strong contrast with the
sheeted snow which extends to its very brink.</p>

<p>The winter evenings begin joyously with the festival of
Thanksgiving Day, which is, if I remember rightly, held on
the first Thursday of December. The festival is ordered
by proclamation of the governor of the state, which proclamation
is read in all the churches. The Boston friends with
whom we had ascended the Mississippi, and travelled in
Tennessee and Kentucky, did not forget that we were strangers
in the land; and many weeks before Thanksgiving
Day they invited us to join their family gathering on that
great annual festival. We went to church in the morning,
and listened to the thanksgiving for the mercies of the year,
and to an exemplification of the truth that national prosperity
is of value only as it is sanctified to individual progression;
an important doctrine, well enforced. This is the occasion
chosen by the boldest of the clergy to say what they think of
the faults of the nation, and particularly to reprobate apathy
on the slavery question. There are few who dare do this,
though it seems to be understood that this is an occasion on
which "particular preaching" may go a greater length than
on common Sundays. Yet a circumstance happened in
New-York on this very day which shows that the clergy
have, at least in some places, a very short tether, even on
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span>
Thanksgiving Day. An Episcopalian clergyman from England,
named Pyne, who had been some years settled in
America, preached a thanksgiving sermon, in which he made
a brief and moderate, even commonplace allusion to the toleration
of slavery among other national sins. For some
weeks he heard only the distant mutterings of the storm
which was about to burst upon him; but within three
months he was not only dismissed from his office, but compelled
to leave the country, though he had settled his family
from England beside him. He was anxious to obey the
wishes of his friends, and print verbatim the sermon which
had caused his ruin; but no printer would print, and no
publisher would agree to sell his sermon. At length he
found a printer who promised to print it on condition of his
name being kept secret; and the sermon was dispersed
without the aid of a publisher. Mr. Pyne sailed for England
on the following 1st of April; as it happened, in the
same ship with Mr. Breckinridge, the Presbyterian clergyman
who put himself into unsuccessful opposition to Mr.
Thompson, at a public discussion at Glasgow last year.
The voyage was not a pleasant one, as might be supposed,
to either clergyman. Nothing could be more mal-à-propos
than that one who came over with a defence in his mouth of
the conduct of the American clergy on the slavery question
should be shut up for three weeks with a clergyman banished
for opening his lips on the subject.</p>

<p>After service Dr. Channing took us to Persico's studio,
where the new bust of Dr. Channing stood; and one,
scarcely less excellent, of Governor Everett. We then
spent an hour at Dr. Channing's, and he gave me his book
on slavery, which was to be published two days afterward.
I was obliged to leave it unread till the festivities of the day
were over; but that night and two succeeding ones I read it
completely through before I slept. It is impossible to communicate
an idea of the importance and interest of that book
at the time it was published. I heard soon afterward that
there was difficulty in procuring it at Washington, partly
from the timidity of the booksellers, it having been called in
Congress "an incendiary book." It was let out at a high
price per hour. Of course, as soon as this was understood
at Boston, supplies were sent otherwise than through the
booksellers, so that members of Congress were no longer
obliged to quote the book merely from the extracts contained
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span>
in the miserable reply to it which was extensively circulated
in the metropolis.</p>

<p>This book was in my head all the rest of the day, from
whose observances all dark subjects seemed banished. At
three o'clock a family party of about thirty were assembled
round two wellspread tables. There was only one drawback,
that five of the children were absent, being ill of the
measles. There was much merriment among us grown
people at the long-table; but the bursts of laughter from the
children's side-table, where a kind aunt presided, were incessant.
After dinner we played hunt-the-slipper with the
children, while the gentlemen were at their wine; and then
went to spend an hour with a poor boy in the measles, who
was within hearing of the mirth, but unable to leave his easy-chair.
When we had made him laugh as much as was good
for him with some of our most ludicrous English Christmas
games, we went down to communicate more of this curious
kind of learning in the drawing-rooms. There we introduced
a set of games quite new to the company; and it was
delightful to see with what spirit and wit they were entered
into and carried on. Dumb Crambo was made to yield its
ultimate rhymes, and the storytelling in Old Coach was of
the richest. When we were all quite tired with laughing,
the children began to go away; some fresh visiters dropped
in from other houses, and music and supper followed. We
got home by eleven o'clock, very favourably impressed with
the institution of Thanksgiving Day. I love to dwell upon
it now, for a new interest hangs over that festival. The
friend by whose thoughtfulness we were admitted to this
family gathering, and in whose companionship we went&mdash;the
beloved of every heart there, the sweetest, the sprightliest
of the party&mdash;will be among them no more.</p>

<p>Christmas evening was very differently passed, but in a
way to me even more interesting. We were in a country
village, Hingham, near the shores of Massachusetts Bay,
and were staying in the house of the pastor, our clerical
shipmate. The weather was bad, in the early part of the
day extremely so; and the attendance at the church was
therefore not large, and no one came to dinner. The church
was dressed up with evergreens in great quantity, and arranged
with much taste. The organist had composed a
new anthem, which was well sung by the young men and
women of the congregation. At home the rooms were
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span>
prettily dressed with green, and an ample supply of lights
was provided against the evening. Soon after dinner some
little girls arrived to play with the children of the house,
and we resumed the teaching of English Christmas games.
The little things were tired, and went away early enough to
leave us a quiet hour before the doors were thrown open to
"the parish," whose custom it is to flock to the pastor's
house, to exchange greetings with him on Christmas night.
What I saw makes me think this a delightful custom.
There is no expensive or laborious preparation for their reception.
The rooms are well lighted, and cake and lemonade
are provided, and this is all.</p>

<p>The pastor and his wife received their guests as they
came in, and then all moved on to offer the greetings of the
season to me. Many remained to talk with me, to my
great delight. There was the schoolmaster, with his daughters.
There was Farmer B., who has a hobby. This
place was colonized by English from Hingham in Norfolk,
and Farmer B.'s ancestors were among them. He has a
passion for hearing about Old Hingham, and, by dint of
questioning every stranger, and making use of all kinds of
opportunity, he has learned far more than I ever knew about
the old place. His hopes rose high when he found I was a
native of Norfolk; but I was obliged to depress them again
by confessing how little I could tell of the old place, within
a few miles of which my early years were spent. I was
able to give him some trifling fact, however, about the direction
in which the road winds, and for this he expressed
fervent gratitude. I was afterward told that he is apt to
drive his oxen into the ditch, and to lose a sheep or two
when his head is running on "the old place." I have not
yet succeeded in my attempts to obtain a sketch of Old
Hingham to send over to Farmer B.; but I wish I could, for
I believe it would please him more than the bequest of a
fortune.</p>

<p>Then came Captain L. with his five fine daughters. He
looked too old to be their father, and well he might. When
master of a vessel he was set ashore by pirates, with his
crew, on a desert island, where he was thirty-six days without
food. Almost all his crew were dead, and he just
dying, when help arrived, by means of freemasonry. Among
the pirates was a Scotchman, a mason, as was Captain L.
The two exchanged signs. The Scotchman could not give
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span>
aid at the moment; but, after many days of fruitless and
anxious attempts, he contrived to sail back, at the risk of
his life, and landed on the desert island on the thirty-sixth
day from his leaving it. He had no expectation of finding
any of the party alive; but, to take the chance and lose no
time, he jumped ashore with a kettleful of wine in his hand.
He poured wine down the throats of the few whom he found
still breathing, and treated them so judiciously that they
recovered. At least it was called recovery; but Captain
L.'s looks are very haggard and nervous still. He took
the Scotchman home, and cherished him to the day of his
death.</p>

<p>Then there was an excellent woman, the general benefactress
of the village, who is always ready to nurse the
sick and help the afflicted, and to be of eminent service in
another way to her young neighbours. She assembles them
in the evenings once or twice a week, and reads with them
and to them; and thus the young women of the village are
obtaining a knowledge of Italian and French, as well as
English literature, which would have been unattainable
without her help. The daughters of the fishermen, bucket
and netmakers, and farmers of Hingham, are far more accomplished
than many a highbred young lady in England
and New-York. Such a village population is one of the
true glories of America. Many such girls were at their
pastor's this evening, dressed in silk gowns of the latest
make, with rich French pelerines, and their well-arranged
hair bound with coloured riband; as pretty a set of girls as
could be collected anywhere.</p>

<p>When it appeared that the rooms were beginning to thin,
the organist called the young people round him, and they
sang the new Christmas anthem extremely well. Finally,
a Christmas hymn was sung by all to the tune of Old Hundred;
the pastor and his people exchanged the blessing of
the season, and in a few minutes the house was cleared.</p>

<p>About this scene also hangs a tender and mournful interest.
Our hostess was evidently unwell at this time; I
feared seriously so; and I was not mistaken. She was one
of the noblest women I have ever known, with a mind large
in its reach, rich in its cultivation, and strong in its independence;
yet never was there a spirit more yearning in its
tenderness, more gay in its innocence. Just a year after
this time she wrote me tidings of her approaching death,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span>
cheerfully intimating the probability that she might live to
hear from me once more. My letter arrived just as she
was laid in her coffin. Her interest in the great objects of
humanity, to which she had dedicated her best days, never
failed. Her mind was active about them to the last. She
was never deceived, as the victims of consumption usually
are, about her state of health and chance of life, but saw her
case as others saw it, only with far more contentment and
cheerfulness. She left bright messages of love for all of us
who knew what was in her mind, with an animating bidding
to go on with our several works. Nothing could be more
simple than the state of her mind and the expression of it,
proving that she so knew how to live as to find nothing
strange in dying.</p>

<p>I was present at the introduction into the new country of
the spectacle of the German Christmas-tree. My little
friend Charley and three companions had been long preparing
for this pretty show. The cook had broken her eggs
carefully in the middle for some weeks past, that Charley
might have the shells for cups; and these cups were gilded
and coloured very prettily. I rather think it was, generally
speaking, a secret out of the house; but I knew what to expect.
It was a Newyear's tree, however; for I could not
go on Christmas-eve, and it was kindly settled that Newyear's-eve
would do as well. We were sent for before dinner,
and we took up two round-faced boys by the way.
Early as it was, we were all so busy that we could scarcely
spare a respectful attention to our plum-pudding. It was
desirable that our preparations should be completed before
the little folks should begin to arrive; and we were all
engaged in sticking on the last of the seven dozen of wax-tapers,
and in filling the gilded egg-cups and gay paper cornucopiæ
with comfits, lozenges, and barley-sugar. The tree
was the top of a young fir, planted in a tub, which was ornamented
with moss. Smart dolls and other whimsies glittered
in the evergreen, and there was not a twig which had
not something sparkling upon it. When the sound of wheels
was heard, we had just finished; and we shut up the tree
by itself in the front drawing-room, while we went into the
other, trying to look as if nothing was going to happen.
Charley looked a good deal like himself, only now and then
twisting himself about in an unaccountable fit of giggling.
It was a very large party; for, besides the tribes of children,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span>
there were papas and mammas, uncles, aunts, and elder sisters.
When all were come we shut out the cold; the great fire
burned clearly; the tea and coffee were as hot as possible,
and the cheeks of the little ones grew rosier and their eyes
brighter every moment. It had been settled that, in order to
cover our designs, I was to resume my vocation of teaching
Christmas games after tea, while Charley's mother and her
maids went to light up the front room. So all found seats,
many of the children on the floor, for Old Coach. It was
difficult to divide even an American stagecoach into parts
enough for every member of such a party to represent one;
but we managed it without allowing any of the elderly folks
to sit out. The grand fun of all was to make the clergyman
and an aunt or two get up and spin round. When
they were fairly practised in the game, I turned over my
story to a neighbour, and got away to help to light up the
tree.</p>

<p>It really looked beautiful; the room seemed in a blaze,
and the ornaments were so well hung on that no accident
happened, except that one doll's petticoat caught fire. There
was a sponge tied to the end of a stick to put out any supernumerary
blaze, and no harm ensued. I mounted the
steps behind the tree to see the effect of opening the doors.
It was delightful. The children poured in, but in a moment
every voice was hushed. Their faces were upturned to the
blaze, all eyes wide open, all lips parted, all steps arrested.
Nobody spoke, only Charley leaped for joy. The first
symptom of recovery was the children's wandering round
the tree. At last a quick pair of eyes discovered that it
bore something eatable, and from that moment the babble
began again. They were told that they might get what they
could without burning themselves; and we tall people kept
watch, and helped them with good things from the higher
branches. When all had had enough, we returned to the
larger room, and finished the evening with dancing. By ten
o'clock all were well warmed for the ride home with steaming
mulled wine, and the prosperous evening closed with shouts
of mirth. By a little after eleven Charley's father and
mother and I were left by ourselves to sit in the Newyear.
I have little doubt the Christmas-tree will become one of the
most flourishing exotics of New-England.</p>

<p>The skysights of the colder regions of the United States
are resplendent in winter. I saw more of the aurora borealis,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span>
more falling stars and other meteors during my stay in
New-England than in the whole course of my life before.
Every one knows that splendid and mysterious exhibitions
have taken place in all the Novembers of the last four years,
furnishing interest and business to the astronomical world.
The most remarkable exhibitions were in the Novembers of
1833 and 1835, the last of which I saw.</p>

<p>The persons who saw the falling stars of the 14th of
November, 1833, were few; but the sight was described to
me by more than one. It was seen chiefly by masters of
steamboats, watchmen, and sick nurses. The little children
of a friend of mine, who happened to sleep with their heads
near a window, surprised their father in the morning with the
question what all those sparks were that had been flying about
in the night. Several country people, on their way to early
market, saw the last of the shower. It is said that some left
their carts and kneeled in the road, thinking that the end of
the world was come; a very natural persuasion, for the spectacle
must have been much like the heavens falling to pieces.
About nine o'clock in the evening several persons observed
that there was an unusual number of falling stars, and went
home thinking no more about it. Others were surprised at
the increase by eleven, but went to rest notwithstanding.
Those who were up at four saw the grandest sight. There
were then three kinds of lights in the heaven besides the
usual array of stars. There were shooting points of light,
all directed from one centre to the circuit of the horizon,
much resembling a thick shower of luminous snow. There
were luminous bodies which hung dimly in the air; and
there were falling fireballs, some of which burst, while
others went out of sight. These were the meteors which
were taken by the ignorant for the real stars falling from the
sky. One was seen apparently larger than the full moon,
and they shed so bright a light that the smallest objects became
distinctly visible. One luminous body was like a serpent
coiling itself up; another "like a square table;" another
like a pruning-hook. Those which burst left trains of
light behind them, some tinged with the prismatic colours.
The preceding day had been uncommonly warm for the
season; but, before morning, the frost was of an intensity
very rare for the month of November. The temperature of
the whole season was unusual. Throughout November and
December it was so warm about the northern lakes that
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span>
the Indians were making maple sugar at Mackinaw, while
the orange-trees were cut off by the frost in Louisiana. A
tremendous succession of gales at the same time set in along
the eastern coast. Those may explain these mysteries who
can.</p>

<p>It is exceedingly easy to laugh at men who, created to
look before and after, walking erect, with form "express
and admirable" under the broad canopy of heaven, yet contrive
to miss the sights which are hung out in the sky; but
which of us does not deserve to be thus laughed at? How
many nights in the year do we look up into the heavens?
How many individuals of a civilized country see the stars
on any one night of the year? Some of my friends and I
had a lesson on this during the last April I spent in America.
I was staying at a house in the upper part of New-York.
My host and hostess had three guests at dinner that day&mdash;three
persons sufficiently remarkable for knowing how to use
their eyes&mdash;Miss Sedgwick, Mr. Bryant, and the author of
the Palmyra Letters. During dinner we amused ourselves
with pitying some persons who had actually walked abroad
on the night of the last 17th of November without seeing the
display. Our three friends walked homeward together, two
miles down Broadway, and did exactly the same thing;
failed to look up while an aurora borealis, worthy of November,
was illuminating the heavens. We at home failed
to look out, and missed it too. The next time we all met
we agreed to laugh at ourselves before we bestowed any
more of our pity upon others.</p>

