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Title: At Home And Abroad
       Or, Things And Thoughts In America and Europe

Author: Margaret Fuller Ossoli

Editor: Arthur B. Fuller

Release Date: July 18, 2005 [EBook #16327]

Language: English

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AT HOME AND ABROAD;
OR,
THINGS AND THOUGHTS
IN
AMERICA AND EUROPE.


BY
MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI,

Author of "Woman in the Nineteenth Century," "Art, Literature,
and the Drama," "Life without and Life Within," etc.

Edited by Her Brother,
ARTHUR B. FULLER.

NEW AND COMPLETE EDITION.

NEW YORK;
THE TRIBUNE ASSOCIATION.
134 Nassau Street
1869

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by
ARTHUR B. FULLER,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.




PREFACE.


There are at least three classes of persons who travel in our own land
and abroad. The first and largest in number consists of those
who, "having eyes, see not, and ears, hear not," anything which is
profitable to be remembered. Crossing lake and ocean, passing over
the broad prairies of the New World or the classic fields of the Old,
though they look on the virgin soil sown thickly with flowers by
the hand of God, or on scenes memorable in man's history, they gaze
heedlessly, and when they return home can but tell us what they ate
and drank, and where slept,--no more; for this and matters of like
import are all for which they have cared in their wanderings.

Those composing the second class travel more intelligently. They
visit scrupulously all places which are noted either as the homes of
literature, the abodes of Art, or made classic by the pens of ancient
genius. Accurately do they mark the distance of one famed city from
another, the size and general appearance of each; they see as many as
possible of celebrated pictures and works of art, and mark carefully
dimensions, age, and all details concerning them. Men, too, whom the
world regards as great men, whether because of wisdom, poesy, warlike
achievements, or of wealth and station, they seek to take by the
hand and in some degree to know; at least to note their appearance,
demeanor, and mode of life. Writers belonging to this class of
travellers are not to be undervalued; returning home, they can give
much useful information, and tell much which all wish to hear and
know, though, as their narratives are chiefly circumstantial, and
every year circumstances change, such recitals lessen constantly in
value.

But there is a third class of those who journey, who see indeed the
outward, and observe it well. They, too, seek localities where Art and
Genius dwell, or have painted on canvas or sculptured in marble their
memorials; they become acquainted with the people, both famed and
obscure, of the lands which they visit and in which for a time they
abide; their hearts throb as they stand on places where great deeds
have been done, with whose dust perhaps is mingled the sacred ashes
of men who fell in the warfare for truth and freedom,--a warfare begun
early in the world's history, and not yet ended. But they do much
_more_ than this. There is, though in a different sense from what
ancient Pagans fancied, a genius or guardian spirit of each scene,
each stream and lake and country, and this spirit is ever speaking,
but in a tone which only the attent ear of the noble and gifted
can hear, and in a language which such minds and hearts only can
understand. With vision which needs no miracle to make it prophetic,
they see the destinies which nations are all-unconsciously shaping
for themselves, and note the deep meaning of passing events which only
make others wonder. Beneath the mask of mere externals, their eyes
discern the character of those whom they meet, and, refusing to accept
popular judgment in place of truth, they see often the real relation
which men bear to their race and age, and observe the facts by which
to determine whether such men are great only because of circumstances,
or by the irresistible power of their own minds. When such narrate
their journeyings, we have what is valuable not for a few years only,
but, because of its philosophic and suggestive spirit, what must
always be useful.

The reader of the following pages, it is believed, will decide that
Margaret Fuller deserves to rank with the latter class of travellers,
while not neglectful of those details which it is well to learn and
remember.

Twelve years ago she journeyed, in company with several friends, on
the Lakes, and through some of the Western States. Returning, she
published a volume describing this journey, which seems worthy of
republication. It seems so because it rather gives an idea of Western
scenery and character, than enters into guide-book statements which
would be all erroneous now.

Beside this, it is much a record of thoughts as well as things, and
those thoughts have lost none of their significance now. It gives us
also knowledge of Indian character, and impressions respecting that
much injured and fast vanishing race, which justice to them makes it
desirable should be remembered. The friends of Madame Ossoli will be
glad to make permanent this additional proof of her sympathy with all
the oppressed, no matter whether that oppression find embodiment in
the Indian or the African, the American or the European.

The second part of the present volume gives my sister's impressions
and observations during her European journey and residence in Italy.
This is done through letters, which originally appeared in the New
York Tribune but have never before been gathered into book form. There
may be a degree of incompleteness, sometimes perhaps inaccuracy, in
these letters, which are inseparable attendants upon letter-writing
during a journey or amid exciting and warlike scenes. None can lament
more than I that their writer lives not to revise them. Some errors,
too, were doubtless made in the original printing of these letters,
owing to her handwriting not being easily read by those who were not
familiar with it, and very probably some such errors may have escaped
my notice in the revision, especially as many emendations must be
conjectural, the original manuscript not now existing.

There is one fact, however, which gives this part of the volume a high
value. Madame Ossoli was in Rome during the most eventful period of
its modern history. She was almost the only American who remained
there during the Italian Revolution, and the siege of the city. Her
marriage with the Marquis Ossoli, who was Captain of the Civic Guard
and active in the republican councils and army, and her own ardent
love of freedom, and sacrifices for it, brought her into immediate
acquaintance with the leaders in the revolutionary army, and made
her cognizant of their plans, their motives, and their characters.
Unsuccessful for a time as has been that struggle for freedom, it was
yet a noble one, and its true history should be known in this country
and in all lands, that justice may be done to those who sacrificed
much, some even life, in behalf of liberty. Her peculiar fitness to
write the history of this struggle is well expressed by Mr. Greeley,
in his Introduction to one of her volumes recently published.[A] "Of
Italy's last struggle for liberty and light," he says, "she might
not merely say, with the Grattan of Ireland's kindred effort, half a
century earlier, 'I stood by its cradle; I followed its hearse.'
She might fairly claim to have been a portion of its incitement, its
animation, its informing soul. She bore more than a woman's part in
its conflicts and its perils; and the bombs of that ruthless army
which a false and traitorous government impelled against the ramparts
of Republican Rome, could have stilled no voice more eloquent in its
exposures, no heart more lofty in its defiance, of the villany which
so wantonly drowned in blood the hopes, while crushing the dearest
rights, of a people, than those of Margaret Fuller."

[Footnote A: Introduction to Papers on Literature and Art, p. 8.]

Inadequate, indeed, are these letters as a memorial and vindication of
that struggle, in comparison with the history which Madame Ossoli had
written, and which perished with her; but well do they deserve to be
preserved, as the record of a clear-minded and true-hearted eyewitness
of, and participator in, this effort to establish a new and better
Roman Republic. In one respect they have an interest higher than
would the history. They were written during the struggle, and show the
fluctuations of hope and despondency-which animated those most deeply
interested. I have thought it right to leave unchanged all expressions
of her opinion and feeling, even when it is evident from the letters
themselves that these were gradually somewhat modified by ensuing
events. Especially did this change occur in regard to the Pope, whom
she at first regarded, in common with all lovers of freedom in this
and other lands, with a hopefulness which was doomed to a cruel
disappointment. She was, however, never for a moment deceived as to
his character. His heart she believed kindly and good; his intellect,
of a low order; his views as to reform, narrow, intending only what is
partial, temporary, and alleviating, never a permanent, vital reform,
which should remove the cause of the ills on account of which his
people groaned. Really to elevate and free Italy, it was necessary to
remove the yoke of ecclesiastical and political thraldom; to do this
formed no part of his plans,--from his very nature he was incapable
of so great a purpose. The expression in her letters of this opinion,
when most people hoped better things, was at first censured, as doing
injustice to Pius IX.; but alas! events proved the impulses of his
heart to be in subjection to the prejudices of his mind, and that mind
to be weaker than even she had deemed it, with views as narrow as she
had feared.

The third part of this volume contains some letters to friends, which
were never written for the public eye, but are necessary to complete,
as far as can now be done, the narrative of her residence abroad. Some
few of these have already appeared in her "Memoirs," a work I cannot
too warmly recommend to those who would know my sister's character.
Many more of her letters may be there found, equally worthy of
perusal, but not so necessary to complete the history of events in
Italy.

The fourth part contains the details of that shipwreck which caused
mourning not only in the hearts of her kindred, but of the many
who knew and loved her. These, with some poems commemorative of her
character and eventful death, form a sad but fitting close to a book
which records her European journeyings, and her voyage to a home which
proved to be not in this land, where were waiting warm hearts to bid
her welcome, but one in a land yet freer, better than this, where she
can be no less loved by the angels, by our Saviour, and the Infinite
Father. After the copy for this volume had been sent to the press,
it was found necessary to omit some portions of the work in the
republication, as too much matter had been furnished for a volume of
reasonable size. The Editor made these omissions with much reluctance,
but the desire to bring a record of Madame Ossoli's journeyings within
the compass of one volume outweighed that reluctance. He believes the
omissions have been made in such a way as not materially to diminish
its value, especially as most which has been omitted will find place
in another volume he hopes soon to issue, containing a portion of the
miscellaneous writings of Madame Ossoli.

All of these omissions that are important occur in the Summer on the
Lakes, it being thought better to omit from a portion of the work
which had previously been before the public in book form. The
episodical nature of that work, too, enabled the Editor to make
omissions without in any way marring its unity. These omissions, when
other than mere verbal ones, consist of extracts from books which she
read in relation to the Indians; an account of and translation from
the Seeress of Prevorst, a German work which had not then, but has
since, been translated into English, and republished in this country;
a few extracts from letters and poems sent to her by friends while she
was in the West, one of which poems has been since published elsewhere
by its author; and the story of Marianna, (a great portion of which
may be found in my sister's "Memoirs,") and also Lines to Edith, a
short poem. Marianna and Lines to Edith will probably be republished
in another volume. From the letters of Madame Ossoli in Parts II. and
III. no omissions have been made other than verbal, or when pertaining
to trifling incidents, having only a temporary interest. Nothing in
any portion of the book recording my sister's own observations or
opinions has been omitted or changed. The reader, too, will notice
that nothing affecting the unity of the narrative is here wanting, the
volume even gaining in that respect by the omission of extracts from
other writers, and of a story and short poem not connected in any
regard with Western life.

In conclusion, the Editor would express the sincere hope that this
volume may not only be of general interest, but inspire its readers
with an increased love of republican institutions, and an earnest
purpose to seek the removal of every national wrong which hinders
our beloved country from being a perfect example and hearty helper
of other nations in their struggles for liberty. May it do something,
also, to remove misapprehension of the motives, character, and action
of those noble patriots of Italy, who strove, though for a time
vainly, to make their country free, and to deepen the sympathy which
every true American should feel with faithful men everywhere, who by
art are seeking to refine, by philanthropic exertion to elevate, by
the diffusion of truth to enlighten, or by self-sacrifice and earnest
effort to free, their fellow-men.

A.B.F.

Boston, March 1, 1856.




CONTENTS.


  PART  I.
  SUMMER ON THE LAKES 1


  PART  II.
  THINGS AND THOUGHTS IN EUROPE 117


  PART  III.
  LETTERS FROM ABROAD TO FRIENDS AT HOME 423


  PART IV.
  HOMEWARD VOYAGE, AND MEMORIALS 441




PART I

SUMMER ON THE LAKES.

  Summer days of busy leisure,
  Long summer days of dear-bought pleasure,
  You have done your teaching well;
  Had the scholar means to tell
  How grew the vine of bitter-sweet,
  What made the path for truant feet,
  Winter nights would quickly pass,
  Gazing on the magic glass
  O'er which the new-world shadows pass.
  But, in fault of wizard spell,
  Moderns their tale can only tell
  In dull words, with a poor reed
  Breaking at each time of need.
  Yet those to whom a hint suffices
  Mottoes find for all devices,
  See the knights behind their shields,
  Through dried grasses, blooming fields.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Some dried grass-tufts from the wide flowery field,
  A muscle-shell from the lone fairy shore,
  Some antlers from tall woods which never more
  To the wild deer a safe retreat can yield,
  An eagle's feather which adorned a Brave,
  Well-nigh the last of his despairing band,--
  For such slight gifts wilt thou extend thy hand
  When weary hours a brief refreshment crave?
  I give you what I can, not what I would
  If my small drinking-cup would hold a flood,
  As Scandinavia sung those must contain
  With which, the giants gods may entertain;
  In our dwarf day we drain few drops, and soon must thirst again.




CHAPTER I.

NIAGARA.


Niagara, June 10, 1843.

Since you are to share with me such foot-notes as may be made on the
pages of my life during this summer's wanderings, I should not be
quite silent as to this magnificent prologue to the, as yet, unknown
drama. Yet I, like others, have little to say, where the spectacle is,
for once, great enough to fill the whole life, and supersede thought,
giving us only its own presence. "It is good to be here," is the best,
as the simplest, expression that occurs to the mind.

We have been here eight days, and I am quite willing to go away. So
great a sight soon satisfies, making us content with itself, and with
what is less than itself. Our desires, once realized, haunt us again
less readily. Having "lived one day," we would depart, and become
worthy to live another.

We have not been fortunate in weather, for there cannot be too much,
or too warm sunlight for this scene, and the skies have been lowering,
with cold, unkind winds. My nerves, too much braced up by such an
atmosphere, do not well bear the continual stress of sight and sound.
For here there is no escape from the weight of a perpetual creation;
all other forms and motions come and go, the tide rises and recedes,
the wind, at its mightiest, moves in gales and gusts, but here is
really an incessant, an indefatigable motion. Awake or asleep, there
is no escape, still this rushing round you and through you. It is
in this way I have most felt the grandeur,--somewhat eternal, if not
infinite.

At times a secondary music rises; the cataract seems to seize its own
rhythm and sing it over again, so that the ear and soul are roused by
a double vibration. This is some effect of the wind, causing echoes
to the thundering anthem. It is very sublime, giving the effect of a
spiritual repetition through all the spheres.

When I first came, I felt nothing but a quiet satisfaction. I found
that drawings, the panorama, &c. had given me a clear notion of the
position and proportions of all objects here; I knew where to look for
everything, and everything looked as I thought it would.

Long ago, I was looking from a hill-side with a friend at one of
the finest sunsets that ever enriched, this world. A little cowboy,
trudging along, wondered what we could be gazing at. After spying
about some time, he found it could only be the sunset, and looking,
too, a moment, he said approvingly, "That sun looks well enough"; a
speech worthy of Shakespeare's Cloten, or the infant Mercury, up to
everything from the cradle, as you please to take it.

Even such a familiarity, worthy of Jonathan, our national hero, in
a prince's palace, or "stumping," as he boasts to have done, "up the
Vatican stairs, into the Pope's presence, in my old boots," I felt
here; it looks really _well enough_, I felt, and was inclined, as you
suggested, to give my approbation as to the one object in the world
that would not disappoint.

But all great expression, which, on a superficial survey, seems so
easy as well as so simple, furnishes, after a while, to the faithful
observer, its own standard by which to appreciate it. Daily these
proportions widened and towered more and more upon my sight, and I
got, at last, a proper foreground for these sublime distances. Before
coming away, I think I really saw the full wonder of the scene. After
a while it so drew me into itself as to inspire an undefined dread,
such as I never knew before, such as may be felt when death is about
to usher us into a new existence. The perpetual trampling of the
waters seized my senses. I felt that no other sound, however near,
could be heard, and would start and look behind me for a foe. I
realized the identity of that mood of nature in which these waters
were poured down with such absorbing force, with that in which the
Indian was shaped on the same soil. For continually upon my mind came,
unsought and unwelcome, images, such as never haunted it before, of
naked savages stealing behind me with uplifted tomahawks; again and
again this illusion recurred, and even after I had thought it over,
and tried to shake it off, I could not help starting and looking
behind me.

As picture, the falls can only be seen from the British side. There
they are seen in their veils, and at sufficient distance to appreciate
the magical effects of these, and the light and shade. From the boat,
as you cross, the effects and contrasts are more melodramatic. On the
road back from the whirlpool, we saw them as a reduced picture with
delight. But what I liked best was to sit on Table Rock, close to
the great fall. There all power of observing details, all separate
consciousness, was quite lost.

Once, just as I had seated myself there, a man came to take his first
look. He walked close up to the fall, and, after looking at it a
moment, with an air as if thinking how he could best appropriate it to
his own use, he spat into it.

This trait seemed wholly worthy of an age whose love of _utility_ is
such that the Prince Puckler Muskau suggests the probability of
men coming to put the bodies of their dead parents in the fields to
fertilize them, and of a country such as Dickens has described; but
these will not, I hope, be seen on the historic page to be truly the
age or truly the America. A little leaven is leavening the whole mass
for other bread.

The whirlpool I like very much. It is seen to advantage after the
great falls; it is so sternly solemn. The river cannot look more
imperturbable, almost sullen in its marble green, than it does just
below the great fall; but the slight circles that mark the hidden
vortex seem to whisper mysteries the thundering voice above could not
proclaim,--a meaning as untold as ever.

It is fearful, too, to know, as you look, that whatever has been
swallowed by the cataract is like to rise suddenly to light here,
whether uprooted tree, or body of man or bird.

The rapids enchanted me far beyond what I expected; they are so swift
that they cease to seem so; you can think only of their beauty. The
fountain beyond the Moss Islands I discovered for myself, and thought
it for some time an accidental beauty which it would not do to
leave, lest I might never see it again. After I found it permanent,
I returned many times to watch the play of its crest. In the little
waterfall beyond, Nature seems, as she often does, to have made a
study for some larger design. She delights in this,--a sketch within
a sketch, a dream within a dream. Wherever we see it, the lines of
the great buttress in the fragment of stone, the hues of the
waterfall copied in the flowers that star its bordering mosses, we
are delighted; for all the lineaments become fluent, and we mould the
scene in congenial thought with its genius.

People complain of the buildings at Niagara, and fear to see it
further deformed. I cannot sympathize with such an apprehension: the
spectacle is capable of swallowing up all such objects; they are not
seen in the great whole, more than an earthworm in a wide field.

The beautiful wood on Goat Island is full of flowers; many of the
fairest love to do homage here. The Wake-robin and May-apple are in
bloom now; the former, white, pink, green, purple, copying the rainbow
of the fall, and fit to make a garland for its presiding deity when he
walks the land, for they are of imperial size, and shaped like stones
for a diadem. Of the May-apple, I did not raise one green tent without
finding a flower beneath.

And now farewell. Niagara. I have seen thee, and I think all who come
here must in some sort see thee; thou art not to be got rid of as
easily as the stars. I will be here again beneath some flooding July
moon and sun. Owing to the absence of light, I have seen the rainbow
only two or three times by day; the lunar bow not at all. However, the
imperial presence needs not its crown, though illustrated by it.

General Porter and Jack Downing were not unsuitable figures here. The
former heroically planted the bridges by which we cross to Goat Island
and the Wake-robin-crowned genius has punished his temerity with
deafness, which must, I think, have come upon him when he sunk the
first stone in the rapids. Jack seemed an acute and entertaining
representative of Jonathan, come to look at his great water-privilege.
He told us all about the Americanisms of the spectacle; that is to
say, the battles that have been fought here. It seems strange that
men could fight in such a place; but no temple can still the personal
griefs and strifes in the breasts of its visitors.

No less strange is the fact that, in this neighborhood, an eagle
should be chained for a plaything. When a child, I used often to stand
at a window from which I could see an eagle chained in the balcony of
a museum. The people used to poke at it with sticks, and my childish
heart would swell with indignation as I saw their insults, and the
mien with which they were borne by the monarch-bird. Its eye was dull,
and its plumage soiled and shabby, yet, in its form and attitude,
all the king was visible, though sorrowful and dethroned. I never
saw another of the family till, when passing through the Notch of the
White Mountains, at that moment glowing before us in all the panoply
of sunset, the driver shouted, "Look there!" and following with our
eyes his upward-pointing finger, we saw, soaring slow in majestic
poise above the highest summit, the bird of Jove. It was a glorious
sight, yet I know not that I felt more on seeing the bird in all its
natural freedom and royalty, than when, imprisoned and insulted,
he had filled my early thoughts with the Byronic "silent rages" of
misanthropy.

Now, again, I saw him a captive, and addressed by the vulgar with the
language they seem to find most appropriate to such occasions,--that
of thrusts and blows. Silently, his head averted, he ignored their
existence, as Plotinus or Sophocles might that of a modern reviewer.
Probably he listened to the voice of the cataract, and felt that
congenial powers flowed free, and was consoled, though his own wing
was broken.

The story of the Recluse of Niagara interested me a little. It is
wonderful that men do not oftener attach their lives to localities
of great beauty,--that, when once deeply penetrated, they will let
themselves so easily be borne away by the general stream of things,
to live anywhere and anyhow. But there is something ludicrous in being
the hermit of a show-place, unlike St. Francis in his mountain-bed,
where none but the stars and rising sun ever saw him.