<p>On the 17th of November in question, that of 1835, I was
staying in the house of one of the professors of Harvard
University at Cambridge. The professor and his son John
came in from a lecture at nine o'clock, and told us that it
was nearly as light as day, though there was no moon.
The sky presented as yet no remarkable appearance, but
the fact set us telling stories of skysights. A venerable
professor told us of a blood-red heaven which shone down
on a night of the year 1789, when an old lady interpreted
the whole French revolution from what she saw. None of
us had any call to prophesying this night. John looked out
from time to time while we were about the piano, but our
singing had come to a conclusion before he brought us news
of a very strange sky. It was now near eleven. We put
cloaks and shawls over our heads, and hurried into the garden.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span>
It was a mild night, and about as light as with half
a moon. There was a beautiful rose-coloured flush across
the entire heaven, from southeast to northwest. This was
every moment brightening, contracting in length, and dilating
in breadth. My host ran off without his hat to call the
Natural Philosophy professor. On the way he passed a
gentleman who was trudging along, pondering the ground.
"A remarkable night, sir," cried my host. "Sir! how, sir?"
replied the pedestrian. "Why, look above your head!"
The startled walker ran back to the house he had left to
make everybody gaze. There was some debate about ringing
the college-bell, but it was agreed that it would cause
too much alarm.</p>

<p>The Natural Philosophy professor came forth in curious
trim, and his household and ours joined in the road. One
lady was in her nightcap; another with a handkerchief tied
over her head, while we were cowled in cloaks. The sky
was now resplendent. It was like a blood-red dome, a
good deal pointed. Streams of a greenish white light radiated
from the centre in all directions. The colours were so
deep, especially the red, as to give an opaque appearance to
the canopy; and as Orion and the Pleiades, and many more
stars could be distinctly seen, the whole looked like a vast
dome inlaid with constellations. These skysights make one
shiver, so new are they, so splendid, so mysterious. We
saw the heavens grow pale, and before midnight believed
that the mighty show was over; but we had the mortification
of hearing afterward, that at one o'clock it was brighter
than ever, and as light as day.</p>

<p>Such are some of the wintry characteristics of New-England.</p>

<p>If I lived in Massachusetts, my residence during the hot
months should be beside one of its ponds. These ponds
are a peculiarity in New-England scenery very striking to
the traveller. Geologists tell of the time when the valleys
were chains of lakes; and in many parts the eye of the observer
would detect this without the aid of science. There
are many fields and clusters of fields of remarkable fertility,
lying in basins, the sides of which have much the appearance
of the greener and smoother of the dikes of Holland.
These suggest the idea of their having been ponds at the
first glance. Many remain filled with clear water, the prettiest
meres in the world. A cottage on Jamaica Pond, for
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span>
instance, within an easy ride of Boston, is a luxurious summer
abode. I know of one unequalled in its attractions,
with its flower-garden, its lawn, with banks shelving down
to the mere; banks dark with rustling pines, from under
whose shade the bright track of the moon may be seen,
lying cool on the rippling waters. A boat is moored in the
cove at hand. The cottage itself is built for coolness, and
its broad piazza is draperied with vines, which keep out the
sun from the shaded parlours.</p>

<p>The way to make the most of a summer's day in a place
like this is to rise at four, mount your horse, and ride through
the lanes for two hours, finding breakfast ready on your return.
If you do not ride, you slip down to the bathing-house
on the creek; and, once having closed the door, have
the shallow water completely to yourself, carefully avoiding
going beyond the deep water-mark, where no one knows
how deep the mere may be. After breakfast you should
dress your flowers, before those you gather have quite lost
the morning dew. The business of the day, be it what it
may, housekeeping, study, teaching, authorship, or charity,
will occupy you till dinner at two. You have your dessert
carried into the piazza, where, catching glimpses of the mere
through the wood on the banks, your watermelon tastes
cooler than within, and you have a better chance of a visit
from a pair of humming-birds. You retire to your room, all
shaded with green blinds, lie down with a book in your hand,
and sleep soundly for two hours at least. When you wake
and look out, the shadows are lengthening on the lawn, and
the hot haze has melted away. You hear a carriage behind
the fence, and conclude that friends from the city are coming
to spend the evening with you. They sit within till after
tea, telling you that you are living in the sweetest place in
the world. When the sun sets you all walk out, dispersing
in the shrubbery or on the banks. When the moon shows
herself above the opposite woods, the merry voices of the
young people are heard from the cove, where the boys are
getting out the boat. You stand, with a companion or two,
under the pines, watching the progress of the skiff, and the
receding splash of the oars. If you have any one, as I
had, to sing German popular songs to you, the enchantment
is all the greater. You are capriciously lighted home by
fireflies, and there is your table covered with fruit and iced
lemonade. When your friends have left you you would
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span>
fain forget it is time to rest; and your last act before you
sleep is to look out once more from your balcony upon the
silvery mere and moonlit lawn.</p>

<p>The only times when I felt disposed to quarrel with the
inexhaustible American mirth was on the hottest days of
summer. I liked it as well as ever; but European strength
will not stand more than an hour or two of laughter in such
seasons. I remember one day when the American part of
the company was as much exhausted as the English. We
had gone, a party of six, to spend a long day with a merry
household in a country village; and, to avoid the heat, had
performed the journey of sixteen miles before ten o'clock.
For three hours after our arrival the wit was in full flow;
by which time we were all begging for mercy, for we could
laugh no longer with any safety. Still, a little more fun was
dropped all round, till we found that the only way was to
separate, and we all turned out of doors. I cannot conceive
how it is that so little has been heard in England of the
mirth of the Americans; for certainly nothing in their manners
struck and pleased me more. One of the rarest characters
among them, and a great treasure to all his sportive
neighbours, is a man who cannot take a joke.</p>

<p>The prettiest playthings of summer are the humming-birds.
I call them playthings because they are easily tamed,
and are not very difficult to take care of for a time. It is
impossible to attend to book, work, or conversation while
there is a humming-bird in sight, its exercises and vagaries
are so rapid and beautiful. Its prettiest attitude is vibrating
before a blossom which is tossed in the wind. Its long beak
is inserted in the flower, and the bird rises and falls with it,
quivering its burnished wings with dazzling rapidity. My
friend E. told me how she had succeeded in taming a pair.
One flew into the parlour where she was sitting, and perched.
E.'s sister stepped out for a branch of honeysuckle, which
she stuck up over the mirror. The other bird followed, and
the pair alighted on the branch, flew off, and returned to it.
E. procured another branch, and held it on the top of her
head; and hither also the little creatures came without fear.
She next held it in her hand, and still they hovered and settled.
They bore being shut in for the night, a nest of cotton-wool
being provided. Of course it was impossible to furnish
them with honeysuckles enough for food; and sugar
and water was tried, which they seemed to relish very well.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span>
One day, however, when E. was out of the room, one of the
little creatures was too greedy in the saucer; and, when E.
returned, she found it lying on its side, with its wings stuck
to its body, and its whole little person clammy with sugar.
E. tried a sponge and warm water; it was too harsh: she
tried old linen, but it was not soft enough: it then occurred
to her that the softest of all substances is the human tongue.
In her love for her little companion, she thus cleansed it, and
succeeded perfectly, so far as the outward bird was concerned.
But though it attempted to fly a little, it never recovered,
but soon died of its surfeit. Its mate was, of course,
allowed to fly away.</p>

<p>Some Boston friends of mine, a clergyman and his wife,
told me of a pleasant summer adventure which they had,
quite against their will. The lady had been duly inoculated
or vaccinated (I forget which) in her childhood, but nevertheless
had the smallpox in a way after her marriage. She
was slightly feverish, and a single spot appeared on her
hand. The physician declared "that is <i>it</i>" and, as good
citizens are bound to do, they gave information of this fearful
smallpox to the authorities. The lady and her husband
were ordered into quarantine; the city coach came for them,
and they were transported to the wharf, and then to the little
quarantine island in the harbour, where they spent a particularly
pleasant week. My friend was getting well when
she went, and she was quite able to enjoy the charms of her
new residence. Her husband read to her in the piazza as
she worked; he bathed, and was spared a Sunday's preaching;
she looked abroad over the sea, and laughed as often
as she imagined what their friends supposed their situation
to be. They had the establishment all to themselves, except
that there was a tidy Scotchwoman to wait on them.
Was ever quarantine so performed before?</p>

<p>The reader may think, at the end of this chapter, that
there is something far more pleasant than worthy of complaint
in the extremes of the seasons in the United States.
It would be so if health were not endangered by them; but
the incessant regard to the physical welfare which prudence
requires is a great drawback to ease and pleasure; and the
failure of health, which is pretty sure to come, sooner or
later, is a much worse. In my own opinion, the dullest climate
and scenery may be turned to more pleasurable account
by vigour of body and mind, than all the privileges of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span>
American variety and beauty by languid powers. All that
the people of New-England can do is to make the best of
their case. Those who are blessed with health should use
every reasonable endeavour to keep it; and it may be hoped
that an improved settlement and cultivation of the country
will carry on that amelioration of its climate which many of
its inhabitants are assured has already begun.</p>
<br />
<hr />



<h2><a name="Originals" id="Originals"></a>ORIGINALS.</h2>

<div style="margin-left: 5em;">
"The ideal is in thyself; thy condition is but the stuff thou art to
shape that same ideal out of. What matters whether such stuff be of
this sort or of that, so the form thou give it be heroic, be poetic."&mdash;<i>Sartor
Resartus.</i></div>


<p class="p1">Every state of society has, happily, its originals; men
and women who, in more or fewer respects, think, speak,
and act, naturally and unconsciously, in a different way
from the generality of men. There are several causes from
which this originality may arise, particularly in a young
community less gregarious than those of the civilized countries
of the Old World.</p>

<p>The commonest of these causes in a society like that of the
United States is, perhaps, the absence of influences to which
almost all other persons are subject. The common pressure
being absent in some one direction, the being grows out in
that direction, and the mind and character exhibit more or
less deformity to the eyes of all but the individual most concerned.
The back States afford a full harvest of originals
of this class; while in England, where it is scarcely possible
to live out of society, such are rarely to be found.</p>

<p>Social and professional eccentricity comes next. When
local and professional influences are inadequately balanced
by general ones, a singularity of character is produced,
which is not so agreeable as it is striking and amusing. Of
this class of characters few examples are to be seen at
home; but, instead of them, something much worse, which
is equally rare in America. In England we have confessors
to tastes and pursuits, and martyrs to passions and
vices, which arise out of a highly artificial state of society.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span>
In England we have a smaller proportion of grave, innocent,
professional buffoons; but in America there are few or no
fashionable ingrained profligates, few or no misers.</p>

<p>In its possession of a third higher class, it is reasonable
and delightful to hope that there is no superiority in the
society of any one civilized country over that of any other.
Of men and women who have intellectual power to modify
the general influences to which, like others, they are subject,
every nation has its share. In every country there
have been beings who have put forth more or less of the
godlike power involved in their humanity, whereby they can
stem the current of circumstance, deliberately form the purpose
of their life, and prosecute it, happen what may. The
number is not large anywhere, but the species is nowhere
unknown.</p>

<p>A yet smaller class of yet nobler originals remains; those
who, with the independent power of the last mentioned, are
stimulated by strong pressure of circumstance to put forth
their whole force, and form and achieve purposes in which
not only their own life, but the destiny of others, is included.
Such, being the prophets and redeemers of their age and
country, rise up when and where they are wanted. The
deed being ripe for the doing, the doer appears. The field
being white for harvest, the reaper shows himself at the
gate, whether the song of fellow-reapers cheers his heart,
or lions are growling in his solitary path.</p>

<p>Many English persons have made up their minds that
there is very little originality in America, except in regions
where such men as David Crockett grow up. In the wilds
of Tennessee and Kentucky twenty years ago, and now in
Arkansas and Missouri, where bear-hunting and the buffalo
chase are still in full career, it is acknowledged that a man's
natural bent may be seen to advantage, and his original
force must be fully tested. But it is asked, with regard to
America, whether there is not much less than the average
amount of originality of character to be found in the places
where men operate upon one another. It is certain that
there is an intense curiosity in Americans about English
oddities; and a prevailing belief among themselves that
England is far richer in humorists than the United States.
It is also true that the fickleness and impressibleness of the
Americans (particularly of the New-Englanders) about systems
of science, philosophy, and morals, exceed anything
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span>
ever seen or heard of in the sober old country; but all this
can prove only that the nation and its large divisions are not
original in character, and not that individuals of that character
are wanting.</p>

<p>It should be remembered that one great use of a metropolis,
if not the greatest, is to test everything for the benefit of
the whole of the rest of the country. The country may,
according to circumstances, be more or less ready to avail
itself of the benefit; but the benefit exists and waits for acceptance.
Now the Americans have no metropolis. Their
cities are all provincial towns. It may be, in their circumstances,
politically good that they should have the smallest
possible amount of centralization; but the want of this centralization
is injurious to their scientific and philosophical
progress and dignity, and, therefore, to their national originality.
A conjurer's trip through the English counties is
very like the progress of a lecturer or newly-imported philosopher
through the American cities. The wonder, the excitement,
the unbounded credulity are much alike in the two
cases; but in the English village there may be an old man
under the elm smiling good-naturedly at the show without
following after it; or a sage young man who could tell how
the puppets are moved as well as if he saw the wires. And
so it is in the American cities. The crowd is large, but
everybody is not in it; the believers are many, but there are
some who foresee how soon the belief will take a new
turn.</p>

<p>When Spurzheim was in America, the great mass of society
became phrenologists in a day, wherever he appeared;
and ever since itinerant lecturers have been reproducing the
same sensation in a milder way, by retailing Spurzheimism,
much deteriorated, in places where the philosopher had not
been. Meantime the light is always going out behind as
fast as it blazes up round the steps of the lecturer. While
the world of Richmond and Charleston is working at a multiplication
of the fifteen casts (the same fifteen or so) which
every lecturer carries about, and all caps and wigs are pulled
off, and all fair tresses dishevelled in the search after organization,
Boston has gone completely round to the opposite
philosophy, and is raving about spiritualism to an excess
which can scarcely be credited by any who have not heard
the Unknown Tongues. If a phrenological lecturer from
Paris, London, or Edinburgh should go to Boston, the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span>
superficial, visible portion of the public would wheel round
once more, so rapidly and with so clamorous a welcome on
their tongues, that the transported lecturer would bless his
stars which had guided him over to a country whose inhabitants
are so candid, so enlightened, so ravenous for truth.
Before five years are out, however, the lecturer will find
himself superseded by some professor of animal magnetism,
some preacher of hom&#339;opathy, some teacher who will undertake
to analyze children, prove to them that their spirits
made their bodies, and elicit from them truths fresh from
heaven. All this is very childish, very village-like; and it
proves anything rather than originality in the persons concerned.
But it does not prove that there is not originality
in the bosom of a society whose superficial movement is of
this kind; and it does not prove that national originality may
not arise out of the very tendencies which indicate that it
does not at present exist.</p>

<p>The Americans appear to me an eminently imaginative
people. The unprejudiced traveller can hardly spend a
week among them without being struck with this every day.
At a distance it is seen clearly enough that they do not put
their imaginative power to use in literature and the arts;
and it does certainly appear perverse enough to observers
from the Old World that they should be imitative in fictions
(whether of the pen, the pencil, stone, or marble), and imaginative
in their science and philosophy, applying their
sober good sense to details, but being sparing of it in regard
to principles. This arbitrary direction of their imaginative
powers, or, rather, its restriction to particular departments,
is, I believe and trust, only temporary. As their numbers
increase and their society becomes more delicately organized;
when, consequently, the pursuit of literature, philosophy,
and art shall become as definitely the business of some men
as politics and commerce now are of others, I cannot doubt
that the restraints of imitation will be burst through, and that
a plenitude of power will be shed into these departments as
striking as that which has made the organization of American
commerce (notwithstanding some defects) the admiration
of the world, and vindicated the originality of American politics
in theory and practice.</p>

<p>However this may be, it is certain that there are individuals
existing everywhere, in the very heart of Boston itself,
as original as Sam Weller and David Crockett, or any other
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span>
self-complacent mortal who finds scope for his humours
amid the kindly intricacies of London or the canebrakes of
Tennessee.</p>

<p>Some of the most extraordinary instances I met with of
persons growing mentally awry were among the scholars
who are thinly sprinkled through the Southern and Western
settlements. When these gentlemen first carried their accomplishments
into the wilderness, they were probably
wiser than any living and breathing being they encountered.
The impression of their own wisdom was deep from the beginning,
and it continues to be deepened by every accident
of intercourse with persons who are not of their way of
thinking; for to differ from them is to be wrong. At the
same time their ways of thinking are such as are not at all
likely to accord with other people's; so that their case of
delusion is complete. I saw a charming pair of professors
in a remote state most blessed in their opinions of themselves.
They were able men, or would have been so amid the discipline
of equal society; but their self-esteem had sprouted
out so luxuriantly as to threaten to exhaust all the better part
of them. One of the most remarkable circumstances in the
case was that they seemed aware of their self-complacency,
and were as complacent about it as about anything else.
One speaking of the other, says, "A. has been examining
my cranium. He says I am the most conceited man in the
States, except himself."</p>

<p>The exception was a fair one. When I saw B., I thought
that I had seen the topmost wonder of the world for self-complacency;
but upon this Alp another was to arise, as I
found when I knew A. The only point of inferiority in A.
is that he is not quite immoveably happy in himself. His
feet are far from handsome, and no bootmaker at the West
End could make them look so. This is the bitter drop in
A.'s cup. This is the vulnerable point in his peace. His
pupils have found it out, and have obtained a hold over him
by it. They have but to fix their eyes upon his feet to
throw him into disturbance; but, if they have gone too far,
and desire to grow into favour again, they need only compliment
his head, and all is well again. He lectures to them
on Phrenology; and, when on the topic of Galen's scull,
declares that there is but one head known which can compare
with Galen's in its most important characteristics.
The students all raise their eyes to the professor's bald
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span>
crown, and the professor bows. He exhibits a cast of
Burke's head, mentioning that it combines in the most perfect
manner conceivable all grand intellectual and moral
characteristics; and adding that only one head has been
known perfectly to resemble it. Again the students fix their
gaze on the summit of the professor, and he congratulates
them on their scientific discernment.</p>

<p>This gentleman patronises Mrs. Somerville's scientific
reputation. He told me one morning, in the presence of
several persons whom he wished to impress with the highest
respect for Mrs. Somerville, the particulars of a call he
once made upon her during a visit to England. It was a
long story; but the substance of it was, that he found her a
most extraordinary person, for that she knew more than he
did. He had always thought himself a pretty good mathematician,
but she had actually gone further. He had prided
himself upon being a tolerable chymist, but he found she
could teach him something there. He had reason to think
himself a good mineralogist; but, when he saw her cabinet,
he found that it was possible to get beyond him. On entering
her drawing-room he was struck by some paintings
which he ascertained to be done by her hand, while he
could not pretend to be able to paint at all. He acknowledged
that he had, for once, met his superior. Two days
after, among a yet larger party, he told me the whole story
over again. I fell into an absent fit in planning how I could
escape from the rest of his string of stories, to talk with
some one on the opposite side of the room. When he
finally declared, "In short, I actually found that Mrs. Somerville
knows more than I do," I mechanically answered,
"I have no doubt of it." A burst of laughter from the whole
party roused me to a sense of what I had done in taking the
professor at his word. His look of mortification was pitiable.</p>

<p>It was amusing to see him with the greatest statesman in
the country, holding him by the button for an hour together,
while lecturing in the style of a master to a hopeful schoolboy.
The pompous air of the professor and the patient
snufftaking of the statesman under instruction made a capital
caricature subject. One of the professor's most serious
declarations to me was, that the time had long been past
when he believed he might be mistaken. He had once
thought that he might be in the wrong like other people, but
experience had taught him that he never erred. As, therefore,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span>
he and I did not agree on the point we were conversing
about, I must be mistaken. I might rely upon him that it
was so.</p>

<p>It is not to be expected that women should resist dangers
of position which men, with their wider intercourses, cannot
withstand. The really learned and able women of the
United States are as modest and simple as people of sound
learning and ability are; but the pedantry of a few bookish
women in retired country situations exceeds anything I ever
saw out of novels and farces.</p>

<p>In a certain region of the United States there are two sisters,
living at a considerable distance from each other, but
united (in addition to their undoubted sisterly regard) by
their common belief that they are conspicuous ornaments of
their country. It became necessary for me to make a call
on one of these ladies. She knew when I was going, and
had made preparation for my reception. I was accompanied
by three ladies, one of whom was an avowed authoress;
a second was a deep and thoroughly-exercised scholar, and
happened to have published, which the pedantic lady did not
know. The third was also a stranger to her, but a very clever
woman. We were treated with ludicrous precision, according
to our supposed merits; the third-mentioned lady being
just honoured with a passing notice, and the fourth totally
neglected. There was such an unblushing insolence in the
manner in which the blue-stocking set people who had written
books above all the rest of the world, that I could not let
it pass unrebuked; and I treated her to my opinion that they
are not usually the cleverest women who write; and that far
more general power and wisdom are required to conduct
life, and especially to educate a family of children well, than
to write any book or number of books. As soon as there
was a pause in the conversation, I rose to go. Some weeks
afterward, when I was on a journey, a lady drove up from a
distance of two miles to make an afternoon call upon me.
It was the sister. She told me that she came to carry me
home with her for the night, "in order," said she, "that you
may see how we who scribble can keep house." As I had
never had any doubt of the compatibility of the two things,
it was of little consequence that I could not go. She informed
me that she lectured on Mental and Moral Philosophy
to young ladies. She talked with much admiration of
Mr. Brown as a metaphysician. I concluded this gentleman
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span>
to be some American worthy with whom I had to become
acquainted; but it came out to be Dr. Thomas Brown
whom she was praising. She appeared not to know even
the names of metaphysicians out of the Scotch school; and
if the ghosts of the Scotch schoolmen were present, they
might well question whether she understood much of them.
She told me that she had a great favour to ask of me: she
wanted permission to print, in a note to the second edition of
her Lectures on Mental and Moral Philosophy, a striking
observation of mine made to her sister, which her sister had
transmitted to her by the next post. I immediately assured
her that she might print anything that I had said to her sister.
She then explained that the observation was that they
are not usually the cleverest women who write. I recommended
her to make sure of the novelty of the remark before
she printed it; for I was afraid that Shakspeare or somebody
had had it first. What was the fate of the opinion I
do not know; but it may be of use to the sisters themselves
if it suggests that they may be mistaken in looking down
upon all their sex who do not "scribble."</p>

<p>I think it must have been a pupil of theirs who wrote me
a letter which I threw into the fire in a fit of disgust the moment
I had read it. A young lady, who described herself as
"an ambitious girl," sent me some poetry in a magazine,
and an explanation in writing of her own powers and aspirations.
No one likes aspiration better than I, if only there
be any degree of rational self-estimate connected with it.
This young lady aspired to enter the hallowed precincts of
the temple where Edgeworth, More, and others were immortalized.
As for how she was to do it, her case seemed
to be similar to that of a West Indian lady, who once complained
to me that, while she was destined by her innate love
of the sublime and the beautiful to be distinguished, Providence
would not let her. The American young lady, however,
hoped that a friendship with me might persuade the
world to recognise her powers; and she informed me that
she had come to town from a distance, and procured an invitation
to a house where I was to spend the evening, that
we might begin our friendship. The rooms happened to be
so tremendously crowded that I was not obliged to see any
more persons than those immediately about me. I was told
that the "ambitious girl" was making herself very conspicuous
by standing on tiptoe, beaming and fluttering; but
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span>
I did not look that way, and never saw her. I hope she may
yet read her own poetry again with new eyes, and learn that
the best "ambition" does not write about itself, and that the
strongest "powers" are the least conscious of their own
operation.</p>

<p>In two of the eastern cities I met with two ladies who
had got a twist in opposite directions. It has been represented
in England that a jealousy of English superiority,
even in natural advantages, is very prevalent in the United
States. I do not think so; and I am by no means sure that
it is not nearly as rare as the opposite extreme. One instance
of each kind of prejudice came under my notice, and
I am not aware of more. At a party at Philadelphia, a lady
asked me if I had not crossed the Alleghanies, and whether
I did not think them stupendous mountains. I admired the
views they presented, and said all I could for the Alleghanies;
but it was impossible to agree that they were stupendous
mountains. The lady was so evidently mortified, that
I began to call the rivers stupendous, which I could honestly
do; but this was not the same thing. She said, in a complaining
tone,</p>

<p>"Well, I cannot think how you can say there are no high
mountains in the United States."</p>

<p>"You mistake me," I said. "I have not seen the White
Mountains yet; and I hear they are very grand."</p>

<p>"You English boast so of the things you have got at
home!" said she. "Why, I have seen your river Avon,
that you make so much of. I stood by the Avon, under
Warwick Castle, and I said to my husband that it was a
mighty small thing to be talked of at such a distance. Why,
if I had been ten years younger, I could almost have jumped
over it."</p>

<p>I told her that I believed the Avon was not so celebrated
for the quantity of water in it as on some other accounts.</p>

<p>The lady who went on the opposite tack is not very old,
and I suppose, therefore, that her loyalty to the crown of
England is hereditary. She made great efforts to see me,
that she might enjoy my British sympathies. With a grieved
countenance she asked me whether the folly and conceit of
her countrymen in separating themselves from the crown
were not lamentable. She had hoped that, before this, they
would have become convinced of the guilt and silliness of
their rebellion, and have sought to be taken back; but she
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span>
hoped it was not yet too late. I fear she considered me a
traitor to my country in not condemning hers. I was sorry
to deprive her of her last hope of sympathy; but what
could one do in such a case?</p>

<p>There must be many local and professional oddities in a
country like America, where individuals fill a larger space
in society, and are less pressed upon by influences, other
than local and professional, than in Old World communities.
A judge in the West is often a remarkable personage to European
eyes. I know one who unites all the odd characteristics
of the order so as to be worth a close study. Before
I left home, a friend desired me to bring her something, she
did not care what, that should be exclusively American;
something which could not be procurable anywhere else.
When I saw this judge I longed to pack him up, and direct
him, per next packet from New-York, to my friend; for he
was the first article I met with that could not by possibility
have been picked up anywhere out of the United States.
He was about six feet high, lank as a flail, and seeming to
be held together only by the long-tailed drab greatcoat into
which he was put. He had a quid in his cheek whenever I
saw him, and squirted tobacco-juice into the fireplace or
elsewhere at intervals of about twenty seconds. His face
was long and solemn, his voice monotonous, his manner dogmatical
to a most amusing degree. He was a dogged republican,
with an uncompromising hatred of the blacks, and
with an indifferent sort of pity for all foreigners. This last
feeling probably induced him to instruct me on various matters.
He fixed his eyes on the fire, and talked on for my
edification, but without taking express notice of the presence
of any one, so that his lecture had the droll appearance of
being a formal soliloquy. In the same speech he declared
that no man was made by God to run wild through a forest
who was not able to comprehend Christianity at sight;
missions to the heathen being therefore sanctioned from
heaven itself; and that men with a dark skin cannot, in
three years, learn the name of a rope or a point of the compass,
and that they are therefore meant to be slaves. It
seemed to me that he was bound to suspend the operation
of the law against all coloured persons on the ground of
their incapacity, their lack of understanding of the common
affairs of life. But the ground of their punishment in this
life seemed to be that they might be as wise as they pleased
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span>
about the affairs of the next. He proceeded with his enunciations,
however, without vouchsafing an explanation of
these mysteries. It must be an awkward thing to be either
a heathen or a negro under his jurisdiction, if he acts upon
his own doctrines.</p>

<p>Country doctors are not unlike wild country judges. Being
obliged to call in the aid of a village doctor to a companion,
I found we had fallen in with a fine specimen of the
class. I was glad of this afterward, but much annoyed at the
time by the impossibility of extracting from him the slightest
information as to my friend's state and prospects in regard
to her health. I detained him in conversation day after day
to no purpose, and varied my questions with as much American
ingenuity as I could command; but all in vain. He
would neither tell me what was the matter with her, nor
whether her illness was serious or trifling, or whether it was
likely to be long or short. He would give me no hint
which could enable me to form my plans, or to give my distant
friends an idea whether or when they might expect to
see us. All that he would say was, "Hope your friend
will be better;" "hope she will enjoy better health;" "will
make her better if we can;" "must try to improve her
health;" and so on. I was informed that this was all that
I should extract if the illness were to last a twelvemonth.
He took a blue paper with some white powder in it out of
one pocket, and a white paper with some other powder
out of another pocket; spilled some at random into
smaller papers, and gave directions when they should be
taken, and my friend speedily and entirely recovered. I
never was so completely in the dark about the nature of any
illness I saw, and I am completely in the dark still. I fancy
I hear now the short, sharp, conceited tones of the doctor,
doggedly using his power of exasperating my anxiety.
Such was not his purpose, however. The country doctors
themselves and their patients believe that they cure with far
more certainty than any other doctors; the profession are
probably convinced that they owe much to the implicit faith
of their charge, and are resolved to keep up this faith by
being impenetrable, allowing no part of their practice to be
made a subject of discussion which can possibly be rendered
mysterious. The chief reason of the success of country
doctors is, doubtless, that they have to treat chiefly diseases
of local prevalence, about which they employ long experience
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span>
and practised sagacity, without having much account
to give of their method of proceeding.</p>

<p>A country physician of higher pretensions than the one
who tormented me while curing my friend, told me that
Yankee inquisitiveness is the plague of the life of a country
doctor. The querists seem to forget that families may object
to have domestic sickness made the talk of the village
or hamlet, and that the doctor must dislike to be the originator
of news of this kind. They stop him on his rounds
to ask whom he is visiting in this direction, and whom
in that, and who could be sick on the road in which he was
seen going yesterday morning; and what such a one's
complaint is called, and how it is going to be cured, &amp;c.
The physician told me that he was driven to invent modes
of escape. If he was riding, he appeared to see some acquaintance
at a distance, clapped spurs to his horse, and was
off; if he was walking, he gave a name of six syllables to
the disease talked about, and one of seven syllables to the
remedy, thus defying repetition. If our doctor took me to
be one of this class of querists, I could easily forgive his reserve.</p>

<p>I was told a story of an American physician which is
characteristic (if it be true), showing how patriotic regards
may enter into the practice of medicine. But I give it only
as an <i>on dit</i>. It is well known that Adams and Jefferson
died on the 4th of July of one year, and Monroe of another.
Mr. Madison died on the 28th of June last year. It is said
that the physician who attended Mr. Monroe expressed
regret that he had not the charge of Mr. Madison, suspecting
that he might have found means to keep him alive (as
he died of old age) till the 4th of July. The practice in
Mr. Monroe's case is said to have been this: When he was
sinking, some one observed what a remarkable thing it would
be if he should die on the anniversary, like Adams and Jefferson.
The physician determined he would give his patient
the chance of its ending so. He poured down brandy and
other stimulants, and omitted no means to keep life in the
failing body. On the 3d of July, the patient was sinking so
rapidly that there seemed little chance of his surviving the
day. The physician's exertions were redoubled; and the
consequence was, that, on the morning of the 4th, there
seemed every probability of the patient's living to the 5th,
which was not exactly desired. He died (just as if he
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span>
wished to oblige his friends to the last) late in the afternoon
of the 4th. So the story runs.</p>

<p>It is astonishing what may be done by original genius, in
availing itself of republican sentiment for professional purposes.
The drollery infused into the puffing system in
America would command the admiration of Puff himself.
It may be doubted whether he would have been up to the
invention of a recommendation of a certain oil for the hair
which I saw at Washington, and which threw us into such
a convulsion of laughter that the druggist behind the counter
had to stand waiting some time before we could explain our
business to him. A regiment of persons were represented
walking up to a perfumer's counter with bald sculls of all
degrees of ugliness, and walking away from it graced with
flowing tresses of every hue, which they were showing off
with gestures of delight. This was an ingenious device,
but not perfectly wise, as it contained no appeal to patriotic
feelings. I saw one at an optician's at Baltimore of a decidedly
more elevated character. There were miniature busts
in the window of Franklin, Washington, and Lafayette, each
adorned with a tiny pair of spectacles, which made the busts
appear as sage as life. Washington's spectacles were
white, Franklin's green, and Lafayette's neutral tint.</p>

<p>I acknowledge myself indebted for a new professional
idea to an original in the bookselling line in a large American
city. I am not sure that his originality extended beyond
the frankness of his professional discourse; but that was infinitely
striking. He told me that he wanted to publish for
me, and would offer as good terms as anybody. I thanked
him, but objected that I had nothing to publish. He was
sure I must have a book written about America. I had not,
and did not know that I ever should have. His answer,
given with a patronising air of suggestion, was, "Why,
surely, madam, you need not be at a loss about that. You
must have got incident plenty by this time; and then you
can Trollopize a bit, and so make a readable book."</p>