There is also a "guide to the falls," who wears his title labelled on
his hat; otherwise, indeed, one might as soon think of asking for a
gentleman usher to point out the moon. Yet why should we wonder at
such, when we have Commentaries on Shakespeare, and Harmonies of the
Gospels?

And now you have the little all I have to write. Can it interest you?
To one who has enjoyed the full life of any scene, of any hour, what
thoughts can be recorded about it seem like the commas and semicolons
in the paragraph,--mere stops. Yet I suppose it is not so to the
absent. At least, I have read things written about Niagara, music, and
the like, that interested _me_. Once I was moved by Mr. Greenwood's
remark, that he could not realize this marvel till, opening his eyes
the next morning after he had seen it, his doubt as to the possibility
of its being still there taught him what he had experienced. I
remember this now with pleasure, though, or because, it is exactly the
opposite to what I myself felt. For all greatness affects different
minds, each in "its own particular kind," and the variations of
testimony mark the truth of feeling.[A]

[Footnote A: "Somewhat avails, in one regard, the mere sight of beauty
without the union of feeling therewith. Carried away in memory, it
hangs there in the lonely hall as a picture, and may some time do its
message. I trust it may be so in my case, for I _saw_ every object far
more clearly than if I had been moved and filled with the presence,
and my recollections are equally distinct and vivid." Extracted from
Manuscript Notes of this Journey left by Margaret Fuller.--ED.]

I will here add a brief narrative of the experience of another, as
being much better than anything I could write, because more simple and
individual.

"Now that I have left this 'Earth-wonder,' and the emotions it
excited are past, it seems not so much like profanation to analyze
my feelings, to recall minutely and accurately the effect of this
manifestation of the Eternal. But one should go to such a scene
prepared to yield entirely to its influences, to forget one's little
self and one's little mind. To see a miserable worm creep to the brink
of this falling world of waters, and watch the trembling of its
own petty bosom, and fancy that this is made alone to act upon him
excites--derision? No,--pity."

As I rode up to the neighborhood of the falls, a solemn awe
imperceptibly stole over me, and the deep sound of the ever-hurrying
rapids prepared my mind for the lofty emotions to be experienced. When
I reached the hotel, I felt a strange indifference about seeing the
aspiration of my life's hopes. I lounged about the rooms, read the
stage-bills upon the walls, looked over the register, and, finding the
name of an acquaintance, sent to see if he was still there. What this
hesitation arose from, I know not; perhaps it was a feeling of my
unworthiness to enter this temple which nature has erected to its God.

At last, slowly and thoughtfully I walked down to the bridge leading
to Goat Island, and when I stood upon this frail support, and saw
a quarter of a mile of tumbling, rushing rapids, and heard their
everlasting roar, my emotions overpowered me, a choking sensation rose
to my throat, a thrill rushed through my veins, "my blood ran rippling
to my fingers' ends." This was the climax of the effect which the
falls produced upon me,--neither the American nor the British fall
moved me as did these rapids. For the magnificence, the sublimity of
the latter, I was prepared by descriptions and by paintings. When I
arrived in sight of them I merely felt, "Ah, yes! here is the fall,
just as I have seen it in a picture." When I arrived at the Terrapin
Bridge, I expected to be overwhelmed, to retire trembling from this
giddy eminence, and gaze with unlimited wonder and awe upon the
immense mass rolling on and on; but, somehow or other, I thought only
of comparing the effect on my mind with what I had read and heard.
I looked for a short time, and then, with almost a feeling of
disappointment, turned to go to the other points of view, to see if I
was not mistaken in not feeling any surpassing emotion at this sight.
But from the foot of Biddle's Stairs, and the middle of the river, and
from below the Table Rock, it was still "barren, barren all."

Provoked with my stupidity in feeling most moved in the wrong place,
I turned away to the hotel, determined to set off for Buffalo that
afternoon. But the stage did not go, and, after nightfall, as there
was a splendid moon, I went down to the bridge, and leaned over the
parapet, where the boiling rapids came down in their might. It was
grand, and it was also gorgeous; the yellow rays of the moon made
the broken waves appear like auburn tresses twining around the black
rocks. But they did not inspire me as before. I felt a foreboding of a
mightier emotion to rise up and swallow all others, and I passed on to
the Terrapin Bridge. Everything was changed, the misty apparition had
taken off its many-colored crown which it had worn by day, and a bow
of silvery white spanned its summit. The moonlight gave a poetical
indefiniteness to the distant parts of the waters, and while the
rapids were glancing in her beams, the river below the falls was black
as night, save where the reflection of the sky gave it the appearance
of a shield of blued steel. No gaping tourists loitered, eyeing with
their glasses, or sketching on cards the hoary locks of the ancient
river-god. All tended to harmonize with the natural grandeur of the
scene. I gazed long. I saw how here mutability and unchangeableness
were united. I surveyed the conspiring waters rushing against the
rocky ledge to overthrow it at one mad plunge, till, like toppling
ambition, o'er-leaping themselves, they fall on t' other side,
expanding into foam ere they reach the deep channel where they creep
submissively away.

Then arose in my breast a genuine admiration, and a humble adoration
of the Being who was the architect of this and of all. Happy were the
first discoverers of Niagara, those who could come unawares upon this
view and upon that, whose feelings were entirely their own. With what
gusto does Father Hennepin describe "this great downfall of water,"
"this vast and prodigious cadence of water, which falls down after a
surprising and astonishing manner, insomuch that the universe does not
afford its parallel. 'Tis true Italy and Swedeland boast of some such
things, but we may well say that they be sorry patterns when compared
with this of which we do now speak."




CHAPTER II.

THE LAKES.--CHICAGO.--GENEVA.--A THUNDER-STORM.--PAPAW GROVE.


SCENE, STEAMBOAT.--_About to leave Buffalo.--Baggage coming on
board.--Passengers bustling for their berths.--Little boys persecuting
everybody with their newspapers and pamphlets.--J., S., and M. huddled
up in a forlorn corner, behind a large trunk.--A heavy rain falling._

_M._ Water, water everywhere. After Niagara one would like a dry strip
of existence. And at any rate it is quite enough for me to have it
under foot without having it overhead in this way.

_J._ Ah, do not abuse the gentle element. It is hardly possible to
have too much of it, and indeed, if I were obliged to choose amid the
four, it would be the one in which I could bear confinement best.

_S._ You would make a pretty Undine, to be sure!

_J._ Nay. I only offered myself as a Triton, a boisterous Triton of
the sounding shell. You, M., I suppose, would be a salamander, rather.

_M._ No! that is too equivocal a position, whether in modern
mythology, or Hoffman's tales. I should choose to be a gnome.

_J._ That choice savors of the pride that apes humility.

_M._ By no means; the gnomes are the most important of all the
elemental tribes. Is it not they who make the money?

_J._ And are accordingly a dark, mean, scoffing ----

_M._ You talk as if you had always lived in that wild, unprofitable
element you are so fond of, where all things glitter, and nothing is
gold; all show and no substance. My people work in the secret, and
their works praise them in the open light; they remain in the dark
because only there such marvels could be bred. You call them mean.
They do not spend their energies on their own growth, or their own
play, but to feed the veins of Mother Earth with permanent splendors,
very different from what she shows on the surface.

Think of passing a life, not merely in heaping together, but _making_
gold. Of all dreams, that of the alchemist is the most poetical, for
he looked at the finest symbol. "Gold," says one of our friends, "is
the hidden light of the earth, it crowns the mineral, as wine the
vegetable order, being the last expression of vital energy."

_J._ Have you paid for your passage?

_J._ Yes! and in gold, not in shells or pebbles.

_J._ No really wise gnome would scoff at the water, the beautiful
water. "The spirit of man is like the water."

_S._ And like the air and fire, no less.

_J._ Yes, but not like the earth, this low-minded creature's chosen,
dwelling.

_M._ The earth is spirit made fruitful,--life. And its heartbeats are
told in gold and wine.

_J._ Oh! it is shocking to hear such sentiments in these times. I
thought that Bacchic energy of yours was long since repressed.

_M._ No! I have only learned to mix water with my wine, and stamp upon
my gold the heads of kings, or the hieroglyphics of worship. But since
I have learnt to mix with water, let's hear what you have to say in
praise of your favorite.

_J._ From water Venus was born, what more would you have? It is the
mother of Beauty, the girdle of earth, and the marriage of nations.

_S._ Without any of that high-flown poetry, it is enough, I think,
that it is the great artist, turning all objects that approach it to
picture.

_J._ True, no object that touches it, whether it be the cart that
ploughs the wave for sea-weed, or the boat or plank that rides upon
it, but is brought at once from the demesne of coarse utilities into
that of picture. All trades, all callings, become picturesque by the
water's side, or on the water. The soil, the slovenliness, is washed
out of every calling by its touch. All river-crafts, sea-crafts, are
picturesque, are poetical. Their very slang is poetry.

_M._ The reasons for that are complex.

_J._ The reason is, that there can be no plodding, groping words and
motions on my water as there are on your earth. There is no time,
no chance for them where all moves so rapidly, though so smoothly;
everything connected with water must be like itself, forcible, but
clear. That is why sea-slang is so poetical; there is a word for
everything and every act, and a thing and an act for every word.
Seamen must speak quick and bold, but also with utmost precision.
They cannot reef and brace other than in a Homeric dialect,--
therefore--(Steamboat bell rings.) But I must say a quick good-by.

_M._ What, going, going back to earth after all this talk upon the
other side. Well, that is nowise Homeric, but truly modern.

J. is borne off without time for any reply, but a laugh--at himself,
of course.

S. and M. retire to their state-rooms to forget the wet, the chill,
and steamboat smell, in their just-bought new world of novels.

Next day, when we stopped at Cleveland, the storm was just clearing
up; ascending the bluff, we had one of the finest views of the lake
that could have been wished. The varying depths of these lakes give to
their surface a great variety of coloring, and beneath this wild sky
and changeful light, the waters presented a kaleidoscopic variety
of hues, rich, but mournful. I admire these bluffs of red, crumbling
earth. Here land and water meet under very different auspices from
those of the rock-bound coast to which I have been accustomed. There
they meet tenderly to challenge, and proudly to refuse, though, not in
fact repel. But here they meet to mingle, are always rushing together,
and changing places; a new creation takes place beneath the eye.

The weather grew gradually clearer, but not bright; yet we could see
the shore and appreciate the extent of these noble waters.

Coming up the river St. Clair, we saw Indians for the first time.
They were camped out on the bank. It was twilight, and their blanketed
forms, in listless groups or stealing along the bank, with a lounge
and a stride so different in its wildness from the rudeness of the
white settler, gave me the first feeling that I really approached the
West.

The people on the boat were almost all New-Englanders, seeking their
fortunes. They had brought with them their habits of calculation,
their cautious manners, their love of polemics. It grieved me to hear
these immigrants, who were to be the fathers of a new race, all, from
the old man down to the little girl, talking, not of what they should
do, but of what they should get in the new scene. It was to them a
prospect, not of the unfolding nobler energies, but of more ease and
larger accumulation. It wearied me, too, to hear Trinity and Unity
discussed in the poor, narrow, doctrinal way on these free waters; but
that will soon cease; there is not time for this clash of opinions in
the West, where the clash of material interests is so noisy. They will
need the spirit of religion more than ever to guide them, but will
find less time than before for its doctrine. This change was to me,
who am tired of the war of words on these subjects, and believe it
only sows the wind to reap the whirlwind, refreshing, but I argue
nothing from it; there is nothing real in the freedom of thought at
the West,--it is from the position of men's lives, not the state
of their minds. So soon as they have time, unless they grow better
meanwhile, they will cavil and criticise, and judge other men by their
own standard, and outrage the law of love every way, just as they do
with us.

We reached Mackinaw the evening of the third day, but, to my great
disappointment, it was too late and too rainy to go ashore. The beauty
of the island, though seen under the most unfavorable circumstances,
did not disappoint my expectations.[A] But I shall see it to more
purpose on my return.

[Footnote A: "Mackinaw, that long desired, sight, was dimly discerned
under a thick fog, yet it soothed and cheered me. All looked mellow
there; man seemed to have worked in harmony with Nature instead of
rudely invading her, as in most Western towns. It seemed possible, on
that spot, to lead a life of serenity and cheerfulness. Some richly
dressed Indians came down to show themselves. Their dresses were of
blue broadcloth, with splendid leggings and knee-ties. On their heads
were crimson scarfs adorned with beads and falling on one shoulder,
their hair long and looking cleanly. Near were one or two wild figures
clad in the common white blankets." Manuscript Notes.--ED.]

As the day has passed dully, a cold rain preventing us from keeping
out in the air, my thoughts have been dwelling on a story told when we
were off Detroit, this morning, by a fellow-passenger, and whose moral
beauty touched me profoundly.

"Some years ago," said Mrs. L., "my father and mother stopped to
dine at Detroit. A short time before dinner my father met in the hall
Captain P., a friend of his youthful days. He had loved P. extremely,
as did many who knew him, and had not been surprised to hear of the
distinction and popular esteem which his wide knowledge, talents, and
noble temper commanded, as he went onward in the world. P. was every
way fitted to succeed; his aims were high, but not too high for his
powers, suggested by an instinct of his own capacities, not by an
ideal standard drawn from culture. Though steadfast in his course, it
was not to overrun others; his wise self-possession was no less for
them than himself. He was thoroughly the gentleman, gentle because
manly, and was a striking instance that, where there is strength
for sincere courtesy, there is no need of other adaptation to the
character of others, to make one's way freely and gracefully through
the crowd.

"My father was delighted to see him, and after a short parley in the
hall, 'We will dine together,' he cried, 'then we shall have time to
tell all our stories.'

"P. hesitated a moment, then said, 'My wife is with me.'

"'And mine with me,' said my father; 'that's well; they, too, will
have an opportunity of getting acquainted, and can entertain one
another, if they get tired of our college stories.'

"P. acquiesced, with a grave bow, and shortly after they all met in
the dining-room. My father was much surprised at the appearance of
Mrs. P. He had heard that his friend married abroad, but nothing
further, and he was not prepared to see the calm, dignified P. with
a woman on his arm, still handsome, indeed, but whose coarse and
imperious expression showed as low habits of mind as her exaggerated
dress and gesture did of education. Nor could there be a greater
contrast to my mother, who, though understanding her claims and place
with the certainty of a lady, was soft and retiring in an uncommon
degree.

"However, there was no time to wonder or fancy; they sat down, and
P. engaged in conversation, without much vivacity, but with his usual
ease. The first quarter of an hour passed well enough. But soon it was
observable that Mrs. P. was drinking glass after glass of wine, to an
extent few gentlemen did, even then, and soon that she was actually
excited by it. Before this, her manner had been brusque, if not
contemptuous, towards her new acquaintance; now it became, towards
my mother especially, quite rude. Presently she took up some slight
remark made by my mother, which, though, it did not naturally mean
anything of the sort, could be twisted into some reflection upon
England, and made it a handle, first of vulgar sarcasm, and then, upon
my mother's defending herself with some surprise and gentle dignity,
hurled upon her a volley of abuse, beyond Billingsgate.

"My mother, confounded by scenes and ideas presented to her mind
equally new and painful, sat trembling; she knew not what to do; tears
rushed into her eyes. My father, no less distressed, yet unwilling
to outrage the feelings of his friend by doing or saying what his
indignation prompted, turned an appealing look on P.

"Never, as he often said, was the painful expression of that sight
effaced from his mind. It haunted his dreams and disturbed his waking
thoughts. P. sat with his head bent forward, and his eyes cast down,
pale, but calm, with a fixed expression, not merely of patient woe,
but of patient shame, which it would not have been thought possible
for that noble countenance to wear. 'Yet,' said my father, 'it became
him. At other times he was handsome, but then beautiful, though of a
beauty saddened and abashed. For a spiritual light borrowed from the
worldly perfection of his mien that illustration by contrast, which
the penitence of the Magdalen does from the glowing earthliness of her
charms.'

"Seeing that he preserved silence, while Mrs. P. grew still more
exasperated, my father rose and led his wife to her own room. Half
an hour had passed, in painful and wondering surmises, when a gentle
knock was heard at the door, and P. entered equipped for a journey.
'We are just going,' he said, and holding out his hand, but without
looking at them, 'Forgive.'

"They each took his hand, and silently pressed it; then he went
without a word more.

"Some time passed, and they heard now and then of P., as he passed
from one army station to another, with his uncongenial companion,
who became, it was said, constantly more degraded. Whoever mentioned
having seen them wondered at the chance which had yoked him to such
a woman, but yet more at the silent fortitude with which he bore it.
Many blamed him for enduring it, apparently without efforts to check
her; others answered that he had probably made such at an earlier
period, and, finding them unavailing, had resigned himself to despair,
and was too delicate to meet the scandal that, with such resistance as
such a woman could offer, must attend a formal separation.

"But my father, who was not in such haste to come to conclusions, and
substitute some plausible explanation for the truth, found something
in the look of P. at that trying moment to which, none of these
explanations offered a key. There was in it, he felt, a fortitude,
but not the fortitude of the hero; a religious submission, above the
penitent, if not enkindled with the enthusiasm, of the martyr.

"I have said that my father was not one of those who are ready to
substitute specious explanations for truth, and those who are thus
abstinent rarely lay their hand, on a thread without making it a clew.
Such a man, like the dexterous weaver, lets not one color go till Ire
finds that which matches it in the pattern,--he keeps on weaving, but
chooses his shades; and my father found at last what he wanted to make
out the pattern for himself. He met a lady who had been intimate
with both himself and P. in early days, and, finding she had seen the
latter abroad, asked if she knew the circumstances of the marriage.

"'The circumstances of the act which sealed the misery of our friend,
I know,' she said, 'though as much in the dark as any one about the
motives that led to it.

"'We were quite intimate with P. in London, and he was our most
delightful companion. He was then in the full flower of the varied
accomplishments which set off his fine manners and dignified
character, joined, towards those he loved, with a certain soft
willingness which gives the desirable chivalry to a man. None was more
clear of choice where his personal affections were not touched,
but where they were, it cost him pain to say no, on the slightest
occasion. I have thought this must have had some connection with the
mystery of his misfortunes.

"'One day he called on me, and, without any preface, asked if I
would be present next day at his marriage. I was so surprised, and so
unpleasantly surprised, that I did not at first answer a word. We had
been on terms so familiar, that I thought I knew all about him, yet
had never dreamed of his having an attachment; and, though I had never
inquired on the subject, yet this reserve where perfect openness had
been supposed, and really, on my side, existed, seemed to me a kind of
treachery. Then it is never pleasant to know that a heart on which we
have some claim is to be given to another. We cannot tell how it will
affect our own relations with a person; it may strengthen or it may
swallow up other affections; the crisis is hazardous, and our first
thought, on such an occasion, is too often for ourselves,--at least
mine was. Seeing me silent, he repeated his question. "To whom," said
I, "are you to be married?" "That," he replied, "I cannot tell you."
He was a moment silent, then continued, with an impassive look of cold
self-possession, that affected me with strange sadness: "The name of
the person you will hear, of course, at the time, but more I cannot
tell you. I need, however, the presence, not only of legal, but of
respectable and friendly witnesses. I have hoped you and your husband
would, do me this kindness. Will you?" Something in his manner made it
impossible to refuse. I answered, before I knew I was going to speak,
"We will," and he left me.

"'I will not weary you with telling how I harassed myself and my
husband, who was, however, scarce less interested, with doubts and
conjectures. Suffice it that, next morning, P. came and took us in a
carriage to a distant church. We had just entered the porch, when a
cart, such as fruit and vegetables are brought to market in, drove
up, containing an elderly woman and a young girl. P. assisted them to
alight, and advanced with the girl to the altar.

"'The girl was neatly dressed and quite handsome, yet something in her
expression displeased me the moment I looked upon her. Meanwhile,
the ceremony was going on, and, at its close, P. introduced us to the
bride, and we all went to the door. "Good by, Fanny," said the elderly
woman. The new-made Mrs. P. replied without any token of affection or
emotion. The woman got into the cart and drove away.

"'From that time I saw but little of P. or his wife. I took our mutual
friends to see her, and they were civil to her for his sake. Curiosity
was very much excited, but entirely baffled; no one, of course, dared
speak to P. on the subject, and no other means could be found of
solving the riddle.

"'He treated his wife with grave and kind politeness, but it was
always obvious that they had nothing in common between them. Her
manners and tastes were not at that time gross, but her character
showed itself hard and material. She was fond of riding, and spent
much time so. Her style in this, and in dress, seemed the opposite of
P.'s; but he indulged all her wishes, while, for himself, he plunged
into his own pursuits.

"'For a time he seemed, if not happy, not positively unhappy; but,
after a few years, Mrs. P. fell into the habit of drinking, and then
such scenes as you witnessed grew frequent. I have often heard of
them, and always that P. sat, as you describe him, his head bowed down
and perfectly silent all through, whatever might be done or whoever
be present, and always his aspect has inspired such sympathy that no
person has questioned him or resented her insults, but merely got out
of the way as soon as possible.'