<p>In the West we were thrown into the society of a girl
about whom we were completely puzzled. Our New-England
friends could only conclude, with us, that she had been
trained amid the usages of some retired district to a freedom
which is certainly very unusual in the country. In a stage
which took up our party at a country hotel, near the Mammoth
Cave, in Kentucky, was a girl of about two-and-twenty,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span>
oddly dressed. She got out and breakfasted with
the other passengers, looking perfectly at her ease. We
concluded that she belonged to one of two gentlemen in the
stage, and we rather wondered that any gentleman should
like to travel with a companion so untidily dressed as she
was. She had a good black silk gown, but over it was
pinned a square net handkerchief, unhemmed, and therefore
looking ragged. She had black stockings, but shabby shoes
of some dark-coloured leather, not black; and they were
tied on with twine where the strings had given way. Her
straw bonnet was shabby. She had nothing with her but a
basket which she carried on her knees. She joined freely
and pleasantly in conversation, and showed none of the
common troublesome timidity amid the disasters of the day
and of the ensuing night. It was very sultry weather. One
of the horses fell from heat in the midst of the Barrens, and
we all had to walk up the hills, and no short distance in the
forest. The roads were so bad that the driver tried his utmost
to alarm the passengers, in order to induce some to
lighten his vehicle by remaining behind; but the girl seemed
not in the least daunted. In the course of the night we
were overturned, and had no light but what was afforded
by the gentlemen walking before the stage, holding tallow
candles which they had bought by the roadside; but nothing
disconcerted the young lady. She was a girl of nerve and
of patience, it was clear. She refused to sit down to the first
meal we had on the road, and the reason of her abstinence
appeared before the day was over. When we changed
coaches, and it was necessary to pay on striking into a
new route, she coolly inquired if any gentleman would ask
a free passage for her till she could send the money out of
Indiana, where she was going. It was now evident that
she was alone, every passenger having supposed that she
was of the party of somebody else. She gave no further
explanation than that she had "come off in a hurry," no
one knowing of it but two of the slaves, and that she should
send the money out of Indiana. There was not the slightest
confusion in her manner, nor any apparent consciousness
that she was behaving strangely. One of the gentlemen
made himself answerable for her fare, and she proceeded
with us.</p>

<p>At Elizabethtown the next morning she refused breakfast
with the utmost cheerfulness; but our friend Mr. L. invited
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span>
her to sit down with us, which she did with a good grace.
At seven in the evening we arrived at Louisville, and alighted
at the great hotel; one of the largest, handsomest, and most
luxurious in the United States, and, of course, expensive.
We chose apartments while Mr. L. ordered supper in a private
room for our party. Almost before my companion
and I could turn ourselves round in our chamber, the lone
girl, who had followed us about like a ghost, was taking her
hair down at my dressing-table. Mrs. L. hastened to inform
her that this room was engaged; but, pointing out that
there were three beds, she said she should like to lodge
here. Of course this could not be allowed; and, as soon
as she found that we wished to be alone, she went away.
When we descended with Mrs. L. to her room, we found
the poor girl dressing there. Mrs. L. now took upon her
to advise. She observed to the young person that she
would probably be more comfortable in a less expensive hotel,
to which she agreed. The same elderly gentleman who
answered for her fare took her to a respectable hotel near
at hand, and commended her to the care of the landlady,
who promised to see her off for Indiana in the morning.
We left Louisville at dawn, and heard no more of the
lone girl, of whom we have often since thought and spoken.
The odd circumstances of the case were her freedom from
all embarrassment, and her cheerfulness on the road and
while fasting, from want of money. There was not a trace
of insanity in her manners, though her dress at first suggested
the idea; and we could perceive no symptoms of the fear
of pursuit or hurry of spirits which would have been natural
consequences of a clandestine flight. Yet, by her own account,
she must have done something of the kind.</p>

<p>Though the freedom of travelling is not such as to admit
of young ladies making their way about quite alone, in a
way so unceremonious as this, the liberty of intercourse on
the road is very great, and highly amusing to a stranger.
One day in Virginia, on entering our parlour at a hotel
where we were merely stopping to dine, I was amused to
see our lawyer companion, Mr. S., in grave consultation
with the hostess, while Mrs. S., her silk bonnet on her knee,
and a large pair of scissors in hand, was busy cutting,
slashing, and rending a newspaper on which the bonnet
peak was spread. There was evidently so much more show
than use in what she was doing, that I could not understand
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span>
her proceedings. "What <i>are</i> you about?" asked I. Mrs.
S. pointed to the landlady, and, trying to help laughing,
told me that the hostess had requested the pattern of her
bonnet. While this pretence of a pattern was in course of
preparation by the lady, the hostess was getting a legal
opinion out of the gentleman about a sum of eight hundred
dollars which was owing to her. If we had only stayed to
tea, I doubt not our landlady would have found some employment
for every one of us, and have favoured us, in
return, with all the rest of her private affairs.</p>

<p>Originals who are so in common circumstances, through
their own force of soul, ruling events as well as being
guided by them, yield something far better than amusement
to the observer. Some of these, out of almost every class,
I saw in America, from the divine and statesman down to
the slave. I saw a very old lady whom I consider to be
one, not on account of her extraordinary amiability and
sympathy with all ages (which cause her to be called
grandmamma by all who know her), but because this temper
of mind is the result of something higher than an easy disposition
and prosperous circumstances. It is the accomplishment
of a long-settled purpose. When Grandmamma J.
was eight years old, she was in company with an old lady
who was jealous, exacting, and peevish. On returning
home, the child ran to her mother and said, "If I am ever
an old lady, I will be a good-tempered old lady." This
was not said and forgotten, like many childish resolutions
formed under the smart of elderly people's faults. It was
a real purpose. She knew that, in order not to be cross
when old, it is necessary to be meek, patient, and cheerful
when young. She was so; and the consequence is, that
Grandmamma J.'s popularity is unbounded. She is cherished
by the whole community to whom she is known.
The children want to have her at their dances, and the youths
and maidens are always happiest where she is. She looks
as if no shadow of care had been cast over her bright spirit
for many a long year, and as if she might yet have many
sunny years to come. She is preacher, prophet, and dispenser
of amiability, all in one.</p>

<p>The venerable Noah Worcester is an original. I am
thankful to have seen this aged apostle, for so he should
be considered, having had a mission, and honourably discharged
it. He is the founder of Peace Societies in America.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span>
Noah Worcester was a minister of the Gospel, of orthodox
opinions. By the time he was surrounded by a
family of young children, he had changed his opinions, and
found himself a Unitarian. He avowed the change, resigned
his parish, and went forth with his family, without a
farthing in the world, or any prospect of being able to obtain
a subsistence. He wrote diligently, but on subjects
which were next his heart, and on which he would have
written in like manner if he had been the wealthiest of
American citizens. He set up the "Christian Disciple,"
a publication which has done honour to its supporters both
under its original title and its present one of "The Christian
Examiner." He devoted his powers to the promotion of
Peace principles and the establishment of Peace Societies.
Whatever may be thought of the practical effects, in a narrow
view, of such societies, they seem to have well answered
a prodigious purpose in turning men's contemplations full
on the subject of true and false honour, and in inducing a
multitude of glorious experiments of living strictly according
to a principle which happens to be troublesome in its application.
The number of peacemen, practisers of nonresistance,
out of the Quaker body, is considerable in America,
and their great living apostle is Noah Worcester. The
leaders of the abolition movement are for the most part
peacemen; an inestimable circumstance, as it takes out the
sting from the worst of the slanders of their enemies, and
gives increased effect to their moral warfare. Human
nature cannot withstand the grandeur of the spectacle of
men who have all the moral power on their side, and who
abide unresistingly all that the physical power of the other
side can inflict The boldest spirits tremble, hearts the
most hardened in prejudice melt, when once they come into
full view of this warfare; and the victory rests with the men
of peace, who all love the name of Noah Worcester.
Nearly twenty years ago he was encompassed with distresses
for a time. Indeed, his life has been one of great
poverty till lately. He is not one of the men made to be
rich, or to spend his thoughts on whether he was happy or
not. He was sent into the world for a very different purpose,
with which and with its attendant enjoyments poverty
could but little interfere. But in the midst of his deep
poverty came sickness. His two daughters were at once
prostrated by fever, and a severe struggle it was before
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span>
they got through. Two friends of mine nursed them; and
in the discharge of their task learned lessons of faith which
they will be for ever thankful for, and of those graces which
accompany the faith of the heart, cheerfulness of spirits,
and quietude and simplicity of manner. My friends were
not, at the beginning, fully aware of the condition of the
household. They were invited to table at the early dinner
hour. On the table stood a single brown loaf and a pitcher
of water. Grace was said, and they were invited to partake
with the utmost ease and cheerfulness, and not a word
passed in reference to the restriction of the fare. This was
what God had been pleased to provide, and it was thankfully
accepted and hospitably shared. The father went from
the one sick room to the other, willing to receive what
tidings might await him, but tender to his daughters, as
they have since been to him. On one evening when all
looked threatening, he asked the friendly nurse whether the
voice of prayer would be injurious to his sick children;
finding that they desired to hear him, he set open the doors
of their chambers, kneeled in the passage between, and
prayed, so calmly, so thankfully, that the effect was to compose
the spirits of the invalids. One now lives with him
and cherishes him. She has changed her religious opinions
and become orthodox, but she has not changed towards
him. They are as blessed in their relation as ever.</p>

<p>Noah Worcester was seventy-six when I saw him in the
autumn of 1835. He was very tall, dressed in a gray
gown, and with long white hair descending to his shoulders.
His eye is clear and bright, his manner serious but cheerful.
His evening meal was on the table, and he invited us
to partake with the same grace with which he offered his
harder fare to the guests of former years. He lives at
Brighton, a short distance from Boston, where his daughter
manages the postoffice, by which their humble wants are
supplied. He had lately published, and he now presented
me with his "Last Thoughts" on some religious subjects
which had long engaged his meditations. I hope his serene
old age may yet be prolonged, gladsome to himself and eloquent
to the world.</p>

<p>There is a remarkable man in the United States, without
knowing whom it is not too much to say that the United
States cannot be fully known. I mean by this, not only
that he has powers and worth which constitute him an element
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span>
in the estimate to be formed of his country, but that
his intellect and his character are the opposite of those
which the influences of his country and his time are supposed
almost necessarily to form. I speak of the author of
the oration which I have already mentioned as being delivered
before the Phi Beta Kappa Society last August, Mr.
Emerson. He is yet in the prime of life. Great things are
expected from him, and great things, it seems, he cannot
but do, if he have life and health to prosecute his course.
He is a thinker and a scholar. He has modestly and silently
withdrawn himself from the perturbations and conflicts of
the crowd of men, without declining any of the business of
life, or repressing any of his human sympathies. He is a
thinker without being solitary, abstracted, and unfitted for
the time. He is a scholar without being narrow, bookish,
and prone to occupy himself only with other men's thoughts.
He is remarkable for the steadiness and fortitude with which
he makes those objects which are frequently considered the
highest in their own department subordinate to something
higher still, whose connexion with their department he has
clearly discovered. There are not a few men, I hope, in
America, who decline the pursuit of wealth; not a few who
refrain from ambition; and some few who devote themselves
to thought and study from a pure love of an intellectual life.
But the case before us is a higher one than this. The intellectual
life is nourished from a love of the diviner life of
which it is an element. Consequently, the thinker is ever
present to the duty, and the scholar to the active business
of the hour; and his home is the scene of his greatest acts.
He is ready at every call to action. He lectures to the
factory people at Lowell when they ask it. He preaches
when the opportunity is presented. He is known at every
house along the road he travels to and from home, by the
words he has dropped and the deeds he has done. The
little boy who carries wood for his household has been enlightened
by him; and his most transient guests owe to him
their experience of what the highest grace of domestic manners
may be. He neglects no political duty, and is unmindful
of nothing in the march of events which can affect the
virtue and peace of men. While he is far above fretting
himself because of evil-doers, he has ever ready his verdict
for the right, and his right hand for its champions. While
apart from the passions of all controversies, he is ever present
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span>
with their principles, declaring himself and taking his
stand, while appearing to be incapable of contempt of persons,
however uncompromising may be his indignation
against whatever is dishonest and harsh. Earnest as is the
tone of his mind, and placidly strenuous as is his life, an exquisite
spirit of humour pervades his intercourse. A quiet
gayety breathes out of his conversation; and his observation,
as keen as it is benevolent, furnishes him with perpetual
material for the exercise of his humour. In such a man
it is difficult to point out any one characteristic; but if, out
of such a harmony, one leading quality is to be distinguished,
it is in him modest independence. A more entire and
modest independence I am not aware of having ever witnessed,
though in America I saw two or three approaches
to it. It is an independence equally of thought, of speech,
of demeanour, of occupation, and of objects in life; yet
without a trace of contempt in its temper, or of encroachment
in its action. I could give anecdotes; but I have
been his guest, and I restrain myself. I have spoken of
him in his relation to society, and have said only what may
be and is known to common observers.</p>

<p>Such a course of life could not have been entered upon
but through discipline. It has been a discipline of calamity
as well as of toil. As for the prospect, it is to all appearance
very bright. Few persons are apparently placed so
favourably for working out such purposes in life. The condition
seems hard to find fault with; and as to the spirit
which is to work upon it&mdash;though I differ from some of the
views of the thinker, and do not sympathize with all of those
tastes of the scholar which I am capable of entering into&mdash;I
own that I see no defect, and anticipate nothing short of
triumph in the struggle of life.</p>

<p>Something may be learned of this thinker and his aims
from a few passages of his address; though this is the last
purpose, I doubt not, that he dreamed of his work being
used for. He describes the nature of the occasion. "Our
holyday has been simply a friendly sign of the survival of
the love of letters among a people too busy to give to letters
any more." His topic is the American scholar, and he
describes the influences which contribute to form or modify
him: the influence of Nature, the mind of the past, and
action in life. He concludes with a consideration of the
duty of the scholar.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span></p>

<p>"There goes in the world a notion that the scholar should
be a recluse, a valetudinarian, as unfit for any handiwork or
public labour as a penknife for an axe. The so-called
'practical men' sneer at speculative men as if, because they
speculate or <i>see</i>, they could do nothing. I have heard it
said that the clergy&mdash;who are always, more universally than
any other class, the scholars of their day&mdash;are addressed as
women; that the rough spontaneous conversation of men
they do not hear, but only a mincing and diluted speech.
They are often virtually disfranchised; and, indeed, there
are advocates for their celibacy. As far as this is true of
the studious classes, it is not just and wise. Action is with
the scholar subordinate, but it is essential. Without it he is
not yet man. Without it thought can never ripen into
truth. While the world hangs before the eye as a cloud of
beauty, we cannot even see its beauty. Inaction is cowardice;
but there can be no scholar without the heroic
mind. The preamble of thought, the transition through
which it passes from the unconscious to the conscious, is
action. Only so much do I know as I have lived."</p>

<p> ... "The mind now thinks, now acts, and each fit
reproduces the other. When the artist has exhausted his
materials, when the fancy no longer paints, when thoughts
are no longer apprehended, and books are a weariness, he
has always the resource to live. Character is higher than
intellect. Thinking is the function. Living is the functionary.</p>

<p>"The stream retreats to its source. A great soul will
be strong to live as well as strong to think. Does he lack
organ or medium to impart his truths? He can still fall
back on this elemental force of living them. This is a total
act. Thinking is a partial act. Let the grandeur of justice
shine in his affairs. Let the beauty of affection cheer his
lowly roof. Those 'far from fame' who dwell and act with
him will feel the force of his constitution in the doings and
passages of the day better than it can be measured by any
public and designed display. Time shall teach him that the
scholar loses no hour which the man lives. Herein he unfolds
the sacred germe of his instinct screened from influence.
What is lost in seemliness is gained in strength.
Not out of those on whom systems of education have exhausted
their culture comes the helpful giant to destroy the
old or to build the new, but out of unhandselled savage
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span>
nature, out of terrible Druids and Bersirkirs come at last
Alfred and Shakspeare. I hear, therefore, with joy whatever
is beginning to be said of the dignity and necessity of
labour to every citizen. There is virtue yet in the hoe and
the spade for learned as well as for unlearned hands. And
labour is everywhere welcome; always we are invited to
work; only be this limitation observed, that a man shall not,
for the sake of wider activity, sacrifice any opinion to the
popular judgments and modes of action."</p>

<p> ... "They (the duties of the scholar) are such as
become man thinking. They may all be comprised in
self-trust. The office of the scholar is to cheer, to raise,
and to guide men by showing them facts amid appearances.
He plies the slow, unhonoured, and unpaid task of observation.
Flamstead and Herschel, in their glazed observatory,
may catalogue the stars with the praise of all men, and, the
results being splendid and useful, honour is sure. But he, in
his private observatory, cataloguing obscure and nebulous
stars of the human mind, which as yet no man has thought
of as such; watching days and months, sometimes, for a few
facts; correcting still his old records; must relinquish display
and immediate fame. In the long period of his preparation
he must betray often an ignorance and shiftlessness
in popular arts, incurring the disdain of the able who
shoulder him aside. Long he must stammer in his speech,
often forego the living for the dead. Worse yet, he must
accept, how often! poverty and solitude. For the ease and
pleasure of treading the old road, accepting the fashions, the
education, the religion of society, he takes the cross of
making his own, and, of course, the self-accusation, the faint
heart, the frequent uncertainty, and loss of time which are
the nettles and tangling vines in the way of the self-relying
and self-directed; and the state of virtual hostility in which
he seems to stand to society, and especially to educated
society. For all this loss and scorn, what offset? He is to
find consolation in exercising the highest functions of human
nature. He is one who raises himself from private considerations,
and breathes and lives on public and illustrious
thoughts. He is the world's eye. He is the world's heart.
He is to resist the vulgar prosperity that retrogrades ever to
barbarism, by preserving and communicating heroic sentiments,
noble biographies, melodious verse, and the conclusions
of history. Whatsoever oracles the human heart in
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span>
all emergencies, in all solemn hours has uttered as its commentary
on the world of actions, these he shall receive and
impart. And whatsoever new verdict Reason from her inviolable
seat pronounces on the passing men and events of
to-day, this he shall hear and promulgate. These being his
functions, it becomes him to feel all confidence in himself,
and to defer never to the popular cry. He, and he only,
knows the world. The world of any moment is the merest
appearance. Some great decorum, some fetish of a government,
some ephemeral trade, or war, or man, is cried up by
half mankind and cried down by the other half, as if all
depended on this particular up or down. The odds are that
the whole question is not worth the poorest thought which
the scholar has lost in listening to the controversy. Let him
not quit his belief that a popgun is a popgun, though the
ancient and honourable of the earth affirm it to be the crack
of doom. In silence, in steadiness, in severe abstraction,
let him hold by himself; add observation to observation;
patient of neglect, patient of reproach, and bide his own
time, happy enough if he can satisfy himself alone that this
day he has seen something truly."</p>

<p> ... "I read with joy some of the auspicious signs
of the coming days as they glimmer already through poetry
and art, through philosophy and science, through church
and state. One of these signs is the fact that the same
movement which effected the elevation of what was called
the lowest class in the state, assumed in literature a very
marked and as benign an aspect. Instead of the sublime
and beautiful, the near, the low, the common was explored
and poetized. That which had been negligently trodden
under foot by those who were harnessing and provisioning
themselves for long journeys into far countries, is suddenly
found to be richer than all foreign parts. The literature of
the poor, the feelings of the child, the philosophy of the
street, the meaning of household life, are the topics of the
time. It is a great stride. It is a sign&mdash;is it not?&mdash;of new
vigour, when the extremities are made active, when currents
of warm life run into the hands and feet. I ask not for the
great, the remote, the romantic; what is doing in Italy and
Arabia; what is Greek art or Provencal minstrelsy; I embrace
the common, I explore and sit at the feet of the familiar,
the low. Give me insight into to-day, and you may
have the antique and future worlds. What would we really
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span>
know the meaning of? The meal in the firkin; the milk
in the pan; the ballad in the street; the news of the boat;
the glance of the eye; the form and the gait of the body;
show me the ultimate reason of these matters; show me
the sublime presence of the highest spiritual cause lurking,
as always it does lurk, in these suburbs and extremities of
nature; let me see every trifle bristling with the polarity
that ranges it instantly on an eternal law; and the shop,
the plough, and the leger referred to the like cause by
which light undulates and poets sing; and the world lies
no longer a dull miscellany and lumber-room, but has form
and order; there is no trifle, there is no puzzle, but one
design unites and animates the farthest pinnacle and the
lowest trench."</p>

<p> ... "Another sign of our times, also marked by an
analogous political movement, is the new importance given
to the single person. Everything that tends to insulate the
individual&mdash;to surround him with barriers of natural respect,
so that each man shall feel the world is his, and man shall
treat with man as a sovereign state with a sovereign state&mdash;tends
to true union as well as greatness. 'I learned,'
said the melancholy Pestalozzi, 'that no man in God's wide
earth is either willing or able to help any other man.' Help
must come from the bosom alone. The scholar is that man
who must take up into himself all the ability of the time, all
the contributions of the past, all the hopes of the future. He
must be a university of knowledges. If there be one lesson
more than another which should pierce his ear, it is, The
world is nothing; the man is all; in yourself is the law of
all nature, and you know not yet how a globule of sap ascends;
in yourself slumbers the whole of Reason; it is for
you to know all; it is for you to dare all. Mr. President
and gentlemen, this confidence in the unsearched might of
man belongs by all motives, by all prophecy, by all preparation,
to the American scholar. We have listened too long
to the courtly muses of Europe. The spirit of the American
freeman is already suspected to be timid, imitative,
tame. Public and private avarice make the air we breathe
thick and fat. The scholar is decent, indolent, complaisant.
See already the tragic consequence. The mind of this country,
taught to aim at low objects, eats upon itself. There
is no work for any but the decorous and the complaisant.
Young men of the fairest promise, who begin life upon our
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span>
shores, inflated by the mountain winds, shined upon by all
the stars of God, find the earth below not in unison with
these; but are hindered from action by the disgust which
the principles on which business is managed inspire, and
turn drudges or die of disgust, some of them suicides. What
is the remedy? They did not yet see, and thousands of
young men as hopeful now crowding to the barriers for the
career do not yet see, that if the single man plant himself indomitably
on his instincts, and there abide, the huge world
will come round to him. Patience, patience; with the
shades of all the good and great for company; and for solace,
the perspective of your own infinite life; and for work,
the study and the communication of principles, the making
those instincts prevalent, the conversion of the world. Is it
not the chief disgrace in the world not to be a unit; not to
be reckoned one character; not to yield that peculiar fruit
which each man was created to bear, but to be reckoned
in the gross, in the hundred, or the thousand of the party,
the section to which we belong; and our opinion predicted
geographically, as the North or the South? Not so, brothers
and friends; please God, ours shall not be so. We will
walk on our own feet; we will work with our own hands;
we will speak our own minds."</p>

<p>Of the last class of originals&mdash;those who are not only strong
to form a purpose in life and fulfil it, but who are driven by
pressure of circumstance to put forth their whole force for
the control of other destinies than their own&mdash;there is no
more conspicuous example than Father Taylor, as he is
called. In America there is no need to explain who Father
Taylor is. He is known in England, but not extensively.
Father Taylor is the seamen's apostle. He was a sailor-boy
himself, and at twenty years old was unable to read.
He rose in his calling, and at length became full of some
religious convictions which he longed to express. He has
found a mode of expression, and is happy. He is one of
the busiest and most cheerful of men; and, of all preachers
living, probably the most eloquent to those whom his preaching
suits. So it would appear from events. I heard him
called a second homely Jeremy Taylor; and I certainly
doubt whether Jeremy Taylor himself could more absolutely
sway the minds and hearts of the learned and pious of his
day than the seamen's friend does those of his flock. He
has a great advantage over other preachers in being able to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span>
speak to his hearers from the ground of their common experience;
in being able to appeal to his own sealife. He
can say, "You have lodged with me in the forecastle; did
you ever know me profane?" "You have seen me land
from a long voyage. Where did I betake myself? Am not
I a proof that a sealife need not be soiled with vice on
land?" All this gives him some power; but it would be
little without the prodigious force which he carries in his
magnificent intellect and earnest heart.</p>

<p>A set of institutions is connected with the Boston Port
Society, whose agent Mr. Taylor is. There is the Seamen's
Bethel, in North Square, where Mr. Taylor preaches; a
Reading-room, and a Nautical School; a Temperance Society,
and the Bethel Union, the last being an association of
seamen and masters of vessels for the purpose chiefly of
settling disputes without litigation and scandal, promoting
the just and kind treatment of seamen, and watching over
their rights. There is also a Clothing Society, the object
of which is economy rather than charity; and a Savings'
Bank for seamen, the merits of which are sufficiently indicated
by the title.</p>

<p>Father Taylor is the life and soul of all this. Some help
him liberally with the purse, and many with head and hands;
but he is the animating spirit of the whole. His chapel is
filled, from year's end to year's end, with sailors. He has
no salary, and will not hear of one. He takes charge of all
the poor connected with his chapel. To many this must look
like an act of insanity. No class is more exposed to casualties
than that of seamen; and, when a life is lost, an
entire helpless family comes upon the charity of society.
Father Taylor speaks of his ten thousand children, and all
the woes and faults of a multitude are accumulated upon his
hands; and yet he retains the charge of all his poor, though
he has no fixed income whatever. He does it by putting
his charge in the way of helping each other and themselves.
He encourages sobriety and economy in all their habits, and
enforces them with a power which it would be vain to attempt
to give an idea of. He uses the utmost openness
about his plans, and thereby obtains valuable co-operation.
He has a collection of money made twice every Sunday in
his church. The sums are given by the seamen almost exclusively,
and are in very small coin; but the amount has
gone on increasing, from first to last, except during intervals
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span>
when Father Taylor was absent for his health. Between
the years 1828 and 1835, the annual sum thus contributed
rose from 98 to 1079 dollars.</p>

<p>Boston owes to Mr. Taylor and to Dr. Tuckerman its
convictions of the pernicious operation of some of the old
methods of charity by almsgiving; and the names of these
gentlemen ought ever to be held in honour for having saved
the young community in which they dwell from the curse of
such pauperism in kind (the degree could never have become
very formidable) as has afflicted the kingdoms of the Old
World. Mr. Taylor owns that he little foresaw what he
was undertaking in assuming the charge of all his poor,
under such liabilities as those who follow the seaman's
calling are exposed to: but he does it. The funds are, as
it has been seen, provided by the class to be benefited; and
they have proved hitherto sufficient, under the wise administration
of the pastor and his wife, and under the animating
influence of his glowing spirit, breathed forth from
the pulpit and amid their dwellings. It seems as if his
power was resorted to in difficult and desperate cases, like
that of a superior being; such surprising facts was I told of
his influence over his flock. He was requested to visit an
insane man, who believed himself to be in heaven, and
therefore to have no need of food and sleep. The case had
become desperate, so long had the fasting and restlessness
continued. Father Taylor prevailed at once; the patient
was presently partaking of "the feast of the blessed" with
Father Taylor, and enjoying the "saints' rest on a heavenly
couch." From carrying a single point like this to redeeming
a whole class from much of the vice and wo which had
hitherto afflicted it, the pastor's power seems universally to
prevail.</p>

<p>I have not mentioned all this time what Father Taylor's
religion is, or, rather, what sect he belongs to. This is one
of the last considerations which, in his case, occurs to an
observer. All the essentials of his faith must be so right to
produce such results, that the separate articles of belief do
not present themselves for inquiry. He is "orthodox"
(Presbyterian), but so liberal as to be in some sort disowned
by the rigid of his sect. He opens his pulpit to ministers
of any Protestant denomination; and Dr. Beecher and other
bigots of his own sect refused to preach thence after
Unitarians. When this opposition of theirs diminished the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span>
contributions of his people during his absence, they twitted
him with it, and insultingly asked whether he cheated the
Unitarians, or they him? to which he replied, that they understood
one another, and left all unfair proceedings to a
third party.</p>

<p>Mr. Taylor has a remarkable person. He is stoutly
built, and looks more like a skipper than a preacher. His
face is hard and weather-beaten, but with an expression of
sensibility, as well as acuteness, which it is wonderful that
features apparently so immoveable can convey. He uses a
profusion of action. His wife told me that she thought his
health was promoted by his taking so much exercise in the
shape of action, in conversation as well as in the pulpit.
He is very loud and prodigiously rapid. His splendid
thoughts come faster than he can speak them; and, at times,
he would be totally overwhelmed by them, if, in the midst
of his most rapid utterance of them, a burst of tears, of
which he is wholly unconscious, did not aid in his relief. I
have seen them streaming, bathing his face, when his words
breathed the very spirit of joy, and every tone of his voice
was full of exhilaration. His pathos, shed in thoughts and
tones so fleeting as to be gone like lightning, is the most
awful of his powers. I have seen a single clause of a short
sentence call up an instantaneous flush on the hundreds of
hard faces turned to the preacher; and it is no wonder to
me that the widow and orphan are cherished by those who
hear his prayers for them. The tone of his petitions is importunate,
even passionate; and his sailor hearers may be
forgiven for their faith, that Father Taylor's prayers cannot
be refused. Never, however, was anything stranger than
some particulars of his prayers. I have told
elsewhere<a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a> how
importunately he prayed for rain in fear of conflagration,
and, as it happened, the Sunday before the great New-York
fire. With such petitions, urged with every beauty of expression,
he mixes up whatever may have struck his fancy
during the week, whether mythology, politics, housewifery,
or anything else. He prayed one day, when dwelling on
the moral perils of seamen, "that Bacchus and Venus might
be driven to the end of the earth, and off it." I heard him
pray that the members of Congress might be preserved from
buffoonery. Thence he passes to supplication, offered in a
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span>
spirit of sympathy which may appear bold at another moment,
but which is true to the emotion of the hour. "Father!
look upon us! <i>We are a widow.</i>" "Father! the mother's
heart thou knowest; the mother's bleeding heart thou
pitiest. Sanctify to us the removal of this lamb!"</p>

<p>The eloquence of his sermons was somewhat the less
amazing to me from my feeling that, if there be inspiration
in the world, it arises from being so listened to. It was not
like the preaching of Whitfield, for all was quiet in Father
Taylor's church. There were no groans, few tears, and
those unconsciously shed, rolling down the upturned face,
which never for a moment looked away from the preacher.
His voice was the only sound; now tremendously loud and
rapid, overpowering the senses; now melting into a tenderness
like that of a mother's wooings of her infant. The
most striking discourse I heard from him was on the text,
"That we, through the comfort of the Scriptures, might have
hope." A crew from among his hearers were going to sail
in the course of the week. He gave me a totally new view
of the great trial of the seaman's life, the pining for rest.
Never, among the poets of the earth, was there finer discourse
of the necessity of hope to man, and never a more
tremendous picture of the state of the hopeless. Father
Taylor is no reader except of his Bible, and probably
never heard of any poem on the subject on which he was
speaking; and he therefore went unhesitatingly into a picture
of what hope is to the mariner in his midnight watches
and amid the tossing of the storm; and, if Campbell had
been there, he would have joyfully owned himself outdone.
But then the preacher went off into one of his strange descriptions
of what people resort to when longing for a home
for their spirits, and not finding the right one. "Some get
into the stomach, and think they can make a good home of
that; but the stomach is no home for the spirit;" and then
followed some particular reasons why. Others nestle down
into people's good opinion, and think, if they can get praise
enough, they shall be at peace. "But opinion is sometimes
an easy tradewind, and sometimes a contrary hurricane."
Some wait and wait upon change; but the affairs of Providence
go on while such are standing still, "and God's
chronometer loses no time." After a long series of pictures
of forlornness and pinings for home, he burst forth suddenly
upon the promise, "I will give you rest." He was for the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span>
moment the wanderer finding rest; his flood of tears and of
gratitude, his rapturous account of the change from pining
to hope and rest were real to himself and to us for the time.
The address to the departing seamen was tender and cheerful;
with a fitting mention of the chances of mortality, but
nothing which could be ever construed by the most superstitious
of them, in the most comfortless of their watches,
into a foreboding.</p>

<p>Such preaching exerts prodigious power over an occasional
hearer, and it is an exquisite pleasure to listen to it;
but it does not, for a continuance, meet the religious wants
of any but those to whom it is expressly addressed. The
preacher shares the mental and moral characteristics, as
well as the experience in life of his nautical hearers; their
imaginative cast of mind, their superstition, their strong capacity
for friendship and love, their ease about the future,
called recklessness in some, and faith in others. This is so
unlike the common mind of landsmen, that the same expression
of worship will not suit them both. So Father Taylor
will continue to be the seaman's apostle; and, however admired
and beloved by the landsman, not his priest. This is
as it should be, and as the good man desires. His field of
labour is wide enough for him. No one is more sensible
than he of its extent. He told me what he tells seamen
themselves, that they are the eyes and tongues of the world;
the seed carriers of the world; the winged seeds from which
good or evil must spring up on the wildest shores of God's
earth. His spirit is so possessed with this just idea of the
importance of his work, that praise and even immediate
sympathy are not necessary; though the last is, of course,
pleasant to him. One Christmas day there was a misunderstanding
as to whether the chapel would be open, and not
above twenty people were present; but never did Father
Taylor preach more splendidly.</p>