"'Hard and long penance,' said my father, after some minutes musing,
'for an hour of passion, probably for his only error.'

"'Is that your explanation?' said the lady. 'O, improbable! P. might
err, but not be led beyond himself.'

"I know that his cool, gray eye and calm complexion seemed to say
so, but a different story is told by the lip that could tremble, and
showed what flashes might pierce those deep blue heavens; and when
these over-intellectual beings do swerve aside, it is to fall down a
precipice, for their narrow path lies over such. But he was not one
to sin without making a brave atonement, and that it had become a holy
one, was written on that downcast brow."

The fourth day on these waters, the weather was milder and brighter,
so that we could now see them to some purpose. At night the moon was
clear, and, for the first time, from, the upper deck I saw one of the
great steamboats come majestically up. It was glowing with lights,
looking many-eyed and sagacious; in its heavy motion it seemed a
dowager queen, and this motion, with its solemn pulse, and determined
sweep, becomes these smooth waters, especially at night, as much as
the dip of the sail-ship the long billows of the ocean.

But it was not so soon that I learned to appreciate the lake scenery;
it was only after a daily and careless familiarity that I entered into
its beauty, for Nature always refuses to be seen by being stared at.
Like Bonaparte, she discharges her face of all expression when she
catches the eye of impertinent curiosity fixed on her. But he who has
gone to sleep in childish ease on her lap, or leaned an aching brow
upon her breast, seeking there comfort with full trust as from a
mother, will see all a mother's beauty in the look she bends upon him.
Later, I felt that I had really seen these regions, and shall speak of
them again.

In the afternoon we went on shore at the Manitou Islands, where the
boat stops to wood. No one lives here except wood-cutters for the
steamboats. I had thought of such a position, from its mixture of
profound solitude with service to the great world, as possessing an
ideal beauty. I think so still, even after seeing the wood-cutters and
their slovenly huts.

In times of slower growth, man did not enter a situation without a
certain preparation or adaptedness to it. He drew from it, if not to
the poetical extent, at least in some proportion, its moral and its
meaning. The wood-cutter did not cut down so many trees a day, that
the Hamadryads had not time to make their plaints heard; the shepherd
tended his sheep, and did no jobs or chores the while; the idyl had a
chance to grow up, and modulate his oaten pipe. But now the poet
must be at the whole expense of the poetry in describing one of these
positions; the worker is a true Midas to the gold he makes. The poet
must describe, as the painter sketches Irish peasant-girls and Danish
fishwives, adding the beauty, and leaving out the dirt.

I come to the West prepared for the distaste I must experience at its
mushroom growth. I know that, where "go ahead" is tire only motto, the
village cannot grow into the gentle proportions that successive
lives and the gradations of experience involuntarily give. In older
countries the house of the son grew from that of the father, as
naturally as new joints on a bough, and the cathedral crowned the
whole as naturally as the leafy summit the tree. This cannot be here.
The march of peaceful is scarce less wanton than that of warlike
invasion. The old landmarks are broken down, and the land, for a
season, bears none, except of the rudeness of conquest and the needs
of the day, whose bivouac-fires blacken the sweetest forest glades. I
have come prepared to see all this, to dislike it, but not with stupid
narrowness to distrust or defame. On the contrary, while I will not be
so obliging as to confound ugliness with beauty, discord with harmony,
and laud and be contented with all I meet, when it conflicts with my
best desires and tastes, I trust by reverent faith to woo the mighty
meaning of the scene, perhaps to foresee the law by which a new order,
a new poetry, is to be evoked from this chaos, and with a curiosity
as ardent, but not so selfish, as that of Macbeth, to call up the
apparitions of future kings from the strange ingredients of the
witch's caldron. Thus I will not grieve that all the noble trees are
gone already from this island to feed this caldron, but believe
it will have Medea's virtue, and reproduce them in the form of new
intellectual growths, since centuries cannot again adorn the land with
such as have been removed.

On this most beautiful beach of smooth white pebbles, interspersed
with agates and cornelians for those who know how to find them, we
stepped, not like the Indian, with some humble offering, which, if no
better than an arrow-head or a little parched corn, would, he judged,
please the Manitou, who looks only at the spirit in which it is
offered. Our visit was so far for a religious purpose that one of our
party went to inquire the fate of some Unitarian tracts left among
the wood-cutters a year or two before. But the old Manitou, though,
daunted like his children by the approach of the fire-ships, which he
probably considered demons of a new dynasty, he had suffered his
woods to be felled to feed their pride, had been less patient of an
encroachment which did not to him seem so authorized by the law of the
strongest, and had scattered those leaves as carelessly as the others
of that year.

But S. and I, like other emigrants, went, not to give, but to get,
to rifle the wood of flowers for the service of the fire-ship. We
returned with a rich booty, among which was the _Uva-ursi_, whose
leaves the Indians smoke, with the _Kinnikinnik_, and which had then
just put forth its highly finished little blossoms, as pretty as those
of the blueberry.

Passing along still further, I thought it would be well if the crowds
assembled to stare from the various landings were still confined to
the _Kinnikinnik_, for almost all had tobacco written on their faces,
their cheeks rounded with plugs, their eyes dull with its fumes. We
reached Chicago on the evening of the sixth day, having been out five
days and a half, a rather longer passage than usual at a favorable
season of the year.


Chicago, June 20.

There can be no two places in the world more completely thoroughfares
than this place and Buffalo. They are the two correspondent valves
that open and shut all the time, as the life-blood rushes from east to
west, and back again from west to east.

Since it is their office thus to be the doors, and let in and out, it
would be unfair to expect from them much character of their own. To
make the best provisions for the transmission of produce is their
office, and the people who live there are such as are suited for
this,--active, complaisant, inventive, business people. There are no
provisions for the student or idler; to know what the place can give,
you should be at work with the rest; the mere traveller will not find
it profitable to loiter there as I did.

Since circumstances made it necessary for me so to do, I read all the
books I could find about the new region, which now began, to become
real to me. Especially I read all the books about the Indians,--a
paltry collection truly, yet which furnished material for many
thoughts. The most narrow-minded and awkward recital still bears some
lineaments of the great features of this nature, and the races of men
that illustrated them.

Catlin's book is far the best. I was afterwards assured by those
acquainted with the regions he describes, that he is not to be
depended on for the accuracy of his facts, and indeed it is obvious,
without the aid of such assertions, that he sometimes yields to the
temptation of making out a story. They admitted, however, what from
my feelings I was sure of, that he is true to the spirit of the scene,
and that a far better view can be got from him than from any source
at present existing, of the Indian tribes of the Far West, and of the
country where their inheritance lay.

Murray's Travels I read, and was charmed by their accuracy and clear,
broad tone. He is the only Englishman that seems to have traversed
these regions as man simply, not as John Bull. He deserves to belong
to an aristocracy, for he showed his title to it more when left
without a guide in the wilderness, than he can at the court of
Victoria. He has; himself, no poetic force at description, but it is
easy to make images from his hints. Yet we believe the Indian cannot
be locked at truly except by a poetic eye. The Pawnees, no doubt, are
such as he describes them, filthy in their habits, and treacherous in
their character, but some would have seen, and seen truly, more beauty
and dignity than he does with all his manliness and fairness of mind.
However, his one fine old man is enough to redeem the rest, and is
perhaps tire relic of a better day, a Phocion among the Pawnees.

Schoolcraft's Algic Researches is a valuable book, though a worse
use could hardly have been made of such fine material. Had the
mythological or hunting stories of the Indians been written down
exactly as they were received from the lips of the narrators, the
collection could not have been surpassed in interest? both for
the wild charm they carry with them, and the light they throw on a
peculiar modification of life and mind. As it is, though the incidents
have an air of originality and pertinence to the occasion, that gives
us confidence that they have not been altered, the phraseology in
which they were expressed has been entirely set aside, and the flimsy
graces, common to the style of annuals and souvenirs, substituted for
the Spartan brevity and sinewy grasp of Indian speech. We can
just guess what might have been there, as we can detect the fine
proportions of the Brave whom the bad taste of some white patron has
arranged in frock-coat, hat, and pantaloons.

The few stories Mrs. Jameson wrote out, though to these also a
sentimental air has been given, offend much less in that way than is
common in this book. What would we not give for a completely faithful
version of some among them! Yet, with all these drawbacks, we cannot
doubt from internal evidence that they truly ascribe to the Indian
a delicacy of sentiment and of fancy that justifies Cooper in such
inventions as his Uncas. It is a white man's view of a savage hero,
who would be far finer in his natural proportions; still, through a
masquerade figure, it implies the truth.

Irving's books I also read, some for the first, some for the second
time, with increased interest, now that I was to meet such people as
he received his materials from. Though the books are pleasing from,
their grace and luminous arrangement, yet, with the exception of the
Tour to the Prairies, they have a stereotype, second-hand air. They
lack the breath, the glow, the charming minute traits of living
presence. His scenery is only fit to be glanced at from, dioramic
distance; his Indians are academic figures only. He would have made
the best of pictures, if he could have used his own eyes for studies
and sketches; as it is, his success is wonderful, but inadequate.

McKenney's Tour to the Lakes is the dullest of books, yet faithful and
quiet, and gives some facts not to be met with everywhere.

I also read a collection of Indian anecdotes and speeches, the worst
compiled and arranged book possible, yet not without clews of some
value. All these books I read in anticipation of a canoe-voyage
on Lake Superior as far as the Pictured Rocks, and, though I was
afterwards compelled to give up this project, they aided me in judging
of what I subsequently saw and heard of the Indians.

In Chicago I first saw the beautiful prairie-flowers. They were in
their glory the first ten days we were there,--

  "The golden and the flame-like flowers."

The flame-like flower I was taught afterwards, by an Indian girl, to
call "Wickapee"; and she told me, too, that its splendors had a useful
side, for it was used by the Indians as a remedy for an illness to
which they were subject.

Beside these brilliant flowers, which gemmed and gilt the grass in a
sunny afternoon's drive near the blue lake, between the low oak-wood
and the narrow beach, stimulated, whether sensuously by the optic
nerve, unused to so much gold and crimson with such tender green, or
symbolically through some meaning dimly seen in the flowers, I enjoyed
a sort of fairy-land exultation never felt before, and the first drive
amid the flowers gave me anticipation of the beauty of the prairies.

At first, the prairie seemed to speak of the very desolation of
dulness. After sweeping over the vast monotony of the lakes to come to
this monotony of land, with all around a limitless horizon,--to walk,
and walk, and run, but never climb, oh! it was too dreary for any but
a Hollander to bear. How the eye greeted the approach of a sail, or
the smoke of a steamboat; it seemed that anything so animated must
come from a better land, where mountains gave religion to the scene.

The only thing I liked at first to do was to trace with slow and
unexpecting step the narrow margin of the lake. Sometimes a heavy
swell gave it expression; at others, only its varied coloring, which
I found more admirable every day, and which gave it an air of mirage
instead of the vastness of ocean. Then there was a grandeur in the
feeling that I might continue that walk, if I had any seven-leagued
mode of conveyance to save fatigue, for hundreds of miles without an
obstacle and without a change.

But after I had ridden out, and seen the flowers, and observed the
sun set with that calmness seen only in the prairies, and tire cattle
winding slowly to their homes in the "island groves,"--most peaceful
of sights,--I began to love, because I began to know tire scene, and
shrank no longer from "the encircling vastness."

It is always thus with the new form of life; we must learn to look
at it by its own standard. At first, no doubt, my accustomed eye kept
saying, if the mind did not, What! no distant mountains? What! no
valleys? But after a while I would ascend the roof of the house where
we lived, and pass many hours, needing no sight but the moon reigning
in the heavens, or starlight falling upon the lake, till all the
lights were out in the island grove of men beneath my feet, and felt
nearer heaven that there was nothing but this lovely, still reception
on the earth; no towering mountains, no deep tree-shadows, nothing but
plain earth and water bathed in light.

Sunset, as seen from that place, presented most generally, low-lying,
flaky clouds, of the softest serenity.

One night a star "shot madly from, its sphere," and it had a fair
chance to be seen, but that serenity could not be astonished.

Yes! it was a peculiar beauty, that of those sunsets and moonlights on
the levels of Chicago, which Chamouny or the Trosachs could not make
me forget.[A]

[Footnote A: "From the prairie near Chicago had I seen, some days
before, the sun set with that calmness observed only on the prairies.
I know not what it says, but something quite different from sunset
at sea. There is no motion except of waving grasses,--the cattle move
slowly homeward in the distance. That _home!_ where is it? It seems as
If there was no home, and no need of one, and there is room enough to
wander on for ever."--Manuscript Notes.]

Notwithstanding all the attractions I thus found out by degrees on the
flat shores of the lake, I was delighted when I found myself really on
my way into the country for an excursion of two or three weeks. We set
forth in a strong wagon, almost as large, and with the look of those
used elsewhere for transporting caravans of wild beasts, loaded with
everything we might want, in case nobody would give it to us,--for
buying and selling were no longer to be counted on,--with, a pair of
strong horses, able and willing to force their way through mud-holes
and amid stumps, and a guide, equally admirable as marshal and
companion, who knew by heart the country and its history, both natural
and artificial, and whose clear hunter's eye needed, neither road nor
goal to guide it to all the spots where beauty best loves to dwell.

Add to this the finest weather, and such country as I had never seen,
even in my dreams, although these dreams had been haunted by wishes
for just such a one, and you may judge whether years of dulness might
not, by these bright days, be redeemed, and a sweetness be shed over
all thoughts of the West.

The first day brought us through woods rich in the moccason-flower
and lupine, and plains whose soft expanse was continually touched with
expression by the slow moving clouds which

  "Sweep over with their shadows, and beneath
  The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye;
  Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase
          The sunny ridges,"

to the banks of the Fox River, a sweet and graceful stream. We
readied Geneva just in time to escape being drenched by a violent
thunder-shower, whose rise and disappearance threw expression into all
the features of the scene.

Geneva reminds me of a New England village, as indeed there, and
in the neighborhood, are many New-Englanders of an excellent stamp,
generous, intelligent, discreet, and seeking to win from life its true
values. Such are much wanted, and seem like points of light among the
swarms of settlers, whose aims are sordid, whose habits thoughtless
and slovenly.[A]

[Footnote A: "We passed a portion of one day with Mr. and Mrs. ----,
young, healthy, and, thank Heaven, _gay_ people. In the general
dulness that broods over this land where so little genius flows,
and care, business, and fashionable frivolity are equally dull,
unspeakable is the relief of some flashes of vivacity, some sparkles
of wit. Of course it is hard enough for those, most natively disposed
that way, to strike fire. I would willingly be the tinder to promote
the cheering blaze."--Manuscript Notes.]

With great pleasure we heard, with his attentive and affectionate
congregation, the Unitarian clergyman, Mr. Conant, and afterward
visited him in his house, where almost everything bore traces of his
own handiwork or that of his father. He is just such a teacher as is
wanted in this region, familiar enough, with the habits of those he
addresses to come home to their experience and their wants; earnest
and enlightened enough to draw the important inferences from the life
of every day.[B]

[Footnote B: "Let any who think men do not need or want the church,
hear these people talk about it as if it were the only indispensable
thing, and see what I saw in Chicago. An elderly lady from
Philadelphia, who had been visiting her sons in the West, arrived
there about one o'clock on a hot Sunday noon. She rang the bell and
requested a room immediately, as she wanted to get ready for afternoon
service. Some delay occurring, she expressed great regret, as she had
ridden all night for the sake of attending church. She went to
church, neither having dined nor taken any repose after her
journey."--Manuscript Notes.]

A day or two we remained here, and passed some happy hours in the
woods that fringe the stream, where the gentlemen found a rich booty
of fish.

Next day, travelling along the river's banks, was an uninterrupted
pleasure. We closed our drive in the afternoon at the house of an
English gentleman, who has gratified, as few men do, the common wish
to pass the evening of an active day amid the quiet influences of
country life. He showed us a bookcase filled with books about this
country; these he had collected for years, and become so familiar with
the localities, that, on coming here at last, he sought and found, at
once, the very spot he wanted, and where he is as content as he hoped
to be, thus realizing Wordsworth's description of the wise man, who
"sees what he foresaw."

A wood surrounds the house, through which paths are cut in every
direction. It is, for this new country, a large and handsome dwelling;
but round it are its barns and farm-yard, with cattle and poultry.
These, however, in the framework of wood, have a very picturesque and
pleasing effect. There is that mixture of culture and rudeness in the
aspect of things which gives a feeling of freedom, not of confusion.

I wish, it were possible to give some idea of this scene, as viewed
by the earliest freshness of dewy dawn. This habitation of man seemed
like a nest in the grass, so thoroughly were the buildings and all
the objects of human care harmonized with, what was natural. The tall
trees bent and whispered all around, as if to hail with, sheltering
love the men who had come to dwell among them.

The young ladies were musicians, and spoke French fluently, having
been educated in a convent. Here in the prairie, they had learned to
take care of the milk-room, and kill the rattlesnakes that assailed
their poultry-yard. Beneath the shade of heavy curtains you looked out
from the high and large windows to see Norwegian peasants at work in
their national dress. In the wood grew, not only the flowers I had
before seen, and wealth of tall, wild roses, but the splendid blue
spiderwort, that ornament of our gardens. Beautiful children strayed
there, who were soon to leave these civilized regions for some really
wild and western place, a post in the buffalo country. Their no less
beautiful mother was of Welsh descent, and the eldest child bore
the name of Gwynthleon. Perhaps there she will meet with some young
descendants of Madoc, to be her friends; at any rate, her looks may
retain that sweet, wild beauty, that is soon made to vanish from eyes
which look too much on shops and streets, and the vulgarities of city
"parties."

Next day we crossed the river. We ladies crossed on a little
foot-bridge, from which we could look down the stream, and see the
wagon pass over at the ford. A black thunder-cloud was coming up; the
sky and waters heavy with expectation. The motion of the wagon, with
its white cover, and the laboring horses, gave just the due interest
to the picture, because it seemed, as if they would not have time to
cross before the storm came on. However, they did get across, and we
were a mile or two on our way before the violent shower obliged us to
take refuge in a solitary house upon the prairie. In this country it
is as pleasant to stop as to go on, to lose your way as to find
it, for the variety in the population gives you a chance for fresh
entertainment in every hut, and the luxuriant beauty makes every path
attractive. In this house we found a family "quite above the common,"
but, I grieve to say, not above false pride, for the father, ashamed
of being caught barefoot, told us a story of a man, one of the richest
men, he said, in one of the Eastern cities, who went barefoot, from
choice and taste.

Near the door grew a Provence rose, then in blossom. Other families we
saw had brought with them and planted the locust. It was pleasant
to see their old home loves, brought into connection with their new
splendors. Wherever there were traces of this tenderness of feeling,
only too rare among Americans, other things bore signs also of
prosperity and intelligence, as if the ordering mind of man had some
idea of home beyond a mere shelter beneath which to eat and sleep.

No heaven need wear a lovelier aspect than earth did this afternoon,
after the clearing up of the shower. We traversed the blooming plain,
unmarked by any road, only the friendly track of wheels which bent,
not broke, the grass. Our stations were not from town to town, but
from grove to grove. These groves first floated like blue islands
in the distance. As we drew nearer, they seemed fair parks, and the
little log-houses on the edge, with their curling smokes, harmonized
beautifully with them.

One of these groves, Ross's Grove, we reached just at sunset, It was
of the noblest trees I saw during this journey, for generally the
trees were not large or lofty, but only of fair proportions. Here they
were large enough to form with their clear stems pillars for grand
cathedral aisles. There was space enough for crimson light to stream
through upon the floor of water which the shower had left. As we
slowly plashed through, I thought I was never in a better place for
vespers.

That night we rested, or rather tarried, at a grove some miles beyond,
and there partook of the miseries, so often jocosely portrayed, of
bedchambers for twelve, a milk dish for universal hand-basin, and
expectations that you would use and lend your "hankercher" for a
towel. But this was the only night, thanks to the hospitality of
private families, that we passed thus; and it was well that we had
this bit of experience, else might we have pronounced all Trollopian
records of the kind to be inventions of pure malice.

With us was a young lady who showed herself to have been bathed in
the Britannic fluid, wittily described by a late French writer, by
the impossibility she experienced of accommodating herself to the
indecorums of the scene. We ladies were to sleep in the bar-room, from
which its drinking visitors could be ejected only at a late hour. The
outer door had no fastening to prevent their return. However, our host
kindly requested we would call him, if they did, as he had "conquered
them for us," and would do so again. We had also rather hard couches
(mine was the supper-table); but we Yankees, born to rove, were
altogether too much fatigued to stand upon trifles, and slept as
sweetly as we would in the "bigly bower" of any baroness. But I think
England sat up all night, wrapped in her blanket-shawl, and with a
neat lace cap upon her head,--so that she would have looked perfectly
the lady, if any one had come in,--shuddering and listening. I know
that she was very ill next day, in requital. She watched, as her
parent country watches the seas, that nobody may do wrong in any case,
and deserved to have met some interruption, she was so well prepared.
However, there was none, other than from the nearness of some twenty
sets of powerful lungs, which would not leave the night to a deathly
stillness. In this house we had, if not good beds, yet good tea, good
bread, and wild strawberries, and were entertained with most free
communications of opinion and history from our hosts. Neither shall
any of us have a right to say again that we cannot find any who may
be willing to hear all we may have to say. "A's fish that comes to the
net," should be painted on the sign at Papaw Grove.