<p>There is one great drawback in the religious services of
his chapel. There is a gallery just under the roof for the
people of colour; and "the seed carriers of the world" are
thus countenanced by Father Taylor in making a root of
bitterness spring up beside their homes, which, under his
care, a better spirit should sanctify. I think there can be no
doubt that an influence so strong as his would avail to abolish
this unchristian distinction of races within the walls of his
own church; and it would elevate the character of his influence
if the attempt were made.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span></p>

<p>No one doubts Garrison's being an original. None who
know him can wonder that the coloured race of Americans
look upon him as raised up to be their deliverer, as manifestly
as Moses to lead the Israelites out of bondage.</p>

<p>William Lloyd Garrison was, not many years ago, a
printer's boy. The time will come when those who worked
by his side will laboriously recall the incidents of the printing-office
in those days, to make out whether the poor boy
dropped expressions or shot glances which indicated what a
spirit was working within him, or prophesied of the work
which awaited him. By some accident his attention was
turned to the condition of the coloured race, and to colonization
as a means of rescue. Like all the leading abolitionists,
Garrison was a colonizationist first; but, before his
clear mind, enlightened by a close attachment to principles,
and balanced by his being of a strong practical turn, the
case soon appeared in its true aspect.</p>

<p>Garrison, then a student in some country college, I believe,
engaged to deliver a lecture on colonization; and, in
order to prepare himself, he went down to Baltimore to
master the details of the scheme on the spot where it was
in actual operation. His studies soon convinced him of the
fallacies and iniquities involved in the plan, and he saw
that nothing short of the abolition of the slave system would
redeem the coloured race from their social depression. A
visitation of persecution came at this time in aid of his convictions.
A merchant of Newburyport, Massachusetts,
gave permission to the master of a vessel of which he was
the owner to freight the ship with slaves at Baltimore, and
carry them down to the New-Orleans market. Garrison
commented upon this transaction in a newspaper in the
terms which it deserved, but which were libellous, and he was,
in consequence, brought to a civil and criminal trial, thrown
into prison, and fined 1000 dollars, which he had not the
remotest prospect of being able to pay. When he had been
imprisoned three months, he was released by the fine being
paid by Arthur Tappan, of New-York; a gentleman who
was an entire stranger to Garrison, and who did this act
(the first of a long series of munificent deeds) for the sake
of the principle involved in the case.</p>

<p>Of this gentleman a few words before we proceed. He
is one of the few wealthy original abolitionists, and his
money has been poured out freely in the cause. He has
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span>
been one of the most persecuted, and his nerves have never
appeared to be shaken. He has been a mark for insult from
the whole body of his countrymen (except a handful of abolitionists)
for a series of years; and he has never, on this
account, altered his countenance towards man or woman.
His house was attacked in New-York, and his family driven
from the city; he quietly took up his abode on Long Island.
His lady and children are stared at like wild beasts on board
a steamboat; he tranquilly observes on the scenery. His
partners early remonstrated with him on the injury he was
doing to his trade by publicly opposing slavery, and supported
one another in declaring to him that he must give up
his connexion with the abolitionists. He heard them to an
end; said, "I will be hanged first," and walked off. When
I was in America, immense rewards for the head, and even
for the ears of Mr. Tappan, were offered from the South,
through advertisements in the newspapers and handbills.
Whether these rewards were really offered by any committee
of vigilance or not was the same thing to Mr. Tappan;
he was, in either case, in equal danger from wretches
who would do the deed for money. But it cannot be thought
improbable that a committee of vigilance should commit an
act of any degree of eccentricity at a time of such panic
that a meeting was called in a new settlement in Alabama
for the purpose of voting Mr. O'Connell a nuisance. Mr.
Tappan's house on Long Island is in an exposed situation;
but he hired no guard, and lost not an hour's sleep. When
some one showed him one of these handbills, he glanced
from the sum promised to the signatures. "Are these good
names?" said he. A cause involving a broad principle,
and supported to the point of martyrdom by men of this
make, is victorious from the beginning. Its complete triumph
is merely a question of time.</p>

<p>Garrison lectured in New-York in favour of the abolition
of slavery, and in exposure of the colonization scheme, and
was warmly encouraged by a few choice spirits. He went
to Boston for the same purpose; but in the enlightened and
religious city of Boston, every place in which he could lecture
was shut against him. He declared his intention of
lecturing on the Common if he could get no door opened
to him, and this threat procured for him what he wanted.
At his first lecture he fired the souls of some of his hearers;
among others, of Mr. May, the first Unitarian clergyman
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span>
who embraced the cause. On the next Sunday Mr. May,
in pursuance of the custom of praying for all distressed persons,
prayed for the slaves; and was asked, on descending
from the pulpit, whether he was mad.</p>

<p>Garrison and his fellow-workman, both in the printing-office
and the cause&mdash;his friend Knapp&mdash;set up the Liberator,
in its first days a little sheet of shabby paper, printed with
old types, and now a handsome and flourishing newspaper.
These two heroes, in order to publish their paper, lived for
a series of years in one room on bread and water, "with
sometimes," when the paper sold unusually well, "the luxury
of a bowl of milk." In course of time twelve men
formed themselves into an abolition society at Boston, and
the cause was fairly afoot.</p>

<p>It was undergoing its worst persecutions just before I entered
Boston for the winter. I had resolved some time before,
that, having heard every species of abuse of Garrison,
I ought in fairness to see him. The relation of the above
particulars quickened my purpose, and I mentioned my wish
to the relator, who engaged that we should meet, mentioning
that he supposed I was aware what I should encounter
by acknowledging a wish to see Garrison. I was staying
at the house of a clergyman in Boston, when a note was
brought in which told me that Mr. Garrison was in town,
and would meet me at any hour, at any friend's house, the
next day. My host arrived at a knowledge of the contents
of the note quite against my will, and kindly insisted that
Mr. Garrison should call on me at home. At ten o'clock
he came, accompanied by his introducer. His aspect put
to flight in an instant what prejudices his slanderers had
raised in me. I was wholly taken by surprise. It was a
countenance glowing with health, and wholly expressive of
purity, animation, and gentleness. I did not now wonder
at the citizen who, seeing a print of Garrison at a shop window
without a name to it, went in and bought it, and framed
it as the most saintlike of countenances. The end of the
story is, that when the citizen found whose portrait he had
been hanging up in his parlour, he took the print out of the
frame and huddled it away. Garrison has a good deal of a
Quaker air; and his speech is deliberate like a Quaker's,
but gentle as a woman's. The only thing that I did not
like was his excessive agitation when he came in, and his
thanks to me for desiring to meet one "so odious" as himself.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span>
I was, however, as I told him, nearly as odious as
himself at that time; so it was fit that we should be acquainted.
On mentioning afterward to his introducer my
impression of something like a want of manliness in Garrison's
agitation, he replied that I could not know what it
was to be an object of insult and hatred to the whole of society
for a series of years; that Garrison could bear what
he met with from street to street, and from town to town;
but that a kind look and shake of the hand from a stranger
unmanned him for the moment. How little did the great
man know our feelings towards him on our meeting; how
we, who had done next to nothing, were looking up to him
who is achieving the work of an age, and, as a stimulus,
that of a nation!</p>

<p>His conversation was more about peace principles than
the great subject. It was of the most practical cast. Every
conversation I had with him confirmed my opinion that sagacity
is the most striking attribute of his conversation. It
has none of the severity, the harshness, the bad taste of his
writing; it is as gladsome as his countenance, and as gentle
as his voice. Through the whole of his deportment breathes
the evidence of a heart at ease; and this it is, I think, more
than all his distinct claims, which attaches his personal friends
to him with an almost idolatrous affection.</p>

<p>I do not pretend to like or to approve the tone of Garrison's
printed censures. I could not use such language
myself towards any class of offenders, nor can I sympathize
in its use by others. But it is only fair to mention that
Garrison adopts it warily; and that I am persuaded that he
is elevated above passion, and has no unrighteous anger to
vent in harsh expressions. He considers his task to be the
exposure of fallacy, the denunciation of hypocrisy, and the
rebuke of selfish timidity. He is looked upon by those who
defend him in this particular as holding the branding-iron;
and it seems true enough that no one branded by Garrison
ever recovers it. He gives his reasons for his severity with
a calmness, meekness, and softness which contrast strongly
with the subject of the discourse, and which convince the
objector that there is principle at the bottom of the practice.
One day, when he was expressing his pleasure at Dr.
Channing having shaken hands with him the preceding day,
he spoke with affectionate respect of Dr. Channing. I
asked him who would have supposed he felt thus towards
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span>
Dr. Channing, after the language which had been used about
him and his book in the Liberator of the last week. His
gentle reply was,</p>

<p>"The most difficult duty of an office like mine is to find
fault with those whom I love and honour most. I have been
obliged to do it about&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;, who is one of my best
friends. He is clearly wrong in a matter important to the
cause, and I must expose it. In the same way, Dr. Channing,
while aiding our cause, has thought fit to say that the
abolitionists are fanatical; in other words, that we set up
our wayward wills in opposition to the will we profess to
obey. I cannot suffer the cause to be injured by letting this
pass; but I do not the less value Dr. Channing for the things
he has done."</p>

<p>I was not yet satisfied of the necessity of so much severity
as had been used. Garrison bore with me with a meekness
too touching to be ever forgotten.</p>

<p>He never speaks of himself or his persecutions unless
compelled, and his child will never learn at home what a
distinguished father he has. He will know him as the tenderest
of parents before he becomes aware that he is a great
hero. I found myself growing into a forgetfulness of the
deliverer of a race in the friend of the fireside. One day,
in Michigan, two friends (who happened to be abolitionists)
and I were taking a drive with the governor of the state,
who was talking of some recent commotion on the slavery
question. "What is Garrison like?" said he. "Ask Miss
M.," said one smiling friend: "Ask Miss M.," said the
other. I was asked accordingly; and my answer was, that
I thought Garrison the most bewitching personage I had
met in the United States. The impression cannot but be
strengthened by his being made such a bugbear as he is;
but the testimony of his personal friends, the closest watchers
of his life, may safely be appealed to as to the charms
of his domestic manners.</p>

<p>Garrison gayly promised me that he would come over
whenever his work is done in the United States, that we
may keep jubilee in London. I believe it would be safe
to promise him a hundred thousand welcomes as warm as
mine.</p>
<br />
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span></p>

<h2><a name="Lake_George" id="Lake_George"></a>LAKE GEORGE.</h2>

<div style="margin-left: 5em;">
"Those now by me as they have been,<br />
Shall never more be heard or seen;<br />
But what I once enjoy'd in them,<br />
Shall seem hereafter as a dream."<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="smcap">G. Wither.</span></div><br />

<p class="p1">Everybody who has heard of American scenery has heard
of Lake George. At one time I was afraid I should have
to leave the States without having visited the lake which,
of all others, I most desired to see, so many hinderances had
fallen in the way of my plans. A few weeks before I left
the country, however, I was fortunate enough to be included
in a party of four who made a trip to the Springs and the
lake. It was not in the fashionable season, and for this I
was not sorry. I had seen the Virginia Springs and Rock-away
in the plenitude of their fashionable glory, and two
such exhibitions are enough for one continent.</p>

<p>It was about noon on the 12th of May when we alighted
shivering from the railcar at Saratoga. We hastened to
the Adelphi, and there found the author of Major Jack
Downing's Letters and two other gentlemen reading the
newspapers round a stove. We had but little time to spare;
and, as soon as we had warmed ourselves and ascertained
the dinner hour, we set forth to view the place and taste
the Congress water. There is nothing to be seen but large
white frame houses, with handsome piazzas, festooned with
creepers (at this time only the sapless remains of the garlands
of the last season). These houses and the wooden
temple over the principal spring are all that is to be seen,
at least by the bodily eye. The imagination may amuse
itself with conjuring up the place as it was less than half a
century ago, when these springs bubbled up amid the brush
of the forest, their qualities being discovered by the path
through the woods worn by the deer in their resort to it.
In those days the only edifices were a single loghut and a
bearpound; a space enclosed with four high walls, with
an extremely narrow entrance, where it was hoped that
bears might get in during the dark hours, and be unable to
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span>
find their way out again. Times are much changed now.
There are no bears at Saratoga but a two-legged species
from Europe, dropping in, one or two in a season, among
the gentry at the Springs.</p>

<p>The process of bottling the Congress water was in full
activity when we took our first draught of it. Though the
utmost celerity is used, the water loses much of its virtue
and briskness by bottling. The man and boy whom we
saw filling and corking the bottles with a dexterity which
only practice can give, are able to despatch a hundred dozen
per day. There are several other springs, shedding waters
of various medicinal virtues; but the Congress fountain is
the only one from which the stranger would drink as a matter
of taste.</p>

<p>The waterworks are just at hand, looking like a giant's
shower-bath. At the top of the eminence close by there is
a pleasure railroad; a circular track, on which elderly children
may take a ride round and round in a self-moving
chair; an amusement a step above the old merry-go-round
in gravity and scientific pretension. But for its vicinity to
some tracts of beautiful scenery, Saratoga must be a very
dull place to persons shaken out of their domestic habits,
and deprived of their usual occupations; and the beauties
of the scenery must be sought, Saratoga Lake lying three
miles, Glen's Falls eighteen, and Lake George twenty-seven
miles from the Springs.</p>

<p>At dinner Mr. R., the gentleman of our party, announced
to us that he had been able to engage a pretty double gig,
with a pair of brisk ponies, for ourselves, and a light cart
for our luggage. The day was very cold for an open carriage;
but it was not improbable that, before twenty-four
hours were over, we might be panting with heat; and it
was well to be provided with a carriage in which we might
most easily explore the lake scenery if we should be favoured
with fine weather.</p>

<p>The cart preceded us. On the road, a large white snake
made a prodigious spring from the grass at the driver, who,
being thus challenged, was not slow in entering into combat
with the creature. He jumped down and stoned it for some
time with much diligence before it would lie down so that
he might drive over it. As we proceeded the country became
richer, and we had fine views of the heights which
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span>
cluster round the infant Hudson, and of the Green Mountains
of Vermont.</p>

<p>We were all astonished at the splendour of Glen's Falls.
The full though narrow Hudson rushes along amid enormous
masses of rock, and leaps sixty feet down the chasms and
precipices which occur in the passage, sweeping between
dark banks of shelving rocks below, its current speckled
with foam. The noise is so tremendous that I cannot conceive
how people can fix their dwellings in the immediate
neighbourhood. There is a long bridge over the roaring
floods which vibrates incessantly, and clusters of sawmills
deform the scene. There is stonecutting as well as planking
done at these mills. The fine black marble of the place
is cut into slabs, and sent down to New-York to be polished.
It was the busiest scene that I saw near any water-power in
America.</p>

<p>Lake George lies nine miles beyond Glen's Falls. We
saw the lake while we were yet two miles from Caldwell,
the pretty village at its southern extremity. It stretched
blue among the mountains in the softening light; and we
anticipated what our pleasures were to be as we looked
upon the framework of mountains in which this gem is set.
We had just emerged from a long and severe winter. We
had been walking streets in every stage of thaw; and it was
many months since we had loitered about in the full enjoyment
of open air and bright verdure, as we hoped to do here.
This trip was to be a foretaste of a long summer and autumn
of outdoor delights.</p>

<p>The people at the inn were busy cleaning, in preparation
for summer company; but they gave us a welcome, and
lodged and tended us well. Our windows and piazza commanded
a fine view of the lake (here just a mile broad), of
the opposite mountains, and of the white beach which
sweeps round the southern extremity of the sheet of waters,
as transparent as the sea about the Bermudas.</p>