CHAPTER III.

ROCK RIVER.--OREGON.--ANCIENT INDIAN VILLAGE.--GANYMEDE TO
HIS EAGLE.--WESTERN FOURTH OF JULY CELEBRATION.--WOMEN IN THE
WEST.--KISHWAUKIE.--BELVIDERE.--FAREWELL.


In the afternoon of this day we reached the Rock River, in whose
neighborhood we proposed to make some stay, and crossed at Dixon's
Ferry.

This beautiful stream flows full and wide over a bed of rocks,
traversing a distance of near two hundred miles, to reach the
Mississippi. Great part of the country along its banks is the finest
region of Illinois, and the scene of some of the latest romance of
Indian warfare. To these beautiful regions Black Hawk returned with
his band "to pass the summer," when he drew upon himself the warfare
in which he was finally vanquished. No wonder he could not resist the
longing, unwise though its indulgence might be, to return in summer to
this home of beauty.

Of Illinois, in general, it has often been remarked, that it bears the
character of country which has been inhabited by a nation skilled
like the English in all the ornamental arts of life, especially in
landscape-gardening. The villas and castles seem to have been burnt,
the enclosures taken down, but the velvet lawns, the flower-gardens,
the stately parks, scattered at graceful intervals by the decorous
hand of art, the frequent deer, and the peaceful herd of cattle that
make picture of the plain, all suggest more of the masterly mind
of man, than the prodigal, but careless, motherly love of Nature.
Especially is this true of the Rock River country. The river flows
sometimes through these parks and lawns, then betwixt high bluffs,
whose grassy ridges are covered with fine trees, or broken with
crumbling stone, that easily assumes the forms of buttress, arch, and
clustered columns. Along the face of such crumbling rocks, swallows'
nests are clustered, thick as cities, and eagles and deer do not
disdain their summits. One morning, out in the boat along the base of
these rocks, it was amusing, and affecting too, to see these swallows
put their heads out to look at us. There was something very hospitable
about it, as if man had never shown himself a tyrant near them. What
a morning that was! Every sight is worth twice as much by the early
morning light. We borrow something of the spirit of the hour to look
upon them.

The first place where we stopped was one of singular beauty, a beauty
of soft, luxuriant wildness. It was on the bend of the river, a place
chosen by an Irish gentleman, whose absenteeship seems of the wisest
kind, since, for a sum which would have been but a drop of water to
the thirsty fever of his native land, he commands a residence
which has all that is desirable, in its independence, its beautiful
retirement, and means of benefit to others.

His park, his deer-chase, he found already prepared; he had only to
make an avenue through it. This brought us to the house by a drive,
which in the heat of noon seemed long, though afterwards, in the cool
of morning and evening, delightful. This is, for that part of the
world, a large and commodious dwelling. Near it stands the log-cabin
where its master lived while it was building, a very ornamental
accessory.

In front of the house was a lawn, adorned by the most graceful trees.
A few of these had been taken out to give a full view of the river,
gliding through banks such as I have described. On this bend the bank
is high and bold, so from, the house or the lawn the view was very
rich and commanding. But if you descended a ravine at the side to the
water's edge, you found there a long walk on the narrow shore, with
a wall above of the richest hanging wood, in which they said the deer
lay hid. I never saw one but often fancied that I heard them rustling,
at daybreak, by these bright, clear waters, stretching out in such
smiling promise where no sound broke the deep and blissful seclusion,
unless now and then this rustling, or the splash of some fish a little
gayer than the others; it seemed not necessary to have any better
heaven, or fuller expression of love and freedom, than in the mood of
Nature here.

Then, leaving the bank, you would walk far and yet farther through
long, grassy paths, full of the most brilliant, also the most delicate
flowers. The brilliant are more common on the prairie, but both kinds
loved this place.

Amid the grass of the lawn, with a profusion of wild strawberries, we
greeted also a familiar love, the Scottish harebell, the gentlest and
most touching form of the flower-world.

The master of the house was absent, but with a kindness beyond thanks
had offered us a resting-place there. Here we were taken care of by
a deputy, who would, for his youth, have been assigned the place of
a page in former times, but in the young West, it seems, he was old
enough for a steward. Whatever be called his function, he did the
honors of the place so much in harmony with it, as to leave the guests
free to imagine themselves in Elysium. And the three days passed here
were days of unalloyed, spotless happiness.

There was a peculiar charm in coming here, where the choice of
location, and the unobtrusive good taste of all the arrangements,
showed such intelligent appreciation of the spirit of the scene, after
seeing so many dwellings of the new settlers, which showed plainly
that they had no thought beyond satisfying the grossest material
wants. Sometimes they looked attractive, these little brown houses,
the natural architecture of the country, in the edge of the timber.
But almost always, when you came near the slovenliness of the
dwelling, and the rude way in which objects around it were treated,
when so little care would have presented a charming whole, were
very repulsive. Seeing the traces of the Indians, who chose the most
beautiful sites for their dwellings, and whose habits do not break
in on that aspect of Nature under which they were born, we feel as if
they were the rightful lords of a beauty they forbore to deform. But
most of these settlers do not see it at all; it breathes, it speaks
in vain to those who are rushing into its sphere. Their progress is
Gothic, not Roman, and their mode of cultivation will, in the course
of twenty, perhaps ten years, obliterate the natural expression of the
country.

This is inevitable, fatal; we must not complain, but look forward to
a good result. Still, in travelling through this country, I could not
but be struck with the force of a symbol. Wherever the hog comes,
the rattlesnake disappears; the omnivorous traveller, safe in its
stupidity, willingly and easily makes a meal of the most dangerous of
reptiles, and one which the Indian looks on with a mystic awe. Even so
the white settler pursues the Indian, and is victor in the chase. But
I shall say more upon the subject by and by.

While we were here, we had one grand thunder-storm, which added new
glory to the scene.

One beautiful feature was the return of the pigeons every afternoon
to their home. At this time they would come sweeping across the lawn,
positively in clouds, and with a swiftness and softness of winged
motion more beautiful than anything of the kind I ever knew. Had
I been a musician, such as Mendelssohn, I felt that I could have
improvised a music quite peculiar, from the sound they made, which
should have indicated all the beauty over which their wings bore them.
I will here insert a few lines left at this house on parting, which
feebly indicate some of the features.

  THE WESTERN EDEN.

  Familiar to the childish mind were tales
    Of rock-girt isles amid a desert sea,
  Where unexpected stretch the flowery vales
    To soothe the shipwrecked sailor's misery.
  Fainting, he lay upon a sandy shore,
  And fancied that all hope of life was o'er;
  But let him patient climb the frowning wall,
  Within, the orange glows beneath the palm-tree tall,
  And all that Eden boasted waits his call.

  Almost these tales seem realized to-day,
  When the long dulness of the sultry way,
  Where "independent" settlers' careless cheer
  Made us indeed feel we were "strangers" here,
  Is cheered by sudden sight of this fair spot,
  On which "improvement" yet has made no blot,
  But Nature all-astonished stands, to find
  Her plan protected by the human mind.

  Blest be the kindly genius of the scene;
    The river, bending in unbroken grace,
  The stately thickets, with their pathways green,
    Fair, lonely trees, each in its fittest place;
  Those thickets haunted by the deer and fawn;
  Those cloudlike flights of birds across the lawn!
  The gentlest breezes here delight to blow,
  And sun and shower and star are emulous to deck the show.

  Wondering, as Crusoe, we survey the land;
  Happier than Crusoe we, a friendly band.
  Blest be the hand that reared this friendly home,
  The heart and mind of him to whom we owe
  Hours of pure peace such as few mortals know;
  May he find such, should he be led to roam,--
  Be tended by such ministering sprites,--
  Enjoy such gayly childish days, such hopeful nights!
  And yet, amid the goods to mortals given,
  To give those goods again is most like heaven.

Hazelwood, Rock River, June 30, 1843.


The only really rustic feature was of the many coops of poultry near
the house, which I understood it to be one of the chief pleasures of
the master to feed.

Leaving this place, we proceeded a day's journey along the beautiful
stream, to a little town named Oregon. We called at a cabin, from
whose door looked out one of those faces which, once seen, are never
forgotten; young, yet touched with many traces of feeling, not only
possible, but endured; spirited, too, like the gleam of a finely
tempered blade. It was a face that suggested a history, and many
histories, but whose scene would have been in courts and camps. At
this moment their circles are dull for want of that life which, is
waning unexcited in this solitary recess.

The master of the house proposed to show us a "short cut," by which
we might, to especial advantage, pursue our journey. This proved to be
almost perpendicular down a hill, studded with young trees and stumps.
From these he proposed, with a hospitality of service worthy an
Oriental, to free our wheels whenever they should get entangled,
also to be himself the drag, to prevent our too rapid descent. Such
generosity deserved trust; however, we women could not be persuaded to
render it. We got out and admired, from afar, the process. Left by our
guide and prop, we found ourselves in a wide field, where, by playful
quips and turns, an endless "creek," seemed to divert itself with our
attempts to cross it. Failing in this, the next best was to whirl
down a steep bank, which feat our charioteer performed with an air
not unlike that of Rhesus, had he but been as suitably furnished with
chariot and steeds!

At last, after wasting some two or three hours on the "short cut,"
we got out by following an Indian trail,--Black Hawk's! How fair
the scene through which it led! How could they let themselves be
conquered, with such a country to fight for!

Afterwards, in the wide prairie, we saw a lively picture of
nonchalance (to speak in the fashion of clear Ireland). There, in the
wide sunny field, with neither tree nor umbrella above his head, sat
a pedler, with his pack, waiting apparently for customers. He was not
disappointed. We bought what hold, in regard to the human world,
as unmarked, as mysterious, and as important an existence, as the
infusoria to the natural, to wit, pins. This incident would have
delighted those modern sages, who, in imitation of the sitting
philosophers of ancient Ind, prefer silence to speech, waiting to
going, and scornfully smile, in answer to the motions of earnest life,

  "Of itself will nothing come,
  That ye must still be seeking?"

However, it seemed to me to-day, as formerly on these sublime
occasions, obvious that nothing would, come, unless something would
go; now, if we had been as sublimely still as the pedler, his pins
would have tarried in the pack, and his pockets sustained an aching
void of pence.

Passing through one of the fine, park-like woods, almost clear from
underbrush and carpeted with thick grasses and flowers, we met (for it
was Sunday) a little congregation just returning from their service,
which had been performed in a rude house in its midst. It had a sweet
and peaceful air, as if such words and thoughts were very dear to
them. The parents had with them, all their little children; but we saw
no old people; that charm was wanting which exists in such scenes in
older settlements, of seeing the silver bent in reverence beside the
flaxen head.

At Oregon, the beauty of the scene was of even a more sumptuous
character than at our former "stopping-place." Here swelled the river
in its boldest course, interspersed by halcyon isles on which Nature
had lavished all her prodigality in tree, vine, and flower, banked
by noble bluffs, three Hundred feet high, their sharp ridges as
exquisitely definite as the edge of a shell; their summits adorned
with those same beautiful trees, and with buttresses of rich rock,
crested with old hemlocks, which wore a touching and antique grace
amid, the softer and more luxuriant vegetation. Lofty natural mounds
rose amidst the rest, with the same lovely and sweeping outline,
showing everywhere the plastic power of water,--water, mother of
beauty,--which, by its sweet and eager flow, had left such lineaments
as human genius never dreamt of.

Not far from the river was a high crag, called the Pine Rock, which
looks out, as our guide observed, like a helmet above the brow of the
country. It seems as if the water left here and there a vestige of
forms and materials that preceded its course, just to set off its new
and richer designs.

The aspect of this country was to me enchanting, beyond any I have
ever seen, from its fulness of expression, its bold and impassioned
sweetness. Here the flood of emotion has passed over and marked
everywhere its course by a smile. The fragments of rock touch it with
a wildness and liberality which give just the needed relief. I should
never be tired here, though I have elsewhere seen country of more
secret and alluring charms, better calculated to stimulate and
suggest. Here the eye and heart are filled.

How happy the Indians must have been here! It is not long since they
were driven away, and the ground, above and below, is full of their
traces.

  "The earth is full of men."

You have only to turn up the sod to find arrowheads and Indian
pottery. On an island, belonging to our host, and nearly opposite his
house, they loved to stay, and, no doubt, enjoyed its lavish beauty
as much as the myriad wild pigeons that now haunt its flower-filled
shades. Here are still the marks of their tomahawks, the troughs in
which they prepared their corn, their caches.

A little way down the river is the site of an ancient Indian village,
with its regularly arranged mounds. As usual, they had chosen with the
finest taste. When we went there, it was one of those soft, shadowy
afternoons when Nature seems ready to weep, not from grief, but from
an overfull heart. Two prattling, lovely little girls, and an African
boy, with glittering eye and ready grin, made our party gay; but
all were still as we entered the little inlet and trod those flowery
paths. They may blacken Indian life as they will, talk of its dirt,
its brutality, I will ever believe that the men who chose that
dwelling-place were able to feel emotions of noble happiness as they
returned to it, and so were the women that received them. Neither were
the children sad or dull, who lived so familiarly with the deer
and the birds, and swam that clear wave in the shadow of the Seven
Sisters. The whole scene suggested to me a Greek splendor, a Greek
sweetness, and I can believe that an Indian brave, accustomed to
ramble in such paths, and be bathed by such sunbeams, might be
mistaken for Apollo, as Apollo was for him by West. Two of the boldest
bluffs are called the Deer's Walk, (not because deer do _not_ walk
there,) and the Eagle's Nest. The latter I visited one glorious
morning; it was that of the fourth of July, and certainly I think I
had never felt so happy that I was born in America. Woe to all country
folks that never saw this spot, never swept an enraptured gaze over
the prospect that stretched beneath. I do believe Rome and Florence
are suburbs compared to this capital of Nature's art.

The bluff was decked with great bunches of a scarlet variety of the
milkweed, like cut coral, and all starred with a mysterious-looking
dark flower, whose cup rose lonely on a tall stem. This had, for
two or three days, disputed the ground with the lupine and phlox. My
companions disliked, I liked it.

Here I thought of, or rather saw, what the Greek expresses under the
form of Jove's darling, Ganymede, and the following stanzas took form.

               GANYMEDE TO HIS EAGLE.

          SUGGESTED BY A WORK OF THORWALDSEN'S.

  Composed on the height called the Eagle's Nest, Oregon, Rock River,
                           July 4th, 1843.

  Upon the rocky mountain stood the boy,
    A goblet of pure water in his hand;
  His face and form spoke him one made for joy,
    A willing servant to sweet love's command,
  But a strange pain was written on his brow,
    And thrilled throughout his silver accents now.

  "My bird," he cries, "my destined brother friend,
    O whither fleets to-day thy wayward flight?
  Hast thou forgotten that I here attend,
    From the full noon until this sad twilight?
  A hundred times, at least, from the clear spring,
    Since the fall noon o'er hill and valley glowed,
  I've filled the vase which our Olympian king
    Upon my care for thy sole use bestowed;
  That, at the moment when thou shouldst descend,
  A pure refreshment might thy thirst attend.

  "Hast thou forgotten earth, forgotten me,
    Thy fellow-bondsman in a royal cause,
  Who, from the sadness of infinity,
    Only with thee can know that peaceful pause
  In which we catch the flowing strain of love,
    Which binds our dim fates to the throne of Jove?

  "Before I saw thee, I was like the May,
    Longing for summer that must mar its bloom,
  Or like the morning star that calls the day,
    Whose glories to its promise are the tomb;
  And as the eager fountain rises higher
    To throw itself more strongly back to earth,
  Still, as more sweet and full rose my desire,
    More fondly it reverted to its birth,
  For what the rosebud seeks tells not the rose,
  The meaning that the boy foretold the man cannot disclose.

  "I was all Spring, for in my being dwelt
    Eternal youth, where flowers are the fruit;
  Full feeling was the thought of what was felt,
    Its music was the meaning of the lute;
  But heaven and earth such life will still deny,
  For earth, divorced from heaven, still asks the question _Why?_

  "Upon the highest mountains my young feet
    Ached, that no pinions from their lightness grew,
  My starlike eyes the stars would fondly greet,
    Yet win no greeting from the circling blue;
  Fair, self-subsistent each in its own sphere,
    They had no care that there was none for me;
  Alike to them that I was far or near,
    Alike to them time and eternity.

  "But from the violet of lower air
    Sometimes an answer to my wishing came;
  Those lightning-births my nature seemed to share,
    They told the secrets of its fiery frame,
  The sudden messengers of hate and love,
  The thunderbolts that arm the hand of Jove,
  And strike sometimes the sacred spire, and strike the sacred grove.

  "Come in a moment, in a moment gone,
  They answered me, then left me still more lone;
  They told me that the thought which ruled the world
  As yet no sail upon its course had furled,
  That the creation was but just begun,
  New leaves still leaving from the primal one,
  But spoke not of the goal to which _my_ rapid wheels would run.

  "Still, still my eyes, though tearfully, I strained
  To the far future which my heart contained,
  And no dull doubt my proper hope profaned.

  "At last, O bliss! thy living form I spied,
    Then a mere speck upon a distant sky;
  Yet my keen glance discerned its noble pride,
    And the full answer of that sun-filled eye;
  I knew it was the wing that must upbear
    My earthlier form into the realms of air.

  "Thou knowest how we gained that beauteous height,
  Where dwells the monarch, of the sons of light;
  Thou knowest he declared us two to be
  The chosen servants of his ministry,
  Thou as his messenger, a sacred sign
  Of conquest, or, with omen more benign,
  To give its due weight to the righteous cause,
  To express the verdict of Olympian laws.

  "And I to wait upon the lonely spring,
    Which slakes the thirst of bards to whom 't is given
  The destined dues of hopes divine to sing,
    And weave the needed chain to bind to heaven.
  Only from such could be obtained a draught
  For him who in his early home from Jove's own cup has quaffed

  "To wait, to wait, but not to wait too long.
  Till heavy grows the burden of a song;
  O bird! too long hast thou been gone to-day,
  My feet are weary of their frequent way,
  The spell that opes the spring my tongue no more can say.

  "If soon thou com'st not, night will fall around,
  My head with a sad slumber will be bound,
  And the pure draught be spilt upon the ground.

  "Remember that I am not yet divine,
  Long years of service to the fatal Nine
  Are yet to make a Delphian vigor mine.

  "O, make them not too hard, thou bird of Jove!
  Answer the stripling's hope, confirm his love,
  Receive the service in which he delights,
  And bear him often to the serene heights,
  Where hands that were so prompt in serving thee
  Shall be allowed the highest ministry,
  And Rapture live with bright Fidelity."


The afternoon was spent in a very different manner. The family whose
guests we were possessed a gay and graceful hospitality that gave
zest to each moment. They possessed that rare politeness which, while
fertile in pleasant expedients to vary the enjoyment of a friend,
leaves him perfectly free the moment he wishes to be so. With such
hosts, pleasure may be combined with repose. They lived on the bank
opposite the town, and, as their house was full, we slept in the
town, and passed three days with them, passing to and fro morning and
evening in their boats. To one of these, called the Fairy, in which a
sweet little daughter of the house moved about lighter than any Scotch
Ellen ever sung, I should indite a poem, if I had not been guilty of
rhyme on this very page. At morning this boating was very pleasant; at
evening, I confess, I was generally too tired with the excitements of
the day to think it so.

The house--a double log-cabin--was, to my eye, the model of a Western
villa. Nature had laid out before it grounds which could not be
improved. Within, female taste had veiled every rudeness, availed
itself of every sylvan grace.

In this charming abode what laughter, what sweet thoughts, what
pleasing fancies, did we not enjoy! May such never desert those who
reared it, and made us so kindly welcome to all its pleasures!

Fragments of city life were dexterously crumbled into the dish
prepared for general entertainment. Ice-creams followed the dinner,
which was drawn by the gentlemen from the river, and music and
fireworks wound up the evening of days spent on the Eagle's Nest. Now
they had prepared a little fleet to pass over to the Fourth of July
celebration, which some queer drumming and fifing, from, the opposite
bank, had announced to be "on hand."

We found the free and independent citizens there collected beneath the
trees, among whom many a round Irish visage dimpled at the usual puffs
of "Ameriky."

The orator was a New-Englander, and the speech smacked loudly
of Boston, but was received with much applause and followed by a
plentiful dinner, provided by and for the Sovereign People, to which
Hail Columbia served as grace.