<p>As we had hoped, the next morning was sunny and warm.
We employed it in exploring the ground about Fort William
Henry, which stands on an eminence a little way back from
the water, and is now merely an insignificant heap of ruins.
The French and Indians used to pour down upon the settlements
in the plains by the passes of the Lakes Champlain
and George, and near these passes were fought some of the
severest battles recorded in American history. The mountain
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span>
opposite our windows at the Lake House is called
French Mountain, from its being the point where the French
showed themselves on the bloody 8th of September, 1755,
when three battles were fought in the neighbourhood on the
same day. It was two years later when the Marquis of
Montcalm conducted an army of 10,000 men to invest Fort
William Henry. Colonel Monroe, who held it for the British,
was obliged, after a gallant defence, to capitulate. He
marched out with 3000 men, and many women and children.
The Indians attached to the French army committed
outrages which it is thought the marquis might have prevented.
But it is probable that, when the guilt of taking
savages for allies in offensive warfare is once incurred, any
amount of mischief may ensue which no efforts of the commander
can control. Every one knows the horrible story
of Miss McCrea, the young lady who was on the way to be
married to her lover in the British army, and who was tomahawked
and scalped by the Indians in whose charge she
was travelling. During the recrimination between the commanders
on this occasion, General Burgoyne explained his
inability to control the movements of passionate savages;
and it must be supposed that Montcalm had no more power
over the Indians who plundered and then murdered almost
the whole number of the British who evacuated Fort William
Henry. It was a horrible scene of butchery. We
went over the ground, now waste and still, tangled with
bushes, and inhabited only by birds and reptiles.</p>

<p>After wandering for some hours on the beach, and breaking
our way through the thick groves which skirt it, dwelling
upon the exquisite scene of the blue lake, with its tufted
islands shut in by mountains, we wished to find some place
where we might obtain an equally good distant view, and
yet enjoy the delights of the margin of the water. By
climbing a fence we got to a green bank, whence we could
reach a log in the water; and here we basked, like a party
of terrapins, till dinnertime. The foliage of the opposite
woods, on French Mountain, seemed to make great progress
under the summer warmth of this day; and by the next
morning the soft green tinge was perceptible on them,
which, after the dry hardness of winter, is almost as beautiful
as the full leaf.</p>

<p>After dinner we took a drive along the western bank of
the lake. The road wound in and out, up and down on the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span>
mountainous barrier of the waters, for there was no beach
or other level. One of the beauties of Lake George is that
the mountains slope down to its very margin. Our stout
ponies dragged us up the steep ascents, and rattled us down
on the other side in charming style; and we were so enchanted
with the succession of views of new promontories
and islands, and new aspects of the opposite mountains, that
we should have liked to proceed while any light was left,
and to have taken our chance for getting back safely. But
Mr. R. pointed to the sinking sun, and reminded us that it
was Saturday evening. If the people at the inn were Yankees,
they would make a point of all the work of the establishment
ceasing at sunset, according to the Sabbath customs
of New-England; and we must allow the hostler a
quarter of an hour to put up the ponies. So we unwillingly
turned, and reached Caldwell just as the shutters of the
stores were in course of being put up, and the last rays
of the sun were gushing out on either side the mountain in
the rear of the village. At the Lake House the painters
were putting away their brushes, and the scrubbers emptying
their pails; and, by the time twilight drew on, the place
was in a state of Sunday quietness. We had descried a
church standing under the trees close by, and the girl who
waited on us was asked what services there would be the
next day. She told us that there was regular service during
the summer season when the place was full, but not at present;
she added, "We have no regular preacher just now,
but we have a man who can make a very smart prayer."</p>

<p>The next day was spent in exploring the eastern side of
the lake for some distance on foot, and in sitting on a steep
grassy bank under the pines, with our feet overhanging the
clear waters glancing in the sun. Here we read and talked
for some hours of a delicious summer Sunday. I spent
part of the afternoon alone at the fort, amid a scene of the
profoundest stillness. I could trace my companions as they
wound their way at a great distance along the little white
beaches and through the pine groves; the boat in the cove
swayed at the end of its tether when the wind sent a ripple
across its bows; the shadows stole up the mountain sides;
and an aged labourer sauntered along the beach, with his
axe on his shoulder, crossed the wooden bridge over a brook
which flows into the lake, and disappeared in the pine grove
to the left. All else was still as midnight. My companions
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span>
did not know where I was, and were not likely to look in
the direction where I was sitting; so, when they came within
hail&mdash;that is, when from mites they began to look as big
as children&mdash;I sang as loud as possible to catch their attention.
I saw them speak to each other, stop, and gaze over
the lake. They thought it was the singing of fishermen,
and it was rather a disappointment when they found it was
only one of ourselves.</p>

<p>On the Monday we saw the lake to the best advantage
by going upon it. We took boat directly after breakfast,
having a boy to row us; a stout boy he must be, for he can
row twenty-eight miles on the hottest summer's day. The
length of the lake is thirty-six miles; a long pull for a
rower; but accomplished by some who are accustomed to
the effort. First we went to Tea Island. I wish it had a
better name, for it is a delicious spot, just big enough for a
very lazy hermit to live in. There is a teahouse to look
out from, and, far better, a few little reposing places on the
margin; recesses of rock and dry roots of trees, made to
hide one's self in for thought or dreaming. We dispersed;
and one of us might have been seen, by any one who rowed
round the island, perched in every nook. The breezy side
was cool and musical with the waves. The other side was
warm as July, and the waters so still that the cypress twigs
we threw in seemed as if they did not mean to float away.
Our boatman laid himself down to sleep, as a matter of
course, thus bearing testimony to the charms of the island;
for he evidently took for granted that we should stay some
time. We allowed him a long nap, and then steered our
course to Diamond Island. This gay handful of earth is
not so beautiful as Tea Island, not being so well tufted with
wood; but it is literally carpeted with forget-me-not. You
tread upon it as upon clover in a clover-field.</p>

<p>We coasted the eastern shore as we returned, winning
our way in the still sunshine under walls of rock overhung
by projecting trees, and round promontories, across little
bays, peeping into the glades of the shore, where not a dwelling
is to be seen, and where the human foot seems never to
have trod. What a wealth of beauty is there here for future
residents yet unborn! The transparency of the waters of
this lake is its great peculiarity. It abounds with fish,
especially fine red trout. It is the practice of the fishermen
to select the prime fish from a shoal, and they always get the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span>
one they want. I can easily believe this, for I could see all
that was going on in the deep water under our keel when
we were out of the wind; every ridge of pebbles, every tuft
of weed, every whim of each fish's tail, I could mark from
my seat. The bottom seemed to be all pebbles where it
was not too deep to be clearly seen. In some parts the
lake is of unmeasured depth.</p>

<p>It was three o'clock before we returned; and, as it is not
usual for visiters to spend six or seven hours of a morning
on the lake, the good people at the Lake House had been
for some time assuring one another that we must have been
cast away. The kind-hearted landlady herself had twice
been out on the top of the house to look abroad for our boat.
I hope the other members of my party will be spared to visit
this scene often again. I can hardly hope to do so; but
they may be sure that I shall be with them in spirit, for the
time will never come when my memory will not be occasionally
treated with some flitting image of Lake George.</p>
<br />
<hr />

<h2><a name="Cemeteries" id="Cemeteries"></a>CEMETERIES.</h2>

<div style="margin-left: 5em;">
"Diis manibus."<br />
<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Ancient Inscription.</i><br />
</div>

<p class="p1">As might have been predicted, one of the first directions
in which the Americans have indulged their taste and indicated
their refinement is in the preparation and care of their
burial-places. This might have been predicted by any one
who meditates upon the influences under which the mind of
America is growing. The pilgrim origin of the New-England
population, whose fathers seemed to think that they
lived only in order to die, is in favour of all thoughts connected
with death filling a large space in the people's minds.
Then, in addition to the moving power of common human
affections, the Americans are subject to being more incessantly
reminded than others how small a section of the creation
is occupied by the living in comparison with that engrossed
by the dead. In the busy, crowded empires of the
Old World, the invisible are liable to be forgotten in the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span>
stirring presence of visible beings, who inhabit every corner,
and throng the whole surface on which men walk. In the
New World it is not so. Living men are comparatively
scarce, and the general mind dwells more on the past and
the future (of both which worlds death is the atmosphere)
than on the present. By various influences, death is made
to constitute a larger element in their estimate of collective
human experience, a more conspicuous object in their contemplation
of the plan of Providence, than it is to, perhaps,
any other people. As a natural consequence, all arrangements
connected with death occupy much of their attention,
and engage a large share of popular sentiment.</p>

<p>I have mentioned that family graveyards are conspicuous
objects in country abodes in America. In the valley of the
Mohawk, on the heights of the Alleghanies, in the centre of
the northwestern prairie, wherever there is a solitary dwelling
there is a domestic burying-place, generally fenced
with neat white palings, and delicately kept, however full
the settler's hands may be, and whatever may be the aspect
of the abode of the living. The new burial-places which
are laid out near the towns may already be known from a
distance by the air of finish and taste about their plantations;
and I believe it is allowed that Mount Auburn is the
most beautiful cemetery in the world.</p>

<p>Before visiting Mount Auburn I had seen the Catholic
cemetery at New-Orleans, and the contrast was remarkable
enough. I never saw a city churchyard, however damp
and neglected, so dreary as the New-Orleans cemetery. It
lies in the swamp, glaring with its plastered monuments in
the sun, with no shade but from the tombs. Being necessarily
drained, it is intersected by ditches of weedy stagnant
water, alive with frogs, dragon-flies, and moscheto-hawks.
Irish, French, and Spanish are all crowded together, as if
the ground could scarcely be opened fast enough for those
whom the fever lays low; an impression confirmed by a
glance at the dates. The tombs of the Irish have inscriptions
which provoke a kind of smile, which is no pleasure
in such a place. Those of nuns bear no inscription but the
monastic name&mdash;Agathe, Seraphine, Thérèse&mdash;and the date
of death. Wooden crosses, warped in the sun or rotting
with the damp, are in some places standing at the heads of
graves, in others are leaning or fallen. Glass boxes,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span>
containing artificial flowers and tied with faded ribands, stand
at the foot of some of these crosses. Elsewhere we saw
pitchers with bouquets of natural flowers, the water dried
up and the blossoms withered. One enclosure surrounding
a monument was adorned with cypress, arbour vitæ, roses,
and honeysuckles, and this was a relief to the eye while the
feet were treading the hot dusty walks or the parched grass.
The first principle of a cemetery was here violated, necessarily,
no doubt, but by a sad necessity. The first principle
of a cemetery&mdash;beyond the obligation of its being made safe
and wholesome&mdash;is that it should be cheerful in its aspect.
For the sake of the dead, this is right, that their memories
may be as welcome as possible to survivers; for the sake
of the living, that superstition may be obviated, and that
death may be brought into the most familiar connexion with
life that the religion and philosophy of the times will allow;
that, at least, no hinderance to this may be interposed by the
outward preparations for death.</p>

<p>It has sometimes occurred to me to wonder where a certain
class of persons find sympathy in their feelings about
their dead friends, or whether they have to do without it;
those, and they are not a few, who are entirely doubtful about
a life beyond the grave. There are not a few Christians, I believe,
and certainly many who are Christians only nominally
or not at all, who are not satisfied about whether conscious
life ends here, or under what circumstances it will be continued
or resumed if this life be but a stage of being. Such
persons can meet nothing congenial with their emotions in
any cemeteries that I know of; and they must feel doubly
desolate when, as bereaved mourners, they walk through
rows of inscriptions which all breathe more than hope, certainty
of renewed life and intercourse, under circumstances
which seem to be reckoned on as ascertained. How strange
it must be to such to read of the trumpet and the clouds, of
the tribunal and the choirs of the saints, as literal realities,
expected like the next morning's sunrise, and awaited as undoubtedly
as the stroke of death, while they are sending their
thoughts abroad meekly, anxiously, imploringly, through
the universe, and diving into the deepest abysses of their
own spirits to find a resting-place for their timid hopes!
For such there is little sympathy anywhere, and something
very like mockery in the language of the tombs.</p>

<p>Evidences of the two extremes of feeling on this matter
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span>
are found, I am told, in Père la Chaise and Mount Auburn.
In Père la Chaise every expression of mourning is to be
found; few or none of hope. The desolate mother, the
bereaved brother, the forlorn child, the despairing husband,
all breathe their complaint, with more or less of selfishness
or of tenderness; but there is no light from the future shining
over the place. In Mount Auburn, on the contrary, there
is nothing else. A visiter from a strange planet, ignorant
of mortality, would take this place to be the sanctum of
creation. Every step teems with the promise of life.
Beauty is about to "spring up out of ashes, and life out of
the dust;" and Humanity seems to be waiting, with acclamations
ready on its lips, for the new birth. That there
has been any past is little more than matter of inference.
All the woes of bereavement are veiled; all sighs hushed;
all tears hidden or wiped away, and thanksgiving and joy
abound instead. Between these two states of mind, the
seriously, innocently doubtful stand alone and most desolate.
They are speechless, for none question them or care to
know their solicitudes, for they are an unsupposed class in
a Christian community. In no consecrated ground are
there tombs bearing an expression of doubt or fear; yet,
with the mind's eye, I always see such while treading the
paths of a cemetery. It cannot be but that, among the diversity
of minds diversely trained, there must be some less
easily satisfied than others, some skeptical in proportion to
the intensity of their affection for the departed; and it is to
these that the sympathies of the happier should be given.
If the rich should be mindful of the poor, if those who are
ashore during the storm cannot but look out for the tempest-driven
bark, those who part with their friends in sure and
certain hope of a joyful resurrection should bear in mind
with all tenderness such as have to part with their friends
without the solace of that hope. Not that anything can be
done for them beyond recognising them as fellow-mourners
laid under a deeper burden of grief, and needing, therefore,
a larger liberty of expression than themselves.</p>

<p>While rambling about in the cheerful glades of Mount
Auburn, such thoughts occurred to me, as I hope they often
do to others. To us, in whom education, reason, the prophecies
of natural religion, and the promises of the gospel
unite their influence to generate a perfect belief in a life beyond
the grave, it is scarcely possible to conceive how these
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span>
scenes must appear to one whose prospects are different or
doubtful. But it is good for our human sympathies and for
our mutual reverence to make the attempt. The conclusion
would probably be, with others as with me, that the
consecration of this place to hope and triumph would make
it too sad for the hesitating and hopeless; and that such
probably turn away from the spot where all is too bright and
lovely for the desolate of heart.</p>

<p>It is, indeed, a place for the living to delight in while
watching the sleep of the dead. There is no gloom about
it to any but those who look abroad through the gloom of
their own minds. It is a mazy paradise, where every forest
tree of the western continent grows, and every bird to which
the climate is congenial builds its nest. The birds seem to
have found out that within that enclosure they are to be unmolested,
and there is a twittering in every tree. The
clearings are few: the woods preside, with here and there a
sunny hillside and a shady dell, and a gleaming pond catching
the eye at intervals. From the summit of the eminence,
the view abroad over the woods is wonderfully beautiful:
of the city of Boston on an opposite hill; of Fresh Pond on
another side; of the University; and of the green country,
studded with dwellings, and terminating in cloudlike uplands.
Every aspect of busy life seems to be brought full
into the view of the gazer from this "place of sleep." If
he looks immediately below him, he sees here and there a
monument shining among the trees; and he can hide himself
in a moment in the shades where, as the breeze passes,
the birch twinkles among the solemn pines.</p>

<p>As the burial lots have to be described with reference to
different portions of the enclosure, every hill, every avenue,
footpath, and dell must have its name. This naming might
have spoiled all if it had been mismanaged; but this has
been skilfully guarded against. The avenues and hills are
called after forest trees, the footpaths after shrubs and
flowers. Beech, Cypress, and Poplar Avenues; Hazel,
Vine, and Jasmine Paths; and so on. The monuments
must, of course, be ordered by the taste of the holders of
lots; and the consequence necessarily is occasional incongruity.</p>

<p>This place arose out of a happy union between two societies;
one which had long wished to provide a private
rural cemetery, and the Massachusetts Horticultural Society.
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span>
It occurred to some of the members of the latter that the
objects of the two associations might be advantageously
united; and upon a tract of ground, fit for the purpose, being
offered, no time was lost in carrying the scheme into
execution. This was seven years ago. The tract of ground
lay at a distance of four miles from Boston, and consisted of
seventy-two acres. The protection of the legislature was
secured at its session in 1831. A large number of lots was
immediately taken, and a day was fixed for the consecration
of the ground by a public religious service. The day fixed
was the 24th of September, 1831. The weather was delicious,
and the day one which will never be forgotten by
those who assisted in its services.</p>

<p>A deep dell, almost circular, was fitted up with seats.
The speakers stood at the bottom, with a pine wood behind
them, and at their feet a pond shining with water-lilies.
From the form of the place, every tone of the speakers'
voices was heard by the topmost row of persons on the verge
of the dell. After instrumental music by the Boston band,
there was a prayer by a venerable professor of the University;
and a hymn, written for the occasion, was sung by all
the persons present to the tune of Old Hundred. Judge
Story delivered the address; a beautiful composition, full
of the feelings natural to one who was about to deposite
here a rich heart's treasure, and who remembered that here
he and all who heard him were probably to lie down to their
rest.</p>