Returning, the gay flotilla cheered the little flag which the children
had raised from a log-cabin, prettier than any president ever saw,
and drank the health of our country and all mankind, with a clear
conscience.

Dance and song wound up the day. I know not when the mere local
habitation has seemed to me to afford so fair a chance of happiness as
this. To a person of unspoiled tastes, the beauty alone would afford
stimulus enough. But with it would be naturally associated all kinds
of wild sports, experiments, and the studies of natural history. In
these regards, the poet, the sportsman, the naturalist, would alike
rejoice in this wide range of untouched loveliness.

Then, with a very little money, a ducal estate may be purchased, and
by a very little more, and moderate labor, a family be maintained upon
it with raiment, food, and shelter. The luxurious and minute comforts
of a city life are not yet to be had without effort disproportionate
to their value. But, where there is so great a counterpoise, cannot
these be given up once for all? If the houses are imperfectly built,
they can afford immense fires and plenty of covering; if they are
small, who cares,--with, such fields to roam in? in winter, it may be
borne; in summer, is of no consequence. With plenty of fish, and game,
and wheat, can they not dispense with a baker to bring "muffins hot"
every morning to the door for their breakfast?

A man need not here take a small slice from the landscape, and fence
it in from the obtrusions of an uncongenial neighbor, and there cut
down his fancies to miniature improvements which a chicken could run
over in ten minutes. He may have water and wood and land enough, to
dread no incursions on his prospect from some chance Vandal that may
enter his neighborhood. He need not painfully economize and manage
how he may use it all; he can afford to leave some of it wild, and to
carry out his own plans without obliterating those of Nature.

Here, whole families might live together, if they would. The sons
might return from their pilgrimages to settle near the parent hearth;
the daughters might find room near their mother. Those painful
separations, which already desecrate and desolate the Atlantic coast,
are not enforced here by the stern need of seeking bread; and where
they are voluntary, it is no matter. To me, too, used to the feelings
which haunt a society of struggling men, it was delightful to look
upon a scene where Nature still wore her motherly smile, and seemed to
promise room, not only for those favored or cursed with the qualities
best adapting for the strifes of competition, but for the delicate,
the thoughtful, even the indolent or eccentric. She did not say, Fight
or starve; nor even, Work or cease to exist; but, merely showing that
the apple was a finer fruit than the wild crab, gave both room to grow
in the garden.

A pleasant society is formed of the families who live along the banks
of this stream upon farms. They are from various parts of the world,
and have much to communicate to one another. Many have cultivated
minds and refined manners, all a varied experience, while they have
in common the interests of a new country and a new life. They must
traverse some space to get at one another, but the journey is through
scenes that make it a separate pleasure. They must bear inconveniences
to stay in one another's houses; but these, to the well-disposed, are
only a source of amusement and adventure.

The great drawback upon the lives of these settlers, at present, is
the unfitness of the women for their new lot. It has generally been
the choice of the men, and the women follow, as women will, doing
their best for affection's sake, but too often in heartsickness and
weariness. Beside, it frequently not being a choice or conviction of
their own minds that it is best to be here, their part is the hardest,
and they are least fitted for it. The men can find assistance in
field labor, and recreation with the gun and fishing-rod. Their bodily
strength is greater, and enables them to bear and enjoy both these
forms of life.

The women can rarely find any aid in domestic labor. All its various
and careful tasks must often be performed, sick, or well, by the
mother and daughters, to whom a city education has imparted neither
the strength nor skill now demanded.

The wives of the poorer settlers, having more hard work to do than
before, very frequently become slatterns; but the ladies, accustomed
to a refined neatness, feel that they cannot degrade themselves by
its absence, and struggle under every disadvantage to keep up the
necessary routine of small arrangements.

With all these disadvantages for work, their resources for pleasure
are fewer. When they can leave the housework, they have not learnt to
ride, to drive, to row, alone. Their culture has too generally been
that given to women to make them "the ornaments of society." They can
dance, but not draw; talk French, but know nothing of the language
of flowers; neither in childhood were allowed to cultivate them,
lest they should tan their complexions. Accustomed to the pavement
of Broadway, they dare not tread the wild-wood paths for fear of
rattlesnakes!

Seeing much of this joylessness, and inaptitude, both of body and
mind, for a lot which would be full of blessings for those prepared
for it, we could not but look with deep interest on the little girls,
and hope they would grow up with the strength of body, dexterity,
simple tastes, and resources that would fit them to enjoy and refine
the Western farmer's life.

But they have a great deal to war with in the habits of thought
acquired by their mothers from their own early life. Everywhere
the fatal spirit of imitation, of reference to European standards,
penetrates, and threatens to blight whatever of original growth might
adorn the soil.

If the little girls grow up strong, resolute, able to exert their
faculties, their mothers mourn over their want of fashionable
delicacy. Are they gay, enterprising, ready to fly about in the
various ways that teach them so much, these ladies lament that "they
cannot go to school, where they might learn to be quiet." They lament
the want of "education" for their daughters, as if the thousand
needs which call out their young energies, and the language of nature
around, yielded no education.

Their grand ambition for their children is to send them to school in
some Eastern city, the measure most likely to make them useless and
unhappy at home. I earnestly hope that, erelong, the existence of good
schools near themselves, planned by persons of sufficient thought to
meet the wants of the place and time, instead of copying New York
or Boston, will correct this mania. Instruction the children want
to enable them to profit by the great natural advantages of their
position; but methods copied from the education of some English Lady
Augusta are as ill suited to the daughter of an Illinois farmer, as
satin shoes to climb the Indian mounds. An elegance she would diffuse
around her, if her mind were opened to appreciate elegance; it might
be of a kind new, original, enchanting, as different from that of
the city belle as that of the prairie torch-flower from the shop-worn
article that touches the cheek of that lady within her bonnet.

To a girl really skilled to make home beautiful and comfortable, with
bodily strength to enjoy plenty of exercise, the woods, the streams, a
few studies, music, and the sincere and familiar intercourse, far
more easily to be met with here than elsewhere, would afford happiness
enough. Her eyes would not grow dim, nor her cheeks sunken, in the
absence of parties, morning visits, and milliners' shops.

As to music, I wish I could see in such places the guitar rather than
the piano, and good vocal more than instrumental music.

The piano many carry with them, because it is the fashionable
instrument in the Eastern cities. Even there, it is so merely from
the habit of imitating Europe, for not one in a thousand is willing to
give the labor requisite to insure any valuable use of the instrument.

But out here, where the ladies have so much less leisure, it is still
less desirable. Add to this, they never know how to tune their own
instruments, and as persons seldom visit them who can do so, these
pianos are constantly out of tune, and would spoil the ear of one who
began by having any.

The guitar, or some portable instrument which requires less practice,
and could be kept in tune by themselves, would be far more desirable
for most of these ladies. It would give all they want as a household
companion to fill up the gaps of life with a pleasant stimulus
or solace, and be sufficient accompaniment to the voice in social
meetings.

Singing in parts is the most delightful family amusement, and those
who are constantly together can learn to sing in perfect accord. All
the practice it needs, after some good elementary instruction, is
such as meetings by summer twilight and evening firelight naturally
suggest. And as music is a universal language, we cannot but think a
fine Italian duet would be as much at home in the log cabin as one of
Mrs. Gore's novels.

The 6th of July we left this beautiful place. It was one of those
rich days of bright sunlight, varied by the purple shadows of large,
sweeping clouds. Many a backward look we cast, and left the heart
behind.

Our journey to-day was no less delightful than before, still all new,
boundless, limitless. Kinmont says, that limits are sacred; that the
Greeks were in the right to worship a god of limits. I say, that what
is limitless is alone divine, that there was neither wall nor road in
Eden, that those who walked, there lost and found their way just as
we did, and that all the gain from the Fall was that we had a wagon to
ride in. I do not think, either, that even the horses doubted whether
this last was any advantage.

Everywhere the rattlesnake-weed grows in profusion. The antidote
survives the bane. Soon the coarser plantain, the "white man's
footstep," shall take its place.

We saw also the compass-plant, and the Western tea-plant. Of some of
the brightest flowers an Indian girl afterwards told me the medicinal
virtues. I doubt not those students of the soil knew a use to every
fair emblem, on which we could only look to admire its hues and shape.

After noon we were ferried by a girl (unfortunately not of the most
picturesque appearance) across the Kishwaukie, the most graceful
of streams, and on whose bosom rested many full-blown
water-lilies,--twice as large as any of ours. I was told that, _en
revanche_, they were scentless, but I still regret that I could not
get at one of them to try. Query, did the lilied fragrance which,
in the miraculous times, accompanied visions of saints and angels,
proceed from water or garden lilies?

Kishwaukie is, according to tradition, the scene of a famous battle,
and its many grassy mounds contain the bones of the valiant. On these
waved thickly the mysterious purple flower, of which I have spoken
before. I think it springs from the blood of the Indians, as the
hyacinth did from that of Apollo's darling.

The ladies of our host's family at Oregon, when they first went,
there, after all the pains and plagues of building and settling, found
their first pastime in opening one of these mounds, in which they
found, I think, three of the departed, seated, in the Indian fashion.

One of these same ladies, as she was making bread one winter morning,
saw from the window a deer directly before the house. She ran out,
with her hands covered with dough, calling the others, and they caught
him bodily before he had time to escape.

Here (at Kiskwaukie) we received a visit from a ragged and barefooted,
but bright-eyed gentleman, who seemed to be the intellectual loafer,
the walking Will's coffee-house, of the place. He told us many
charming snake-stories; among others, of himself having seen seventeen
young ones re-enter the mother snake, on the approach of a visitor.

This night we reached Belvidere, a flourishing town in Boon County,
where was the tomb, now despoiled, of Big Thunder. In this later day
we felt happy to find a really good hotel.

From this place, by two days of very leisurely and devious journeying,
we reached Chicago, and thus ended a journey, which one at least of
the party might have wished unending.

I have not been particularly anxious to give the geography of the
scene, inasmuch as it seemed to me no route, nor series of stations,
but a garden interspersed with cottages, groves, and flowery lawns,
through which a stately river ran. I had no guide-book, kept no diary,
do not know how many miles we travelled each day, nor how many in all.
What I got from the journey was the poetic impression of the country
at large; it is all I have aimed to communicate.

The narrative might have been made much more interesting, as life was
at the time, by many piquant anecdotes and tales drawn from private
life. But here courtesy restrains the pen, for I know those who
received the stranger with such frank kindness would feel ill requited
by its becoming the means of fixing many spy-glasses, even though the
scrutiny might be one of admiring interest, upon their private homes.

For many of these anecdotes, too, I was indebted to a friend, whose
property they more lawfully are. This friend was one of those rare
beings who are equally at home in nature and with man. He knew a
tale of all that ran and swam and flew, or only grew, possessing
that extensive familiarity with things which shows equal sweetness
of sympathy and playful penetration. Most refreshing to me was his
unstudied lore, the unwritten poetry which common life presents to a
strong and gentle mind. It was a great contrast to the subtilties of
analysis, the philosophic strainings of which I had seen too much. But
I will not attempt to transplant it. May it profit others as it did me
in the region where it was born, where it belongs.

The evening of our return to Chicago, the sunset was of a splendor and
calmness beyond any we saw at the West. The twilight that succeeded
was equally beautiful; soft, pathetic, but just so calm. When
afterwards I learned this was the evening of Allston's death, it
seemed to me as if this glorious pageant was not without connection
with that event; at least, it inspired similar emotions,--a heavenly
gate closing a path adorned with shows well worthy Paradise.


FAREWELL TO ROCK RIVER VALLEY.

  Farewell, ye soft and sumptuous solitudes!
  Ye fairy distances, ye lordly woods,
  Haunted, by paths like those that Poussin knew,
  When after his all gazers' eyes he drew;
  I go,--and if I never more may steep
  An eager heart in your enchantments deep,
  Yet ever to itself that heart may say,
  Be not exacting; them hast lived one day,--
  Hast looked on that which matches with thy mood,
  Impassioned sweetness of full being's flood,
  Where nothing checked the bold yet gentle wave,
  Where naught repelled the lavish love that gave.
  A tender blessing lingers o'er the scene,
  Like some young mother's thought, fond, yet serene,
  And through its life new-born our lives have been.
  Once more farewell,--a sad, a sweet farewell;
  And, if I never must behold you more,
  In other worlds I will not cease to tell
  The rosary I here have numbered o'er;
  And bright-haired Hope will lend a gladdened ear,
  And Love will free him from the grasp of Fear,
  And Gorgon critics, while the tale they hear,
  Shall dew their stony glances with a tear,
  If I but catch one echo from your spell:--
  And so farewell,--a grateful, sad farewell!




CHAPTER IV.

A SHORT CHAPTER.--CHICAGO AGAIN.--MORRIS BIRKBECK.


Chicago had become interesting to me now, that I knew it as the
portal to so fair a scene. I had become interested in the land, in
the people, and looked sorrowfully on the lake on which I must soon
embark, to leave behind what I had just begun to enjoy.

Now was the time to see the lake. The July moon was near its full, and
night after night it rose in a cloudless sky above this majestic sea.
The heat was excessive, so that there was no enjoyment of life, except
in the night; but then the air was of that delicious temperature
worthy of orange-groves. However, they were not wanted;--nothing was,
as that full light fell on the faintly rippling waters, which then
seemed, boundless.

The most picturesque objects to be seen from Chicago on the inland
side were the lines of Hoosier wagons. These rude farmers, the large
first product of the soil, travel leisurely along, sleeping in their
wagons by night, eating only what they bring with them. In the town
they observe the same plan, and trouble no luxurious hotel for board
and lodging. Here they look like foreign peasantry, and contrast well
with the many Germans, Dutch, and Irish. In the country it is very
pretty to see them prepared to "camp out" at night, their horses
taken out of harness, and they lounging under the trees, enjoying the
evening meal.

On the lake-side it is fine to see the great boats come panting in
from their rapid and marvellous journey. Especially at night the
motion of their lights is very majestic.

When the favorite boats, the Great Western and Illinois, are going
out, the town is thronged with, people from the South and farther
West, to go in them. These moonlight nights I would hear the French
rippling and fluttering familiarly amid the rude ups and downs of the
Hoosier dialect.

At the hotel table were daily to be seen new faces, and new stories
to be learned. And any one who has a large acquaintance may be pretty
sure of meeting some of them here in the course of a few days.

At Chicago I read again Philip Van Artevelde, and certain passages
in it will always be in my mind associated with the deep sound of the
lake, as heard in the night. I used to read a short time at night, and
then open the blind to look out. The moon would be full upon the lake,
and the calm breath, pure light, and the deep voice harmonized well
with the thought of the Flemish hero. When will this country have such
a man? It is what she needs; no thin Idealist, no coarse Realist, but
a man whose eye reads the heavens, while his feet step firmly on the
ground, and his hands are strong and dexterous for the use of human
implements. A man religious, virtuous, and--sagacious; a man of
universal sympathies, but self-possessed; a man who knows the region
of emotion, though he is not its slave; a man to whom this world is
no mere spectacle, or fleeting shadow, not a great, solemn game, to be
played with, good heed, for its stakes are of eternal value, yet who,
if his own play be true, heeds not what he loses by the falsehood of
others;--a man who hives from the past, yet knows that its honey can
but moderately avail him; whose comprehensive eye scans the present,
neither infatuated by its golden lures, nor chilled by its many
ventures; who possesses prescience, as the wise man must, but not
so far as to be driven mad to-day by the gift which discerns
to-morrow;--when there is such a man for America, the thought which
urges her on will be expressed.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now that I am about to leave Illinois, feelings of regret and
admiration come over me, as in parting with a friend whom, we have
not had the good sense to prize and study, while hours of association,
never perhaps to return, were granted. I have fixed my attention
almost exclusively on the picturesque beauty of this region; it was
so new, so inspiring. But I ought to have been more interested in the
housekeeping of this magnificent State, in the education she is giving
her children, in their prospects.

Illinois is, at present, a by-word of reproach among the nations,
for the careless, prodigal course by which, in early youth, she has
endangered her honor. But you cannot look about you there, without
seeing that there are resources abundant to retrieve, and soon to
retrieve, far greater errors, if they are only directed with wisdom.

Would that the simple maxim, that honesty is the best policy, might be
laid to heart; that a sense of the true aim of life might elevate
the tone of politics and trade till public and private honor became
identical; that the Western man, in that crowded and exciting life
which, develops his faculties so fully for to-day, might not forget
that better part which could not be taken from him; that the Western
woman might take that interest and acquire that light for the
education of the children, for which she alone has leisure!

This is indeed the great problem of the place and time. If the next
generation be well prepared for their work, ambitious of good and
skilful to achieve it, the children of the present settlers may be
leaven enough for the mass constantly increasing by immigration. And
how much is this needed, where those rude foreigners can so little
understand the best interests of the land they seek for bread and
shelter! It would be a happiness to aid in this good work, and
interweave the white and golden threads into the fate of Illinois. It
would be a work worthy the devotion of any mind.

In the little that I saw was a large proportion of intelligence,
activity, and kind feeling; but, if there was much serious laying to
heart of the true purposes of life, it did not appear in the tone of
conversation.

Having before me the Illinois Guide-Book, I find there mentioned, as
a "visionary," one of the men I should think of as able to be a truly
valuable settler in a new and great country,--Morris Birkbeck, of
England. Since my return, I have read his journey to, and letters
from, Illinois. I see nothing promised there that will not surely
belong to the man who knows how to seek for it.

Mr. Birkbeck was an enlightened, philanthropist, the rather that he
did not wish to sacrifice himself to his fellow-men, but to benefit
them with all he had, and was, and wished. He thought all the
creatures of a divine love ought to be happy and ought to be good, and
that his own soul and his own life were not less precious than those
of others; indeed, that to keep these healthy was his only means of a
healthy influence.

But his aims were altogether generous. Freedom, the liberty of law,
not license; not indolence, work for himself and children and all
men, but under genial and poetic influences;--these were his aims. How
different from those of the new settlers in general! And into his
mind so long ago shone steadily the two thoughts, now so prevalent in
thinking and aspiring minds, of "Resist not evil," and "Every man his
own priest, and the heart the only true church."

He has lost credit for sagacity from accidental circumstances. It
does not appear that his position was ill chosen, or his means
disproportioned to his ends, had he been sustained by funds from
England, as he had a right to expect. But through the profligacy of a
near relative, commissioned to collect these dues, he was disappointed
of them, and his paper protested and credit destroyed in our cities,
before he became aware of his danger.

Still, though more slowly and with more difficulty, he might have
succeeded in his designs. The English farmer might have made the
English settlement a model for good methods and good aims to all that
region, had not death prematurely cut short his plans.

I have wished to say these few words, because the veneration with
which I have been inspired for his character by those who knew him
well, makes me impatient of this careless blame being passed from
mouth to mouth and book to book. Success is no test of a man's
endeavor, and Illinois will yet, I hope, regard this man, who knew so
well what _ought_ to be, as one of her true patriarchs, the Abraham of
a promised land.

He was one too much before his time to be soon valued; but the time
is growing up to him, and will understand his mild philanthropy, and
clear, large views.

I subjoin the account of his death, given me by a friend, as
expressing, in fair picture, the character of the man.

"Mr. Birkbeck was returning from the seat of government, whither he
had been on public business, and was accompanied by his son Bradford,
a youth of sixteen or eighteen. It was necessary to cross a ford,
which was rendered difficult by the swelling of the stream. Mr. B.'s
horse was unwilling to plunge into the water, so his son offered to
go first, and he followed. Bradford's horse had just gained footing on
the opposite shore, when he looked back and perceived his father was
dismounted, struggling in the water, and carried down by the current.

"Mr. Birkbeck could not swim; Bradford could; so he dismounted, and
plunged into the stream to save his father. He got to him before
he sunk, held him up above water, and told him to take hold of his
collar, and he would swim ashore with him. Mr. B. did so, and Bradford
exerted all his strength to stem the current and reach the shore at a
point where they could land; but, encumbered by his own clothing and
his father's weight, he made no progress; when Mr. B. perceived this,
he, with his characteristic calmness and resolution, gave up his hold
of his son, and, motioning to him to save himself, resigned himself to
his fate. His son reached the shore, but was too much overwhelmed
by his loss to leave it. He was found by some travellers, many hours
after, seated on the margin of the stream, with his face in his hands,
stupefied with grief.

"The body was found, and on the countenance was the sweetest smile;
and Bradford said, 'Just so he smiled, upon me when he let go and
pushed me away from him.'"

Many men can choose the right and best on a great occasion, but not
many can, with such ready and serene decision, lay aside even
life, when that is right and best. This little narrative touched my
imagination in very early youth, and often has come up, in lonely
vision, that face, serenely smiling above the current which bore him
away to another realm of being.




CHAPTER V.

THOUGHTS AND SCENES IN WISCONSIN.--SOCIETY IN MILWAUKIE.--INDIAN
ANECDOTE.--SEERESS OF PREVORST.--MILWAUKIE.


A territory, not yet a State;[A] still nearer the acorn than we were.

[Footnote A: Wisconsin was not admitted into the Union as a State till
1847, after this volume was written.--ED.]

It was very pleasant coming up. These large and elegant boats are so
well arranged that every excursion may be a party of pleasure. There
are many fair shows to see on the lake and its shores, almost always
new and agreeable persons on board, pretty children playing about,
ladies singing (and if not very well, there is room, to keep out of
the way). You may see a great deal here of Life, in the London sense,
if you know a few people; or if you do not, and have the tact to look
about you without seeming to stare.

We came to Milwaukie, where we were to pass a fortnight or more.

This place is most beautifully situated. A little river, with romantic
banks, passes up through the town. The bank of the lake is here a
bold bluff, eighty feet in height. From its summit is enjoyed a noble
outlook on the lake. A little narrow path winds along the edge of the
lake below. I liked this walk much,--above me this high wall of rich
earth, garlanded on its crest with trees, the long ripples of the lake
coming up to my feet. Here, standing in the shadow, I could appreciate
better its magnificent changes of color, which are the chief beauties
of the lake-waters; but these are indescribable.

It was fine to ascend into the lighthouse, above this bluff, and
thence watch the thunder-clouds which so frequently rose over the
lake, or the great boats coming in. Approaching the Milwaukie pier,
they made a bend, and seemed to do obeisance in the heavy style
of some dowager duchess entering a circle she wishes to treat with
especial respect.

These boats come in and out every day, and still afford a cause for
general excitement. The people swarm, down to greet them, to receive
and send away their packages and letters. To me they seemed such
mighty messengers, to give, by their noble motion, such an idea of the
power and fulness of life, that they were worthy to carry despatches
from king to king. It must be very pleasant for those who have an
active share in carrying on the affairs of this great and growing
world to see them approach, and pleasant to such as have dearly loved
friends at the next station. To those who have neither business nor
friends, it sometimes gives a desolating sense of insignificance.

The town promises to be, some time, a fine one, as it is so well
situated; and they have good building material,--a yellow brick, very
pleasing to the eye. It seems to grow before you, and has indeed but
just emerged from the thickets of oak and wild-roses. A few steps
will take you into the thickets, and certainly I never saw so many
wild-roses, or of so beautiful a red. Of such a color were the first
red ones the world ever saw, when, says the legend, Venus flying to
the assistance of Adonis, the rose-bushes kept catching her to make
her stay, and the drops of blood the thorns drew from her feet, as
she tore herself a way, fell on the white roses, and turned them this
beautiful red.

One day, walking along the river's bank in search of a waterfall to be
seen from one ravine, we heard tones from a band of music, and saw a
gay troop shooting at a mark, on the opposite bank. Between every shot
the band played; the effect was very pretty.

On this walk we found two of the oldest and most gnarled hemlocks that
ever afforded study for a painter. They were the only ones we saw;
they seemed the veterans of a former race.

At Milwaukie, as at Chicago, are many pleasant people, drawn together
from all parts of the world. A resident here would find great piquancy
in the associations,--those he met having such dissimilar histories
and topics. And several persons I saw, evidently transplanted from the
most refined circles to be met in this country. There are lures enough
in the West for people of all kinds;--the enthusiast and the cunning
man; the naturalist, and the lover who needs to be rich for the sake
of her he loves.

The torrent of immigration swells very strongly towards this place.
During the fine weather, the poor refugees arrive daily, in their
national dresses, all travel-soiled and worn. The night they pass in
rude shantees, in a particular quarter of the town, then walk off into
the country,--the mothers carrying their infants, the fathers leading
the little children by the hand, seeking a home where their hands may
maintain them.

One morning we set off in their track, and travelled a day's
journey into this country,--fair, yet not, in that part which I saw,
comparable, in my eyes, to the Rock River region. Rich fields, proper
for grain, alternate with oak openings, as they are called; bold,
various, and beautiful were the features of the scene, but I saw
not those majestic sweeps, those boundless distances, those heavenly
fields; it was not the same world.

Neither did we travel in the same delightful manner. We were now in a
nice carriage, which must not go off the road, for fear of breakage,
with a regular coachman, whose chief care was not to tire his horses,
and who had no taste for entering fields in pursuit of wild-flowers,
or tempting some strange wood-path, in search of whatever might
befall. It was pleasant, but almost as tame as New England.

But charming indeed was the place where we stopped. It was in the
vicinity of a chain of lakes, and on the bank of the loveliest
little stream, called, the Bark River, which, flowed in rapid amber
brightness, through fields, and dells, and stately knolls, of most
poetic beauty.

The little log-cabin where we slept, with its flower-garden in front,
disturbed the scene no more than a stray lock on the fair cheek.
The hospitality of that house I may well call princely; it was the
boundless hospitality of the heart, which, if it has no Aladdin's lamp
to create a palace for the guest, does him still higher service by the
freedom of its bounty to the very last drop of its powers.

Sweet were the sunsets seen in the valley of this stream, though,
here, and, I grieve to say, no less near the Rock River, the fiend,
who has every liberty to tempt the happy in this world, appeared in
the shape of mosquitos, and allowed us no bodily to enjoy our mental
peace.

One day we ladies gave, under the guidance of our host, to visiting
all the beauties of the adjacent lakes,--Nomabbin, Silver, and Pine
Lakes. On the shore of Nomabbin had formerly been one of the finest
Indian villages. Our host said, that once, as he was lying there
beneath the bank, he saw a tall Indian standing at gaze on the knoll.
He lay a long time, curious to see how long the figure would maintain
its statue-like absorption. But at last his patience yielded, and,
in moving, he made a slight noise. The Indian saw him, gave a wild,
snorting sound of indignation and pain, and strode away.

What feelings must consume their hearts at such moments! I scarcely
see how they can forbear to shoot the white man where he stands.

But the power of fate is with, the white man, and the Indian feels it.
This same gentleman told of his travelling through the wilderness with
an Indian guide. He had with him a bottle of spirit which he meant to
give him in small quantities, but the Indian, once excited, wanted
the whole at once. "I would not," said Mr. ----, "give it him, for I
thought, if he got really drunk, there was an end to his services as
a guide. But he persisted, and at last tried to take it from me. I
was not armed; he was, and twice as strong as I. But I knew an Indian
could not resist the look of a white man, and I fixed my eye steadily
on his. He bore it for a moment, then his eye fell; he let go the
bottle. I took his gun and threw it to a distance. After a few
moments' pause, I told him to go and fetch it, and left it in his
hands. From that moment he was quite obedient, even servile, all the
rest of the way."

This gentleman, though in other respects of most kindly and liberal
heart, showed the aversion that the white man soon learns to feel for
the Indian on whom he encroaches,--the aversion of the injurer for him
he has degraded. After telling the anecdote of his seeing the Indian
gazing at the seat of his former home,

  "A thing for human feelings the most trying,"

and which, one would think, would have awakened soft compassion--
almost remorse--in the present owner of that fair hill, which
contained for the exile the bones of his dead, the ashes of his
hopes, he observed: "They cannot be prevented from straggling back
here to their old haunts. I wish they could. They ought not to be
permitted to drive away _our_ game." OUR game,--just heavens!

The same gentleman showed, on a slight occasion, the true spirit of a
sportsman, or perhaps I might say of Man, when engaged in any kind
of chase. Showing us some antlers, he said: "This one belonged to a
majestic creature. But this other was the beauty. I had been lying a
long time at watch, when at last I heard them come crackling along. I
lifted my head cautiously, as they burst through the trees. The first
was a magnificent fellow; but then I saw coming one, the prettiest,
the most graceful I ever beheld,--there was something so soft and
beseeching in its look. I chose him at once, took aim, and shot him
dead. You see the antlers are not very large; it was young, but the
prettiest creature!"

In the course of this morning's drive, we visited the gentlemen on
their fishing party. They hailed us gayly, and rowed ashore to show us
what fine booty they had. No disappointment there, no dull work.

On the beautiful point of land from which we first saw them lived a
contented woman, the only one I heard of out there. She was English,
and said she had seen so much suffering in her own country, that the
hardships of this seemed as nothing to her. But the others--even our
sweet and gentle hostess--found their labors disproportioned to their
strength, if not to their patience; and, while their husbands and
brothers enjoyed the country in hunting or fishing, they found
themselves confined to a comfortless and laborious in-door life. But
it need not be so long.

This afternoon, driving about on the banks of these lakes, we found
the scene all of one kind of loveliness; wide, graceful woods, and
then these fine sheets of water, with, fine points of land jutting out
boldly into them. It was lovely, but not striking or peculiar.

All woods suggest pictures. The European forest, with its long glades
and green, sunny dells, naturally suggested the figures of armed
knight on his proud steed, or maiden, decked in gold and pearl,
pricking along them on a snow-white palfrey; the green dells, of weary
Palmer sleeping there beside the spring with his head upon his wallet.
Our minds, familiar with such, figures, people with them the New
England woods, wherever the sunlight falls down a longer than usual
cart-track, wherever a cleared spot has lain still enough for the
trees to look friendly, with their exposed sides cultivated by the
light, and the grass to look velvet warm, and be embroidered with
flowers. These Western woods suggest a different kind of ballad. The
Indian legends have often an air of the wildest solitude, as has the
one Mr. Lowell has put into verse in his late volume. But I did not
see those wild woods; only such as suggest to me little romances of
love and sorrow, like this:--

GUNHILDA.

  A maiden sat beneath the tree,
  Tear-bedewed her pale cheeks be,
  And she sigheth heavily.

  From forth the wood into the light
  A hunter strides, with carol light,
  And a glance so bold and bright.

  He careless stopped and eyed the maid;
  "Why weepest thou?" he gently said;
  "I love thee well; be not afraid."

  He takes her hand, and leads her on;
  She should have waited there alone,
  For he was not her chosen one.

  He leans her head upon his breast,
  She knew 't was not her home of rest,
  But ah! she had been sore distrest.

  The sacred stars looked sadly down;
  The parting moon appeared to frown,
  To see thus dimmed the diamond crown.

  Then from the thicket starts a deer,
  The huntsman, seizing on his spear,
  Cries, "Maiden, wait thou for me here."

  She sees him vanish into night,
  She starts from sleep in deep affright,
  For it was not her own true knight.

  Though but in dream Gunhilda failed.
  Though but a fancied ill assailed,
  Though she but fancied fault bewailed,--

  Yet thought of day makes dream of night:
  She is not worthy of the knight,
  The inmost altar burns not bright.

  If loneliness thou canst not bear,
  Cannot the dragon's venom dare,
  Of the pure meed thou shouldst despair.

  Now sadder that lone maiden sighs,
  Far bitterer tears profane her eyes,
  Crushed, in the dust her heart's flower lies.

On the bank of Silver Lake we saw an Indian encampment. A shower
threatened us, but we resolved to try if we could not visit it before
it came on. We crossed a wide field on foot, and found the Indians
amid the trees on a shelving bank; just as we reached them, the rain
began to fall in torrents, with frequent thunderclaps, and we had
to take refuge in their lodges. These were very small, being for
temporary use, and we crowded the occupants much, among whom were
several sick, on the damp ground, or with only a ragged mat between
them and it. But they showed all the gentle courtesy which, marks
their demeanor towards the stranger, who stands in any need; though it
was obvious that the visit, which inconvenienced them, could only
have been caused by the most impertinent curiosity, they made us as
comfortable as their extreme poverty permitted. They seemed to think
we would not like to touch them; a sick girl in the lodge where I was,
persisted in moving so as to give me the dry place; a woman, with the
sweet melancholy eye of the race, kept off the children and wet dogs
from even the hem of my garment.

Without, their fires smouldered, and black kettles, hung over them on
sticks, smoked, and seethed in the rain. An old, theatrical-looking
Indian stood with arms folded, looking up to the heavens, from
which the rain clashed and the thunder reverberated; his air was
French-Roman; that is, more Romanesque than Roman. The Indian ponies,
much excited, kept careering through the wood, around the encampment,
and now and then, halting suddenly, would thrust in their intelligent,
though amazed faces, as if to ask their masters when this awful pother
would cease, and then, after a moment, rush and trample off again.

At last we got away, well wetted, but with a picturesque scene for
memory. At a house where we stopped to get dry, they told us that
this wandering band (of Pottawattamies), who had returned, on a visit,
either from homesickness, or need of relief, were extremely destitute.
The women had been there to see if they could barter for food their
head-bands, with which they club their hair behind into a form not
unlike a Grecian knot. They seemed, indeed, to have neither food,
utensils, clothes, nor bedding; nothing but the ground, the sky, and
their own strength. Little wonder if they drove off the game!

Part of the same band I had seen in Milwaukee, on a begging dance.
The effect of this was wild and grotesque. They wore much paint and
feather head-dresses. "Indians without paint are poor coots," said a
gentleman who had been a great deal with, and really liked, them;
and I like the effect of the paint on them; it reminds of the gay
fantasies of nature. With them in Milwaukie was a chief, the finest
Indian figure I saw, more than six feet in height, erect, and of a
sullen, but grand gait and gesture. He wore a deep-red blanket, which
fell in large folds from his shoulders to his feet, did not join in
the dance, but slowly strode about through the streets, a fine
sight, not a French-Roman, but a real Roman. He looked unhappy,
but listlessly unhappy, as if he felt it was of no use to strive or
resist.

While in the neighborhood of these lakes, we visited also a foreign
settlement of great interest. Here were minds, it seemed, to
"comprehend the trust" of their new life; and, if they can only stand
true to them, will derive and bestow great benefits therefrom.

But sad and sickening to the enthusiast who comes to these shores,
hoping the tranquil enjoyment of intellectual blessings, and the
pure happiness of mutual love, must be a part of the scene that he
encounters at first. He has escaped from the heartlessness of courts,
to encounter the vulgarity of the mob; he has secured solitude, but
it is a lonely, a deserted solitude. Amid the abundance of nature,
he cannot, from petty, but insuperable obstacles, procure, for a long
time, comforts or a home.

But let him come sufficiently armed with patience to learn the new
spells which the new dragons require, (and this can only be done
on the spot,) he will not finally be disappointed of the promised
treasure; the mob will resolve itself into men, yet crude, but of good
dispositions, and capable of good character; the solitude will become
sufficiently enlivened, and home grow up at last from the rich sod.

In this transition state we found one of these homes. As we
approached, it seemed the very Eden which earth might still afford to
a pair willing to give up the hackneyed pleasures of the world for a
better and more intimate communion with one another and with beauty:
the wild road led through wide, beautiful woods, to the wilder and
more beautiful shores of the finest lake we saw. On its waters,
glittering in the morning sun, a few Indians were paddling to and fro
in their light canoes. On one of those fair knolls I have so often
mentioned stood the cottage, beneath trees which stooped as if
they yet felt brotherhood with its roof-tree. Flowers waved, birds
fluttered round, all had the sweetness of a happy seclusion; all
invited to cry to those who inhabited it, All hail, ye happy ones!

But on entrance to those evidently rich in personal beauty, talents,
love, and courage, the aspect of things was rather sad. Sickness had
been with them, death, care, and labor; these had not yet blighted
them, but had turned their gay smiles grave. It seemed that hope and
joy had given place to resolution. How much, too, was there in them,
worthless in this place, which would have been so valuable
elsewhere! Refined graces, cultivated powers, shine in vain before
field-laborers, as laborers are in this present world; you might as
well cultivate heliotropes to present to an ox. Oxen and heliotropes
are both good, but not for one another.

With them were some of the old means of enjoyment, the books,
the pencil, the guitar; but where the wash-tub and the axe are so
constantly in requisition, there is not much time and pliancy of hand
for these.

In the inner room, the master of the house was seated; he had been
sitting there long, for he had injured his foot on ship-board, and his
farming had to be done by proxy. His beautiful young wife was his
only attendant and nurse, as well as a farm, housekeeper. How well
she performed hard and unaccustomed duties, the objects of her care
showed; everything that belonged to the house was rude, but neatly
arranged. The invalid, confined to an uneasy wooden chair, (they had
not been able to induce any one to bring them an easy-chair from the
town,) looked as neat and elegant as if he had been dressed by the
valet of a duke. He was of Northern blood, with clear, full blue eyes,
calm features, a tempering of the soldier, scholar, and man of the
world, in his aspect. Either various intercourses had given him that
thoroughbred look never seen in Americans, or it was inherited from
a race who had known all these disciplines. He formed a great but
pleasing contrast to his wife, whose glowing complexion and dark
yellow eye bespoke an origin in some climate more familiar with the
sun. He looked as if he could sit there a great while patiently,
and live on his own mind, biding his time; she, as if she could bear
anything for affection's sake, but would feel the weight of each
moment as it passed.

Seeing the album full of drawings and verses, which bespoke the circle
of elegant and affectionate intercourse they had left behind, we could
not but see that the young wife sometimes must need a sister, the
husband a companion, and both must often miss that electricity which
sparkles from the chain of congenial minds.

For mankind, a position is desirable in some degree proportioned to
education. Mr. Birkbeck was bred a farmer, but these were nurslings
of the court and city; they may persevere, for an affectionate courage
shone in their eyes, and, if so, become true lords of the soil, and
informing geniuses to those around; then, perhaps, they will feel that
they have not paid too clear for the tormented independence of the new
settler's life. But, generally, damask roses will not thrive in the
wood, and a ruder growth, if healthy and pure, we wish rather to see
there.

I feel about these foreigners very differently from what I do about
Americans. American men and women are inexcusable if they do not bring
up children so as to be fit for vicissitudes; the meaning of our star
is, that here all men being free and equal, every man should be fitted
for freedom and an independence by his own resources wherever the
changeful wave of our mighty stream may take him. But the star of
Europe brought a different horoscope, and to mix destinies breaks the
thread of both. The Arabian horse will not plough well, nor can the
plough-horse be rode to play the jereed. Yet a man is a man wherever
he goes, and something precious cannot fail to be gained by one who
knows how to abide by a resolution of any kind, and pay the cost
without a murmur.

Returning, the fine carriage at last fulfilled its threat of breaking
down. We took refuge in a farm-house. Here was a pleasant scene,--a
rich and beautiful estate, several happy families, who had removed
together, and formed a natural community, ready to help and enliven
one another. They were farmers at home, in Western New York, and both
men and women knew how to work. Yet even here the women did not like
the change, but they were willing, "as it might be best for the young
folks." Their hospitality was great: the houseful of women and pretty
children seemed all of one mind.

Returning to Milwaukie much fatigued, I entertained myself: for a
day or two with reading. The book I had brought with me was in strong
contrast with, the life around, me. Very strange was this vision of
an exalted and sensitive existence, which seemed to invade the next
sphere, in contrast with the spontaneous, instinctive life, so healthy
and so near the ground I had been surveying. This was the German book
entitled:--

"The Seeress of Prevorst.--Revelations concerning the Inward Life of
Man, and the Projection of a World of Spirits into ours, communicated
by Justinus Kerner."

This book, published in Germany some twelve years since, and which
called forth there plenteous dews of admiration, as plenteous
hail-storms of jeers and scorns, I never saw mentioned in any English
publication till some year or two since. Then a playful, but not
sarcastic account of it, in the Dublin Magazine, so far excited my
curiosity, that I procured the book, intending to read it so soon as I
should have some leisure days, such as this journey has afforded.

Dr. Kerner, its author, is a man of distinction in his native land,
both as a physician and a thinker, though always on the side of
reverence, marvel, and mysticism. He was known to me only through two
or three little poems of his in Catholic legends, which I much admired
for the fine sense they showed of the beauty of symbols.

He here gives a biography, mental and physical, of one of the
most remarkable cases of high nervous excitement that the age,
so interested in such, yet affords, with all its phenomena of
clairvoyance and susceptibility of magnetic influences. As to my own
mental positron on these subjects, it may be briefly expressed by
a dialogue between several persons who honor me with a portion of
friendly confidence and criticism, and myself, personified as _Free
Hope_. The others may be styled _Old Church_, _Good Sense_, and
_Self-Poise_.


DIALOGUE.

_Good Sense._ I wonder you can take any interest in such observations
or experiments. Don't you see how almost impossible it is to make them
with any exactness, how entirely impossible to know anything about
them unless made by yourself, when the least leaven of credulity,
excited fancy, to say nothing of willing or careless imposture,
spoils the whole loaf? Beside, allowing the possibility of some clear
glimpses into a higher state of being, what do we want of it now? All
around us lies what we neither understand nor use. Our capacities, our
instincts for this our present sphere, are but half developed. Let
us confine ourselves to that till the lesson be learned; let us be
completely natural, before we trouble ourselves with the supernatural.
I never see any of these things but I long to get away and lie under
a green tree, and let the wind blow on me. There is marvel and charm
enough in that for me.

_Free Hope._ And for me also. Nothing is truer than the Wordsworthian
creed, on which Carlyle lays such stress, that we need only look
on the miracle of every day, to sate ourselves with thought and
admiration every day. But how are our faculties sharpened to do it?
Precisely by apprehending the infinite results of every day.