<p>Judge Story had made me promise at Washington that I
would not go to Mount Auburn till he could take me there.
The time arrived the next August, and early on a warm
afternoon we set forth. Several carriages were at the gate,
for the place is a favourite resort on other accounts besides
its being "a place of sleep." The gate at the entrance is
of imitation granite, for which it is to be hoped the real
stone will soon be substituted. The structure is Egyptian,
as are the emblems, the winged globe, the serpent, and the
lotus. It is rather strange that the inscription should be
taken from the Old Testament, even from Ecclesiastes:
"Then shall the dust return to the earth, and the spirit unto
God who gave it."</p>

<p>One of the most conspicuous monuments is Spurzheim's,
visible almost immediately on entering the place. It is a
fac-simile of Scipio's tomb! I could not understand its
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span>
idea, nor did I meet with any one else who did; nor is it
easy to conceive how anything appropriate to Scipio could
suit Spurzheim. I was informed that the fact was that the
monument happened to arrive just at the time of Spurzheim's
death; and that the committee appointed to dispense his
funeral honours saved themselves trouble by purchasing the
marble. It stands well, on a green mound, on the left-hand
side of the avenue. Mrs. Hannah Adams, the historian
of the Jews, had the honour of being the first to be interred
in this cemetery. The white obelisk is frequent, and looks
well in a place so thickly wooded. Under one of these lie
five children of Judge Story, removed from another place of
sepulture to this beautiful spot. The Connecticut freestone
is much in use, and its reddish hue harmonizes well with
what surrounds it. It is particularly fit for the Egyptian
fronts to vaults hollowed out of the hillsides. The objection
to it for tombs which have to receive an inscription is that
it will bear none but gold letters. The granite fronts of
Egyptian tombs look well. I thought them the most beautiful
burial-places I ever saw, the grass growing thick on
the hillside above and on either hand; and, in some instances,
a little blooming garden smiling in front. I saw
many lots of ground well tended, and wearing the air of
luxuriant gardens; some surrounded with palings, some
with posts and chains, and others with hedges of cypress or
belts of acacia. Many separate graves were studded with
flowers, the narrowest and gayest of gardens. Of all the
inscriptions, the one which pleased me most was on a monument
erected by an only surviving sister to her brother:
"Jesus saith unto her, 'Thy brother shall rise again.'"</p>

<p>While writing I have been struck by the strong resemblance
between the retrospect of travel from home and that
of life from the cemetery. In each contemplation the hosts
of human beings who have been seen acting, suffering, and
meditating, rise up before the mind's eye as in a kind of
judgment scene, except that they rise up, not to be judged,
but to instruct. The profit of travel is realized at home in
the solitude of the study, and the true meaning of human
life (as far as its meaning can become known to us here) is
best made out from its place of rest. While busy among
strangers, one is carried away by sympathy and by prejudice
from the point whence foreign society can be viewed with
anything like impartiality; one cannot but hear the mutual
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span>
criminations of parties; one cannot but be perplexed by
the mutual misrepresentations of fellow-citizens; one cannot
but sympathize largely with all in turn, since there is a
large mixture of truth in all views about which people are
strongly persuaded. It is only after sitting down alone at
home that the traveller can separate the universal truth from
the partial error with which he has sympathized, and can
make some approximation towards assurance as to what he
has learned and what he believes. So it is in the turmoil
of life. While engaged in it, we are ignorantly persuaded,
and liable, therefore, to be shaken from our certainty; we
are disproportionately moved, and we sympathize with incompatibilities,
so as to be sure of disappointment and humiliation
inflicted through our best sensibilities. In the
place of retrospect we may find our repose again in contemplating
our ignorance and weakness, and ascertaining
the conviction and strength which they have wrought out
for us.</p>

<p>What is gained by living and travelling?</p>

<p>One of the most striking and even amusing results is the
perception of the transient nature of troubles. The thoughtful
traveller feels something like wonder and amusement at
himself for being so depressed by evils as he finds himself in
the midst of long-idealized objects. He is surprised at his
own sufferings from hunger, cold, heat, and weariness; and
at his being only prevented by shame from passing some
great object unseen, if he has to rouse himself from sleep to
look at it, or to forego a meal for its sake. The next time
he is refreshed, he wonders how his troubles could ever so
affect him; and, when at home, he looks through the picture-gallery
of his memory, the afflictions of past hours
would have vanished, their very occurrence would be denied
but for the record in the journal. The contemptible entries
about cold, hunger, and sleepiness stand, ludicrously enough,
among notices of cataracts and mountains, and of moral
conflicts in the senates of nations. And so with life. We
look back upon our pangs about objects of desire, as if it
were the object and not the temper of pursuit which was of
importance. We look back on our sufferings from disease,
from disappointment, from suspense, in times when the
great moral events of our lives, or even of the age, were impending,
and we disregarded them. We were mourning
over some petty loss or injury while a new region of the
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span>
moral universe was about to be disclosed to us; or fretting
about our "roast chicken and our little game at cards,"
while the liberties of an empire were being lost or won.</p>

<p>Worse than our own little troubles, probably, has been
the fear and sorrow of hurting others. One of the greatest
of a traveller's hardships is the being aware that he must be
perpetually treading on somebody's toes. Passing from
city to city, from one group of families to another, where
the divisions of party and of sect, the contrariety of interests,
and the world of domestic circumstance are all unknown
to him, he can hardly open his lips without wounding
somebody; and it makes him all the more anxious if,
through the generosity of his entertainers, he never hears
of it. No care of his own can save him from his function
of torturer. He cannot speak of religion, morals, and politics;
he cannot speak of insanity, intemperance, or gaming,
or even of health, riches, fair fame, and good children,
without danger of rousing feelings of personal remorse or
family shame in some, or the bitter sense of bereavement in
others. Little or nothing has been said of this as one of
the woes of travelling; but, in my own opinion, this is the
direction in which the fortitude of the traveller is the most
severely tried. Yet, in the retrospect, it seems even good
that we should have been obliged thus to call the generosity
and forbearance of our hosts into exercise. They are,
doubtless, benefited by the effort; and we may perhaps be
gainers, the direct operation of forbearance and forgiveness
being to enhance affection. The regard of those whom we
have wounded may perhaps be warmer than if we had never
hurt them. It is much the same with men's mutual inflictions
in life. None of us, especially none who are frank and
honest, can speak what we think, and act according to what
we believe, without giving pain in many directions. It is
very painful, but quite unavoidable. In the retrospect, however,
we are able to smile on the necessity, and to conclude
that, as we have been willing to bear our share of the
wounding from others, and should, perhaps, have been sorry
if it had not happened, it is probable that others may have
regarded us and our inflictions in the same way.</p>

<p>Nothing is more conspicuous in the traveller's retrospect
than the fact how little external possession has to do with
happiness. As he wanders back over city and village,
plantation and prairie, he sees again care on the brow of
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span>
the merchant and mirth in the eyes of the labourer; the
soulless faces of the rich Shakers rise up before him, side
by side with the gladsome countenance of the ruined abolitionist.
Each class kindly pities the one below it in power
and wealth; the traveller pities none but those who are
wasting their energies in the exclusive pursuit of either.
Generally speaking, they have all an equal endowment of
the things from which happiness is really derived. They
have, in pretty equal distribution, health, senses, and their
pleasures, homes, children, pursuits, and successes. With
all these things in common, the one point of difference in
their respective amounts of possession of more than they
can at present eat, use, and enjoy, seems to him quite unworthy
of all the compassion excited by it; though the
compassion, having something amiable in it, is of a kindly
use as far as it goes. In a cemetery, the thoughtless are
startled into the same perception. How destitute are the
dead in their graves! How naked is the spirit gone from
its warm housings and environs of luxuries! This is the
first thought. The next is, was it ever otherwise? Had
these luxuries ever anything to do with the peace of the
spirit, except as affording a pursuit for the employment of
its energies? Is not as vigorous and gladsome a mind to
be found abroad in the fields, or singing at the mill, as doing
the honours of the drawing-room? and, if it were not so,
what words could we find strong enough for the cruelty of
the decree under which every human being is compelled to
enter his grave solitary and destitute? In the retrospect of
the recent traveller in America, the happiest class is clearly
that small one of the original abolitionists; men and women
wholly devoted to a lofty pursuit, and surrendering for it
much that others most prize: and, in the retrospect of the
traveller through life, the most eminently blessed come forth
from among all ranks and orders of men, some being rich
and others poor; some illustrious and others obscure; but
all having one point of resemblance, that they have not
staked their peace on anything so unreal as money or fame.</p>

<p>As for the worth of praise, a traveller cannot have gone
far without finding it out. He has been praised and blamed
at every turn; and he soon sees that what people think of
him matters to themselves and not to him. He applies this
to himself, and finds confirmation. It is ludicrous to suppose
that what he thinks of this man and that, whose motives
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span>
and circumstances he can never completely understand,
should be of lasting importance to the subjects of his observation,
while he feels it to be very important to his own
peace and state of temper that he should admire as much
and despise as little as reason will allow. That this is not
more felt and acted upon is owing to the confined intercourses
of the majority of men. If, like the traveller, they
were for a long time exposed to a contrariety of opinions
respecting themselves, they would arrive at the conviction
which rises "by natural exhalation" from the field of graves,
that men's mutual judgments are almost insignificant to the
objects of them, while immeasurably important to those who
form them. When we look about us upon this obelisk and
that urn, what matter the applauses and censures of the
neighbours of the departed, in the presence of the awful
facts here declared, that he has lived and is gone? In this
mighty transaction between himself and his Maker, how insignificant
to him are the comments of beings between whom
and himself there could exist no complete understanding in
this life! But there is no overrating the consequences to
himself of having lived with high or low models before his
eyes; in a spirit of love or a spirit of contempt; in a process
of generous or disparaging interpretation of human actions.
His whole future condition and progress may be
affected by it.</p>

<p>Out of this matter of mutual opinion arises a cheering
emotion, both to the retrospective traveller and to the thinker
among the tombs. Each foreign companion of the one,
and each who lies buried about the path of the other, has
had his hero, and even succession of heroes, among the living.
I know not what those who despise their kind can
make of this fact, that every human being whom we know
has found in every stage of his conception of moral beauty
some living exemplification which satisfied him for the time.
The satisfaction is only temporary, it is true, and the admiration
fades when the satisfaction is impaired; but this only
shows the vigour of the moral nature and its capacity of
progress. The fact that every man is able to make idols,
though he must "find them clay," is a proof of the vast
amount of good which human character presents to every
observer. The reality of this is very striking in the existence
of villagers, who find so much excellence round about
them that they cannot believe any other part of God's world
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span>
is so good as their village; but the effect to the traveller of
going from village to village, from city to city, during his
wanderings of ten thousand miles, and finding the same
worship, the same prejudice, born of mutual reverence and
love, wherever he goes, is exhilarating to his heart of hearts.
The testimony at the same time to the love and existence
of goodness is so overpowering, that it must subdue misanthropy
itself, if only misanthropy could be brought into the
presence of a large number of the human race; which, it
may be suspected, has never been done. When we extend
our view from the field of travel to the world of the dead,
and remember that every one of the host has had his succession
of heroes and demigods, and, probably, of worshippers
also, what words can express the greatness of the homage
rendered to goodness? It drowns all the praises practically
offered to the powers of evil, from the first hour of sin
and sorrow till now.</p>

<p>The mysterious pain of partings presses upon the returned
traveller and the surviver with nearly equal force. I do not
know whether this wo is usually taken into the estimate of
travellers when they are counting the cost of their scheme
before setting out; but I know that it deserves to be. I
believe that many would not go if they could anticipate the
misery of such partings as those which must be encountered
in a foreign country, in long dreary succession, and without
more hope than in parting with the dying. The chances of
meeting again are small. For a time grief sooths itself by
correspondence; but this cannot last, as one family group
after another opens its arms to the stranger, and gives him
a home only that he must vacate it for another. The correspondence
slackens, fails, and the parties are to one another
as if they were dead, with the sad difference that there
is somewhat less faith in each other than if they were in circumstances
in which it is physically impossible that they
could communicate. To the surviver of intercourse, in
either place of meditation, there remains the heartsoreness
from the anguish of parting; that pain which, like physical
pain, takes us by surprise with its bitterness at each return,
and disposes us, at length, to either cowardice or recklessness;
and each of these survivers may be conscious of some
visitations of jealousy, jealousy lest the absent should be
learning to forget the past in new interests and connexions.</p>

<p>The strongest point of resemblance in the two contemplations
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span>
of the life which lies behind, is this; that a scene
is closed and another is opening. The term of existence
in a foreign land, and the somewhat longer term spent on
this planetary island, are viewed as over; and the fatigues,
enjoyments, and perplexities of each result in an amount of
calm experience. The dead, it is hoped, are entering on a
new region, in which they are to act with fresh powers and
a wiser activity. The refreshed traveller has the same ambition.
I have surveyed my experience, and told my tale;
and, though often visiting America in thought, can act no
more with reference to my sojourn there, but must pass over
into a new department of inquiry and endeavour. Friendships
are the grand gain of travel over a continent or through
life; and these may be carried forward into new regions of
existence here, as we hope they may be into the unexplored
hereafter, to give strength and delight to new exertions, and
to unite the various scenes of our being by the strongest ties
we know.</p>
<br /><br />
<h2><a name="The_End" id="The_End"></a>THE END</h2>
<br />
<hr />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span></p>
<h2>VALUABLE WORKS</h2>
<h4>PUBLISHED BY HARPER &amp; BROTHERS,</h4>
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<hr />
<h2><a name="footnotes"></a>FOOTNOTES.</h2>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Society in America, vol. ii., p. 101.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> Jefferson's Correspondence, vol. iv., p. 115.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> Christian Examiner for September, 1834.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> Society in America, vol. i., p. 220-225.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> The region must, however, be less desolate than it was. The land
in the neighbourhood had been worth only twenty-five cents per acre, and
was now worth just six times as much.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> Society in America, vol. i., p. 227.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> Society in America, vol. i., p. 227.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> "Purgatories. I know not what fancied resemblances have applied
this whimsical name to several extensive fissures in the rocks of
New-England."&mdash;<i>Professor</i> <span class="smcap">Hitchcock's</span> <i>Geology, &amp;c., of Massachusetts</i>,
p. 114.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> "Théorie des Signes, pour servir d'introduction à l'étude des langues."
Avertissement.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> I have just received the following works, printed at the Boston
press for the use of the blind. I shall be thankful for assistance in getting
them into use, in securing a fair trial of them by blind pupils:&mdash;
</p><p><br />
Six copies of the Book of Psalms.<br />
----------------- Pilgrim's Progress.<br />
----------------- Dairyman's Daughter.<br />
----------------- Life of Philip Melancthon.<br />
An Atlas of the United States.<br />
</p>
<br />
</div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> Society in America, vol. i., page 281.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> Society in America, vol. i., p. 169-176.</p></div>

<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> Society in America, vol. ii., p. 264.</p></div>


<br />
<hr />
<p class="p2">Transcriber's notes</p>
<br />
<div class="footnote">
<p class="nospace">Spelling has been made consistent throughout but
kept to author's original format except where noted below.</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 7 nonarrival of a party changed to non-arrival</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 23 . added to neighbouring gallery.</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 43 typo litle bird changed to little bird</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 49 hill-sides changed to hillsides</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 50 splendid boquet changed to splendid bouquet</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 65 . added to Shakspeare.</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 83 Hount Holyoke changed to Mount Holyoke</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 85 under-graduates changed to undergraduates</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 88 down on my kness changed to go down on my knees</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 95 1833, 4 changed to 1833 - 4</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 100 saw the of smoke changed to saw the smoke of</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 108 typo New-Hamphire changed to New-Hampshire</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 114 sidetable changed to side-table</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 121 injustice and cruely changed to cruelty</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 131 kindhearted changed to kind-hearted</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 155 groundfloor changed to ground-floor</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 157 The vendure changed to The verdure</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 174 Glascow changed to Glasgow</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 200 , added to busy cutting,</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 225 sorrow of hurling changed to sorrow of hurting</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 230 Pere changed to Père</p>
<p class="nospace">Page 244 Testaments By the changed to Testaments. By the</p>
<br />
</div>
<hr />

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 40281 ***</div>
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