Who sees the meaning of the flower uprooted in the ploughed field? The
ploughman who does not look beyond its boundaries and does not raise
his eyes from the ground? No,--but the poet who sees that field in its
relations with the universe, and looks oftener to the sky than on the
ground. Only the dreamer shall understand realities, though, in truth,
his dreaming must be not out of proportion to his waking!

The mind, roused powerfully by this existence, stretches of itself
into what the French sage calls the "aromal state." From the hope thus
gleaned it forms the hypothesis, under whose banner it collects its
facts.

Long before these slight attempts were made to establish, as a science
what is at present called animal magnetism, always, in fact, men were
occupied more or less with this vital principle,--principle of
flux and influx,--dynamic of our mental mechanics,--human phase of
electricity. Poetic observation was pure, there was no quackery in its
free course, as there is so often in this wilful tampering with the
hidden springs of life, for it is tampering unless done in a patient
spirit and with severe truth; yet it may be, by the rude or greedy
miners, some good ore is unearthed. And some there are who work in
the true temper, patient and accurate in trial, not rushing to
conclusions, feeling there is a mystery, not eager to call it by name
till they can know it as a reality: such may learn, such may teach.

Subject to the sudden revelations, the breaks in habitual existence,
caused by the aspect of death, the touch of love, the flood of music,
I never lived, that I remember, what you call a common natural day.
All my days are touched by the supernatural, for I feel the pressure
of hidden causes, and the presence, sometimes the communion, of unseen
powers. It needs not that I should ask the clairvoyant whether "a
spirit-world projects into ours." As to the specific evidence, I would
not tarnish my mind by hasty reception. The mind is not, I know, a
highway, but a temple, and its doors should not be carelessly left
open. Yet it were sin, if indolence or coldness excluded what had a
claim to enter; and I doubt whether, in the eyes of pure intelligence,
an ill-grounded hasty rejection be not a greater sign of weakness than
an ill-grounded and hasty faith.

I will quote, as my best plea, the saying of a man old in years, but
not in heart, and whose long life has been distinguished by that
clear adaptation of means to ends which gives the credit of practical
wisdom. He wrote to his child, "I have lived too long, and seen too
much, to be _in_ credulous." Noble the thought, no less so its frank
expression, instead of saws of caution, mean advices, and other modern
instances. Such was the romance of Socrates when he bade his disciples
"sacrifice a cock to Æsculapius."

_Old Church._ You are always so quick-witted and voluble, Free Hope,
you don't get time to see how often you err, and even, perhaps, sin
and blaspheme. The Author of all has intended to confine our knowledge
within certain boundaries, has given us a short span of time for
a certain probation, for which our faculties are adapted. By wild
speculation and intemperate curiosity we violate His will, and incur
dangerous, perhaps fatal, consequences. We waste our powers, and,
becoming morbid and visionary, are unfitted to obey positive precepts,
and perform positive duties.

_Free Hope._ I do not see how it is possible to go further beyond the
results of a limited human experience than those do who pretend to
settle the origin and nature of sin, the final destiny of souls, and
the whole plan of the Causal Spirit with regard to them. I think those
who take your view have not examined themselves, and do not know the
ground on which they stand.

I acknowledge no limit, set up by man's opinion, as to the capacities
of man. "Care is taken," I see it, "that the trees grow not up into
heaven"; but, to me it seems, the more vigorously they aspire, the
better. Only let it be a vigorous, not a partial or sickly aspiration.
Let not the tree forget its root.

So long as the child insists on knowing where its dead parent is, so
long as bright eyes weep at mysterious pressures, too heavy for the
life, so long as that impulse is constantly arising which made the
Roman emperor address his soul in a strain of such touching softness,
vanishing from, the thought, as the column of smoke from the eye, I
know of no inquiry which the impulse of man suggests that is forbidden
to the resolution of man to pursue. In every inquiry, unless sustained
by a pure and reverent spirit, he gropes in the dark, or falls
headlong.

_Self-Poise._ All this may be very true, but what is the use of all
this straining? Far-sought is dear-bought. When we know that all is in
each, and that the ordinary contains the extraordinary, why should we
play the baby, and insist upon having the moon for a toy when a tin
dish will do as well? Our deep ignorance is a chasm that we can only
fill up by degrees, but the commonest rubbish will help us as well
as shred silk. The god Brahma, while on earth, was set to fill up a
valley, but he had only a basket given him in which to fetch earth for
this purpose; so is it with us all. No leaps, no starts, will avail
us; by patient crystallization alone, the equal temper of wisdom is
attainable. Sit at home, and the spirit-world will look in at your
window with moonlit eyes; run out to find it, and rainbow and golden
cup will have vanished, and left you the beggarly child you were. The
better part of wisdom is a sublime prudence, a pure and patient truth,
that will receive nothing it is not sure it can permanently lay to
heart. Of our study, there should be in proportion two thirds of
rejection to one of acceptance. And, amid the manifold infatuations
and illusions of this world of emotion, a being capable of clear
intelligence can do no better service than to hold himself upright,
avoid nonsense, and do what chores lie in his way, acknowledging every
moment that primal truth, which no fact exhibits, nor, if pressed by
too warm a hope, will even indicate. I think, indeed, it is part of
our lesson to give a formal consent to what is farcical, and to
pick up our living and our virtue amid what is so ridiculous, hardly
deigning a smile, and certainly not vexed. The work is done through
all, if not by every one.

_Free Hope._ Thou art greatly wise, my friend, and ever respected by
me, yet I find not in your theory or your scope room enough for the
lyric inspirations or the mysterious whispers of life. To me it
seems that it is madder never to abandon one's self, than often to be
infatuated; better to be wounded, a captive, and a slave, than always
to walk in armor. As to magnetism, that is only a matter of fancy. You
sometimes need just such a field in which to wander vagrant, and if it
bear a higher name, yet it may be that, in last result, the trance of
Pythagoras might be classed with the more infantine transports of the
Seeress of Prevorst.

What is done interests me more than what is thought and supposed.
Every fact is impure, but every fact contains in it the juices of
life. Every fact is a clod, from which may grow an amaranth or a palm.

Climb you the snowy peaks whence come the streams, where the
atmosphere is rare, where you can see the sky nearer, from which you
can get a commanding view of the landscape? I see great disadvantages
as well as advantages in this dignified position. I had rather walk
myself through all kinds of places, even at the risk of being robbed
in the forest, half drowned at the ford, and covered with dust in the
street.

I would beat with the living heart of the world, and understand all
the moods, even the fancies or fantasies, of nature. I dare to
trust to the interpreting spirit to bring me out all right at
last,--establish truth through error.

Whether this be the best way is of no consequence, if it be the one
individual character points out.

  For one, like me, it would be vain
  From glittering heights the eyes to strain;
  I the truth can only know,
  Tested by life's most fiery glow.
  Seeds of thought will never thrive,
  Till dews of love shall bid them live.

Let me stand in my age with all its waters flowing round me. If
they sometimes subdue, they must finally upbear me, for I seek the
universal,--and that must be the best.

The Spirit, no doubt, leads in every movement of my time: if I seek
the How, I shall find it, as well as if I busied myself more with the
Why.

Whatever is, is right, if only men are steadily bent to make it so, by
comprehending and fulfilling its design.

May not I have an office, too, in my hospitality and ready sympathy?
If I sometimes entertain guests who cannot pay with gold coin,
with "fair rose nobles," that is better than to lose the chance of
entertaining angels unawares.

You, my three friends, are held, in heart-honor, by me. You,
especially, Good Sense, because where you do not go yourself, you do
not object to another's going, if he will. You are really liberal.
You, Old Church, are of use, by keeping unforgot the effigies of old
religion, and reviving the tone of pure Spenserian sentiment, which
this time is apt to stifle in its childish haste. But you are very
faulty in censuring and wishing to limit others by your own
standard. You, Self-Poise, fill a priestly office. Could but a larger
intelligence of the vocations of others, and a tender sympathy with
their individual natures, be added, had you more of love, or more of
apprehensive genius, (for either would give you the needed expansion
and delicacy,) you would command my entire reverence. As it is, I must
at times deny and oppose you, and so must others, for you tend, by
your influence, to exclude us from our full, free life. We must
be content when you censure, and rejoiced when you approve; always
admonished to good by your whole being, and sometimes by your
judgment.

       *       *       *       *       *

Do not blame me that I have written so much suggested by the German
seeress, while you were looking for news of the West. Here on the
pier, I see disembarking the Germans, the Norwegians, the Swedes, the
Swiss. Who knows how much of old legendary lore, of modern wonder,
they have already planted amid the Wisconsin forests? Soon, their
tales of the origin of things, and the Providence which rules them,
will be so mingled with those of the Indian, that the very oak-tree
will not know them apart,--will not know whether itself be a Runic, a
Druid, or a Winnebago oak.

Some seeds of all growths that have ever been known in this world
might, no doubt, already be found in these Western wilds, if we had
the power to call them to life.

I saw, in the newspaper, that the American Tract Society boasted of
their agent's having exchanged, at a Western cabin door, tracts for
the "Devil on Two Sticks," and then burnt that more entertaining than
edifying volume. No wonder, though, they study it there. Could one
but have the gift of reading the dreams dreamed by men of such various
birth, various history, various mind, it would afford much, more
extensive amusement than did the chambers of one Spanish city!

Could I but have flown at night through such mental experiences,
instead of being shut up in my little bedroom at the Milwaukie
boarding-house, this chapter would have been worth reading. As it is,
let us hasten to a close.

Had I been rich in money, I might have built a house, or set up in
business, during my fortnight's stay at Milwaukie, matters move on
there at so rapid a rate. But being only rich in curiosity, I was
obliged to walk the streets and pick up what I could in casual
intercourse. When I left the street, indeed, and walked on the bluffs,
or sat beside the lake in their shadow, my mind was rich in dreams
congenial to the scene, some time to be realized, though not by me.

A boat was left, keel up, half on the sand, half in the water, swaying
with each swell of the lake. It gave a picturesque grace to that part
of the shore, as the only image of inaction,--only object of a pensive
character to be seen. Near this I sat, to dream my dreams and watch
the colors of the lake, changing hourly, till the sun sank. These
hours yielded impulses, wove webs, such as life will not again afford.

Returning to the boarding-house, which was also a boarding-school, we
were sure to be greeted by gay laughter.

This school was conducted by two girls of nineteen and seventeen
years; their pupils were nearly as old as themselves. The relation
seemed very pleasant between them; the only superiority--that of
superior knowledge--was sufficient to maintain authority,--all the
authority that was needed to keep daily life in good order.

In the West, people are not respected merely because they are old in
years; people there have not time to keep up appearances in that way;
when persons cease to have a real advantage in wisdom, knowledge,
or enterprise, they must stand back, and let those who are oldest in
character "go ahead," however few years they may count. There are no
banks of established respectability in which to bury the talent there;
no napkin of precedent in which to wrap it. What cannot be made to
pass current, is not esteemed coin of the realm.

To the windows of this house, where the daughter of a famous "Indian
fighter," i.e. fighter against the Indians, was learning French, and
the piano, came wild, tawny figures, offering for sale their baskets
of berries. The boys now, instead of brandishing the tomahawk, tame
their hands to pick raspberries.

Here the evenings were much lightened by the gay chat of one of the
party, who with the excellent practical sense of mature experience,
and the kindest heart, united a _naïveté_ and innocence such as I
never saw in any other who had walked so long life's tangled path.
Like a child, she was everywhere at home, and, like a child, received
and bestowed entertainment from all places, all persons. I thanked her
for making me laugh, as did the sick and poor, whom she was sure to
find out in her briefest sojourn in any place, for more substantial
aid. Happy are those who never grieve, and so often aid and enliven
their fellow-men!

This scene, however, I was not sorry to exchange for the much
celebrated beauties of the island of Mackinaw.




CHAPTER VI.

MACKINAW.--INDIANS.--INDIAN WOMEN.--EVERETT'S RECEPTION OF
CHIEFS.--UNFITNESS OF INDIAN MISSIONARIES.--OUR DUTIES TOWARD THIS
RACE.


Late at night we reached this island of Mackinaw, so famous for its
beauty, and to which I proposed a visit of some length. It was the
last week in August, at which, time a large representation from the
Chippewa and Ottawa tribes are here to receive their annual payments
from the American government. As their habits make travelling easy and
inexpensive to them, neither being obliged to wait for steamboats, or
write to see whether hotels are full, they come hither by thousands,
and those thousands in families, secure of accommodation on the beach,
and food from the lake, to make a long holiday out of the occasion.
There were near two thousand encamped on the island already, and more
arriving every day.

As our boat came in, the captain had some rockets let off. This
greatly excited the Indians, and their yells and wild cries resounded
along the shore. Except for the momentary flash of the rockets, it
was perfectly dark, and my sensations as I walked with a stranger to a
strange hotel, through the midst of these shrieking savages, and heard
the pants and snorts of the departing steamer, which carried, away
all my companions, were somewhat of the dismal sort; though it was
pleasant, too, in the way that everything strange is; everything that
breaks in upon the routine that so easily incrusts us.

I had reason to expect a room to myself at the hotel, but found
none, and was obliged to take up my rest in the common parlor and
eating-room, a circumstance which insured my being an early riser.

With the first rosy streak, I was out among my Indian neighbors, whose
lodges honeycombed the beautiful beach, that curved away in long, fair
outline on either side the house. They were already on the alert, the
children creeping out from beneath the blanket door of the lodge, the
women pounding corn in their rude mortars, the young men playing on
their pipes. I had been much amused, when the strain proper to the
Winnebago courting flute was played to me on another instrument, at
any one fancying it a melody; but now, when I heard the notes in
their true tone and time, I thought it not unworthy comparison, in
its graceful sequence, and the light flourish at the close, with the
sweetest bird-song; and this, like the bird-song, is only practised
to allure a mate. The Indian, become a citizen and a husband, no more
thinks of playing the flute, than one of the "settled-down" members of
our society would, of choosing the "purple light of love" as dye-stuff
for a surtout.

Mackinaw has been fully described by able pens, and I can only add my
tribute to the exceeding beauty of the spot and its position. It is
charming to be on an island so small that you can sail round it in an
afternoon, yet large enough to admit of long, secluded walks through
its gentle groves. You can go round it in your boat; or, on foot, you
can tread its narrow beach, resting, at times, beneath the lofty walls
of stone, richly wooded, which rise from it in various architectural
forms. In this stone, caves are continually forming, from the action
of the atmosphere; one of these is quite deep, and a rocky fragment
left at its mouth, wreathed with little creeping plants, looks, as you
sit within, like a ruined pillar.

The arched rock surprised me, much as I had heard of it, from, the
perfection of the arch. It is perfect, whether you look up through it
from the lake, or down through it to the transparent waters. We both
ascended and descended--no very easy matter--the steep and crumbling
path, and rested at the summit, beneath the trees, and at the foot,
upon the cool, mossy stones beside the lapsing wave. Nature has
carefully decorated all this architecture with shrubs that take root
within the crevices, and small creeping vines. These natural ruins may
vie for beautiful effect with the remains of European grandeur, and
have, beside, a charm as of a playful mood in Nature.

The sugar-loaf rock is a fragment in the same kind as the pine rock
we saw in Illinois. It has the same air of a helmet, as seen from an
eminence at the side, which you descend by a long and steep path. The
rock itself may be ascended by the bold and agile: half-way up is a
niche, to which those who are neither can climb by a ladder. A very
handsome young officer and lady who were with us did so, and then,
facing round, stood there side by side, looking in the niche, if
not like saints or angels wrought by pious hands in stone, as
romantically, if not as holily, worthy the gazer's eye.

The woods which adorn the central ridge of the island are very full
in foliage, and, in August, showed the tender green and pliant leaf
of June elsewhere. They are rich in beautiful mosses and the wild
raspberry.

From Fort Holmes, the old fort, we had the most commanding view of the
lake and straits, opposite shores, and fair islets. Mackinaw itself is
best seen from the water. Its peculiar shape is supposed to have been
the origin of its name, Michilimackinac, which means the Great Turtle.
One person whom I saw wished to establish another etymology, which he
fancied to be more refined; but, I doubt not, this is the true one,
both because the shape might suggest such a name, and the existence
of an island of such form in this commanding position would seem
a significant fact to the Indians. For Henry gives the details of
peculiar worship paid to the Great Turtle, and the oracles received
from this extraordinary Apollo of the Indian Delphos.

It is crowned, most picturesquely, by the white fort, with its gay
flag. From this, on one side, stretches the town. How pleasing a
sight, after the raw, crude, staring assemblage of houses everywhere
else to be met in this country, is an old French town, mellow in
its coloring, and with the harmonious effect of a slow growth, which
assimilates, naturally, with objects round it! The people in its
streets, Indian, French, half-breeds, and others, walked with a
leisure step, as of those who live a life of taste and inclination,
rather than of the hard press of business, as in American towns
elsewhere.

On the other side, along the fair, curving beach, below the white
houses scattered on the declivity, clustered the Indian lodges, with
their amber-brown matting, so soft and bright of hue, in the late
afternoon sun. The first afternoon I was there, looking down from
a near height, I felt that I never wished to see a more fascinating
picture. It was an hour of the deepest serenity; bright blue and gold,
with rich shadows. Every moment the sunlight fell more mellow.
The Indians were grouped and scattered among the lodges; the women
preparing food, in the kettle or frying-pan, over the many small
fires; the children, half naked, wild as little goblins, were playing
both in and out of the water. Here and there lounged a young girl,
with a baby at her back, whose bright eyes glanced, as if born into a
world of courage and of joy, instead of ignominious servitude and slow
decay. Some girls were cutting wood, a little way from me, talking and
laughing, in the low musical tone, so charming in the Indian women.
Many bark canoes were upturned upon the beach, and, by that light, of
almost the same amber as the lodges; others coming in, their square
sails set, and with almost arrowy speed, though heavily laden with
dusky forms, and all the apparatus of their household. Here and there
a sail-boat glided by, with a different but scarce less pleasing
motion.

It was a scene of ideal loveliness, and these wild forms adorned it,
as looking so at home in it. All seemed happy, and they were happy
that day, for they had no fire-water to madden them, as it was Sunday,
and the shops were shut.

From my window, at the boarding-house, my eye was constantly attracted
by these picturesque groups. I was never tired of seeing the canoes
come in, and the new arrivals set up their temporary dwellings. The
women ran to set up the tent-poles, and spread the mats on the ground.
The men brought the chests, kettles, &c.; the mats were then laid on
the outside, the cedar-boughs strewed on the ground, the blanket hung
up for a door, and all was completed in less than twenty minutes. Then
they began to prepare the night meal, and to learn of their neighbors
the news of the day.

The habit of preparing food out of doors gave all the gypsy charm and
variety to their conduct. Continually I wanted Sir Walter Scott to
have been there. If such romantic sketches were suggested to him, by
the sight of a few gypsies, not a group near one of these fires but
would have furnished him material for a separate canvas. I was so
taken up with the spirit of the scene, that I could not follow out
the stories suggested by these weather-beaten, sullen, but eloquent
figures.

They talked a great deal, and with much, variety of gesture, so that I
often had a good guess at the meaning of their discourse. I saw
that, whatever the Indian may be among the whites, he is anything but
taciturn with his own people; and he often would declaim, or narrate
at length. Indeed, it is obvious, if only from the fables taken from
their stores by Mr. Schoolcraft, that these tribes possess great power
that way.

I liked very much, to walk or sit among them. With, the women I held
much communication by signs. They are almost invariably coarse and
ugly, with the exception of their eyes, with a peculiarly awkward
gait, and forms bent by burdens. This gait, so different from the
steady and noble step of the men, marks the inferior position
they occupy. I had heard much eloquent contradiction of this. Mrs.
Schoolcraft had maintained to a friend, that they were in fact as
nearly on a par with their husbands as the white woman with hers.
"Although," said she, "on account of inevitable causes, the Indian
woman is subjected to many hardships of a peculiar nature, yet her
position, compared with that of the man, is higher and freer than that
of the white woman. Why will people look only on one side? They either
exalt the red man into a demigod, or degrade him into a beast. They
say that he compels his wife to do all the drudgery, while he does
nothing but hunt and amuse himself; forgetting that upon his activity
and power of endurance as a hunter depends the support of his
family; that this is labor of the most fatiguing kind, and that it is
absolutely necessary that he should keep his frame unbent by burdens
and unworn by toil, that he may be able to obtain the means of
subsistence. I have witnessed scenes of conjugal and parental love
in the Indian's wigwam, from, which I have often, often thought the
educated white man, proud of his superior civilization, might learn a
useful lesson. When he returns from hunting, worn out with, fatigue,
having tasted nothing since dawn, his wife, if she is a good wife,
will take off his moccasons and replace them with dry ones, and will
prepare his game for their repast, while his children will climb upon
him, and he will caress them, with all the tenderness of a woman; and
in the evening the Indian wigwam is the scene of the purest domestic
pleasures. The father will relate, for the amusement of the wife and
for the instruction of the children, all the events of the day's hunt,
while they will treasure up every word that falls, and thus learn
the theory of the art whose practice is to be the occupation of their
lives."

Mrs. Grant speaks thus of the position of woman amid the Mohawk
Indians:--

"Lady Mary Montague says, that the court of Vienna was the paradise of
old women, and that there is no other place in the world where a woman
past fifty excites the least interest. Had her travels extended to
the interior of North America, she would have seen another instance of
this inversion of the common mode of thinking. Here a woman never was
of consequence, till sire had a son old enough to fight the battles of
his country. From, that date she held a superior rank in society; was
allowed to live at ease, and even called to consultations on national
affairs. In savage and warlike countries, the reign of beauty is very
short, and its influence comparatively limited. The girls in childhood
had a very pleasing appearance; but excepting their fine hair,
eyes, and teeth, every external grace was soon banished by perpetual
drudgery, carrying burdens too heavy to be borne, and other slavish
employments, considered beneath the dignity of the men. These walked
before, erect and graceful, decked with ornaments which set off to
advantage the symmetry of their well-formed persons, while the poor
women followed, meanly attired, bent under the weight of the children
and the utensils, which they carried everywhere with, them, and
disfigured and degraded by ceaseless toils. They were very early
married, for a Mohawk had no other servant but his wife; and whenever
he commenced hunter, it was requisite he should have some one to carry
his load, cook his kettle, make his moccasons, and, above all, produce
the young warriors who were to succeed him in the honors of the chase
and of the tomahawk. Wherever man is a mere hunter, woman is a mere
slave. It is domestic intercourse that softens man, and elevates
woman; and of that there can be but little, where the employments
and amusements are not in common. The ancient Caledonians honored the
fair; but then it is to be observed, they were fair huntresses,
and moved in the light of their beauty to the hill of roes; and the
culinary toils were entirely left to the rougher sex. When the young
warrior made his appearance, it softened the cares of his mother, who
well knew that, when he grew up, every deficiency in tenderness to his
wife would be made up in superabundant duty and affection to her. If
it were possible to carry filial veneration to excess, it was done
here; for all other charities were absorbed in it. I wonder this
system of depressing the sex in their early years, to exalt them,
when all their juvenile attractions are flown, and when mind alone
can distinguish them, has not occurred to our modern reformers.
The Mohawks took good care not to admit their women to share their
prerogatives, till they approved themselves good wives and mothers."

The observations of women upon the position of woman are always more
valuable than those of men; but, of these two, Mrs. Grant's seem
much, nearer the truth than Mrs. Schoolcraft's, because, though her
opportunities for observation did not bring her so close, she looked
more at both sides to find the truth.

Carver, in his travels among the Winnebagoes, describes two queens,
one nominally so, like Queen Victoria; the other invested with a
genuine royalty, springing from her own conduct.

In the great town of the Winnebagoes, he found a queen presiding over
the tribe, instead of a sachem. He adds, that, in some tribes, the
descent is given to the female line in preference to the male, that
is, a sister's son will succeed to the authority, rather than a
brother's son. The position of this Winnebago queen reminded me
forcibly of Queen Victoria's.

"She sat in the council, but only asked a few questions, or gave some
trifling directions in matters relative to the state, for women are
never allowed to sit in their councils, except they happen to be
invested with the supreme authority, and then it is not customary for
them to make any formal speeches, as the chiefs do. She was a very
ancient woman, small in stature, and not much distinguished by
her dress from several young women that attended her. These, her
attendants, seemed greatly pleased whenever I showed any tokens
of respect to their queen, especially when I saluted her, which I
frequently did to acquire her favor."

The other was a woman, who, being taken captive, found means to kill
her captor, and make her escape; and the tribe were so struck with
admiration at the courage and calmness she displayed on the occasion,
as to make her chieftainess in her own light.

Notwithstanding the homage paid to women, and the consequence allowed
them in some cases, it is impossible to look upon the Indian women
without feeling that they _do_ occupy a lower place than women among
the nations of European civilization. The habits of drudgery expressed
in their form and gesture, the soft and wild but melancholy expression
of their eye, reminded me of the tribe mentioned by Mackenzie, where
the women destroy their female children, whenever they have a good
opportunity; and of the eloquent reproaches addressed by the Paraguay
woman to her mother, that she had not, in the same way, saved her from
the anguish and weariness of her lot.

More weariness than anguish, no doubt, falls to the lot of most of
these women. They inherit submission, and the minds of the generality
accommodate themselves more or less to any posture. Perhaps they
suffer less than their white sisters, who have more aspiration and
refinement, with little power of self-sustenance. But their place is
certainly lower, and their share of the human inheritance less.

Their decorum and delicacy are striking, and show that, when these are
native to the mind, no habits of life make any difference. Their whole
gesture is timid, yet self-possessed. They used to crowd round me, to
inspect little things I had to show them, but never press near; on the
contrary, would reprove and keep off the children. Anything they took
from my hand was held with care, then shut or folded, and returned
with an air of lady-like precision. They would not stare, however
curious they might be, but cast sidelong glances.

A locket that I wore was an object of untiring interest; they seemed
to regard it as a talisman. My little sun-shade was still more
fascinating to them; apparently they had never before seen one. For an
umbrella they entertained profound regard, probably looking upon it as
the most luxurious superfluity a person can possess, and therefore a
badge of great wealth. I used to see an old squaw, whose sullied
skin and coarse, tanned locks told that she had braved sun and storm,
without a doubt or care, for sixty years at least, sitting gravely at
the door of her lodge, with an old green umbrella over her head, happy
for hours together in the dignified shade. For her happiness pomp
came not, as it so often does, too late; she received it with grateful
enjoyment.

One day, as I was seated on one of the canoes, a woman came and sat
beside me, with her baby in its cradle set up at her feet. She asked
me by a gesture to let her take my sun-shade, and then to show her how
to open it. Then she put it into her baby's hand, and held it over
its head, looking at me the while with a sweet, mischievous laugh, as
much, as to say, "You carry a thing that is only fit for a baby." Her
pantomime was very pretty. She, like the other women, had a glance,
and shy, sweet expression in the eye; the men have a steady gaze.

That noblest and loveliest of modern Preux, Lord Edward Fitzgerald,
who came through Buffalo to Detroit and Mackinaw, with Brant, and was
adopted into the Bear tribe by the name of Eghnidal, was struck in
the same way by the delicacy of manners in women. He says:
"Notwithstanding the life they lead, which would make most women rough
and masculine, they are as soft, meek, and modest as the best brought
up girls in England. Somewhat coquettish too! Imagine the manners of
Mimi in a poor _squaw_, that has been carrying packs in the woods all
her life."

McKenney mentions that the young wife, during the short bloom of her
beauty, is an object of homage and tenderness to her husband. One
Indian woman, the Flying Pigeon, a beautiful and excellent person, of
whom he gives some particulars, is an instance of the power uncommon
characters will always exert of breaking down the barriers custom has
erected round them. She captivated by her charms, and inspired her
husband and son with, reverence for her character. The simple praise
with which the husband indicates the religion, the judgment, and the
generosity he saw in her, are as satisfying as Count Zinzendorf's more
labored eulogium on his "noble consort." The conduct of her son,
when, many years after her death, he saw her picture at Washington, is
unspeakably affecting. Catlin gives anecdotes of the grief of a
chief for the loss of a daughter, and the princely gifts he offers
in exchange for her portrait, worthy not merely of European, but of
Troubadour sentiment. It is also evident that, as Mrs. Schoolcraft
says, the women have great power at home. It can never be otherwise,
men being dependent upon them for the comfort of their lives. Just
so among ourselves, wives who are neither esteemed nor loved by their
husbands have great power over their conduct by the friction of
every day, and over the formation of their opinions by the daily
opportunities so close a relation affords of perverting testimony
and instilling doubts. But these sentiments should not come in brief
flashes, but burn as a steady flame; then there would be more women
worthy to inspire them. This power is good for nothing, unless the
woman be wise to use it aright. Has the Indian, has the white woman,
as noble a feeling of life and its uses, as religious a self-respect,
as worthy a field of thought and action, as man? If not, the white
woman, the Indian woman, occupies a position inferior to that of man.
It is not so much a question of power, as of privilege.

The men of these subjugated tribes, now accustomed to drunkenness and
every way degraded, bear but a faint impress of the lost grandeur of
the race. They are no longer strong, tall, or finely proportioned.
Yet, as you see them stealing along a height, or striding boldly
forward, they remind you of what _was_ majestic in the red man.

On the shores of Lake Superior, it is said, if you visit them at
home, you may still see a remnant of the noble blood. The Pillagers
(Pilleurs), a band celebrated by the old travellers, are still
existent there.

  "Still some, 'the eagles of their tribe,' may rush."

I have spoken of the hatred felt by the white man for the Indian: with
white women it seems to amount to disgust, to loathing. How I could
endure the dirt, the peculiar smell, of the Indians, and their
dwellings, was a great marvel in the eyes of my lady acquaintance;
indeed, I wonder why they did not quite give me up, as they certainly
looked on me with great distaste for it. "Get you gone, you Indian
dog," was the felt, if not the breathed, expression towards the
hapless owners of the soil;--all their claims, all their sorrows quite
forgot, in abhorrence of their dirt, their tawny skins, and the vices
the whites have taught them.

A person who had seen them during great part of a life expressed his
prejudices to me with such violence, that I was no longer surprised
that the Indian children threw sticks at him, as he passed. A lady
said: "Do what you will for them, they will be ungrateful. The savage
cannot be washed out of them. Bring up an Indian child, and see if you
can attach it to you." The next moment, she expressed, in the presence
of one of those children whom she was bringing up, loathing at the
odor left by one of her people, and one of the most respected, as
he passed through the room. When the child is grown, she will be
considered basely ungrateful not to love the lady, as she certainly
will not; and this will be cited as an instance of the impossibility
of attaching the Indian.

Whether the Indian could, by any efforts of love and intelligence
from, the white man, have been civilized and made a valuable
ingredient in the new state, I will not say; but this we are sure
of,--the French Catholics, at least, did not harm them, nor disturb
their minds merely to corrupt them. The French, they loved. But the
stern Presbyterian, with his dogmas and his task-work, the city circle
and the college, with their niggard concessions and unfeeling stare,
have never tried the experiment. It has not been tried. Our people and
our government have sinned alike against the first-born of the
soil, and if they are the fated agents of a new era, they have done
nothing,--have invoked no god to keep them sinless while they do the
hest of fate.

Worst of all is it, when they invoke the holy power only to mask their
iniquity; when the felon trader, who, all the week, has been besotting
and degrading the Indian with rum mixed with red pepper, and damaged
tobacco, kneels with him on Sunday before a common altar, to tell
the rosary which recalls the thought of Him crucified for love of
suffering men, and to listen to sermons in praise of "purity"!!

"My savage friends," cries the old, fat priest, "you must, above all
things, aim at _purity_."

Oh! my heart swelled when I saw them in a Christian church. Better
their own dog-feasts and bloody rites than such mockery of that other
faith.

"The dog," said an Indian, "was once a spirit; he has fallen for his
sin, and was given by the Great Spirit, in this shape, to man, as his
most intelligent companion. Therefore we sacrifice it in highest honor
to our friends in this world,--to our protecting geniuses in another."

There was religion in that thought. The white man sacrifices his own
brother, and to Mammon, yet he turns in loathing from, the dog-feast.

"You say," said the Indian of the South to the missionary, "that
Christianity is pleasing to God. How can that be?--Those men at
Savannah are Christians."

Yes! slave-drivers and Indian traders are called Christians, and the
Indian is to be deemed less like the Son of Mary than they! Wonderful
is the deceit of man's heart!

I have not, on seeing something of them in their own haunts, found
reason to change the sentiments expressed in the following lines, when
a deputation of the Sacs and Foxes visited Boston in 1837, and were,
by one person at least, received in a dignified and courteous manner.


GOVERNOR EVERETT RECEIVING THE INDIAN CHIEFS,

NOVEMBER, 1837.

  Who says that Poesy is on the wane,
  And that the Muses tune their lyres in vain?
  'Mid all the treasures of romantic story,
  When thought was fresh and fancy in her glory,
  Has ever Art found out a richer theme,
  More dark a shadow, or more soft a gleam,
  Than fall upon the scene, sketched carelessly,
  In the newspaper column of to-day?

  American romance is somewhat stale.
  Talk of the hatchet, and the faces pale,
  Wampum and calumets and forests dreary,
  Once so attractive, now begins to weary.
  Uncas and Magawisca please us still,
  Unreal, yet idealized with skill;
  But every poetaster, scribbling witling,
  From the majestic oak his stylus whittling,
  Has helped to tire us, and to make us fear
  The monotone in which so much we hear
  Of "stoics of the wood," and "men without a tear."

  Yet Nature, ever buoyant, ever young,
  If let alone, will sing as erst she sung;
  The course of circumstance gives back again
  The Picturesque, erewhile pursued in vain;
  Shows us the fount of Romance is not wasted,--
  The lights and shades of contrast not exhausted.

  Shorn of his strength, the Samson now must sue
    For fragments from the feast his fathers gave;
  The Indian dare not claim what is his due,
    But as a boon his heritage must crave;
  His stately form shall soon be seen no more
  Through all his father's land, the Atlantic shore;
  Beneath the sun, to _us_ so kind, _they_ melt,
  More heavily each day our rule is felt.
  The tale is old,--we do as mortals must:
  Might makes right here, but God and Time are just.

  Though, near the drama hastens to its close,
  On this last scene awhile your eyes repose;
  The polished Greek and Scythian meet again,
  The ancient life is lived by modern men;
  The savage through our busy cities walks,
  He in his untouched, grandeur silent stalks.
  Unmoved by all our gayeties and shows,
  Wonder nor shame can touch him as he goes;
  He gazes on the marvels we have wrought,
  But knows the models from whence all was brought;
  In God's first temples he has stood so oft,
  And listened to the natural organ-loft,
  Has watched the eagle's flight, the muttering thunder heard.
  Art cannot move him to a wondering word.
  Perhaps he sees that all this luxury
  Brings less food to the mind than to the eye;
  Perhaps a simple sentiment has brought
  More to him than your arts had ever taught.
  What are the petty triumphs _Art_ has given,
  To eyes familiar with the naked heaven?

  All has been seen,--dock, railroad, and canal,
  Fort, market, bridge, college, and arsenal,
  Asylum, hospital, and cotton-mill,
  The theatre, the lighthouse, and the jail.
  The Braves each novelty, reflecting, saw,
  And now and then growled out the earnest "_Yaw_."
  And now the time is come, 'tis understood,
  When, having seen and thought so much, a _talk_ may do some good.

  A well-dressed mob have thronged the sight to greet,
  And motley figures throng the spacious street;
  Majestical and calm through all they stride,
  Wearing the blanket with a monarch's pride;
  The gazers stare and shrug, but can't deny
  Their noble forms and blameless symmetry.
  If the Great Spirit their _morale_ has slighted,
  And wigwam smoke their mental culture blighted,
  Yet the _physique_, at least, perfection reaches,
  In wilds where neither Combe nor Spurzheim teaches;
  Where whispering trees invite man to the chase,
  And bounding deer allure him to the race.

  Would thou hadst seen it! That dark, stately band,
  Whose ancestors enjoyed all this fair land,
  Whence they, by force or fraud, were made to flee,
  Are brought, the white man's victory to see.
  Can kind emotions in their proud hearts glow,
  As through these realms, now decked by Art, they go?
  The church, the school, the railroad, and the mart,--
  Can these a pleasure to their minds impart?
  All once was theirs,--earth, ocean, forest, sky,--
  How can they joy in what now meets the eye?
  Not yet Religion has unlocked the soul,
  Nor Each has learned to glory in the Whole!

  Must they not think, so strange and sad their lot,
  That they by the Great Spirit are forgot?
  From the far border to which they are driven,
  They might look up in trust to the clear heaven;
  But _here_,--what tales doth every object tell
  Where Massasoit sleeps, where Philip fell!

  We take our turn, and the Philosopher
  Sees through the clouds a hand which cannot err
  An unimproving race, with all their graces
  And all their vices, must resign their places;
  And Human Culture rolls its onward flood
  Over the broad plains steeped in Indian blood
  Such thoughts steady our faith; yet there will rise
  Some natural tears into the calmest eyes,--
  Which gaze where forest princes haughty go,
  Made for a gaping crowd a raree-show.

  But _this_ a scene seems where, in courtesy,
  The pale face with the forest prince could vie,
  For one presided, who, for tact and grace,
  In any age had held an honored place,--
  In Beauty's own dear day had shone a polished Phidian vase!

  Oft have I listened to his accents bland,
    And owned the magic of his silvery voice,
  In all the graces which life's arts demand,
    Delighted by the justness of his choice.
  Not his the stream of lavish, fervid thought,--
  The rhetoric by passion's magic wrought;
  Not his the massive style, the lion port,
  Which with the granite class of mind assort;
  But, in a range of excellence his own,
  With all the charms to soft persuasion known,
  Amid our busy people we admire him,--"elegant and lone."

  He scarce needs words: so exquisite the skill
  Which modulates the tones to do his will,
  That the mere sound enough would charm the ear,
  And lap in its Elysium all who hear.
  The intellectual paleness of his cheek,
    The heavy eyelids and slow, tranquil smile,
  The well-cut lips from which the graces speak,
    Pit him alike to win or to beguile;
  Then those words so well chosen, fit, though few,
  Their linked sweetness as our thoughts pursue,
  We deem them spoken pearls, or radiant diamond dew.

  And never yet did I admire the power
    Which makes so lustrous every threadbare theme,--
  Which won for La Fayette one other hour,
    And e'en on July Fourth could cast a gleam,--
  As now, when I behold him play the host,
  With all the dignity which red men boast,--
  With all the courtesy the whites have lost;
  Assume the very hue of savage mind,
  Yet in rude accents show the thought refined;
  Assume the _naïveté_ of infant age,
  And in such prattle seem still more a sage;
  The golden mean with tact unerring seized,
  A courtly critic shone, a simple savage pleased.
  The stoic of the woods his skill confessed,
  As all the father answered in his breast;
  To the sure mark the silver arrow sped,
  The "man without a tear" a tear has shed;
  And them hadst wept, hadst thou been there, to see
  How true one sentiment must ever be,
  In court or camp, the city or the wild,--
  To rouse the father's heart, you need but name his child.

The speech of Governor Everett on that occasion was admirable; as I
think, the happiest attempt ever made to meet the Indian in his own
way, and catch the tone of his mind. It was said, in the newspapers,
that Keokuck did actually shed tears when addressed as a father. If he
did not with his eyes, he well might in his heart.

Not often have they been addressed with such intelligence and tact.
The few who have not approached them with sordid rapacity, but from
love to them, as men having souls to be redeemed, have most frequently
been persons intellectually too narrow, too straitly bound in sects
or opinions, to throw themselves into the character or position of
the Indians, or impart to them anything they can make available. The
Christ shown them by these missionaries is to them but a new and more
powerful Manito; the signs of the new religion, but the fetiches that
have aided the conquerors.

Here I will copy some remarks made by a discerning observer, on the
methods used by the missionaries, and their natural results.

"Mr. ---- and myself had a very interesting conversation, upon the
subject of the Indians, their character, capabilities, &c. After ten
years' experience among them, he was forced to acknowledge that the
results of the missionary efforts had produced nothing calculated to
encourage. He thought that there was an intrinsic disability in them
to rise above, or go beyond, the sphere in which they had so long
moved. He said, that even those Indians who had been converted, and
who had adopted the habits of civilization, were very little improved
in their real character; they were as selfish, as deceitful, and
as indolent, as those who were still heathens. They had repaid the
kindnesses of the missionaries with the basest ingratitude, killing
their cattle and swine, and robbing them of their harvests, which,
they wantonly destroyed. He had abandoned the idea of effecting any
general good to the Indians. He had conscientious scruples as to
promoting an enterprise so hopeless as that of missions among
the Indians, by sending accounts to the East that might induce
philanthropic individuals to contribute to their support. In fact, the
whole experience of his intercourse with them seemed to have convinced
him of the irremediable degradation of the race. Their fortitude
under suffering he considered the result of physical and mental
insensibility; their courage, a mere animal excitement, which they
found it necessary to inflame, before daring to meet a foe. They have
no constancy of purpose; and are, in fact, but little superior to the
brutes in point of moral development. It is not astonishing, that one
looking upon the Indian character from Mr. ----'s point of view should
entertain such sentiments. The object of his intercourse with them
was, to make them apprehend the mysteries of a theology, which, to the
most enlightened, is an abstruse, metaphysical study; and it is not
singular they should prefer their pagan superstitions, which address
themselves more directly to the senses. Failing in the attempt to
Christianize before civilizing them, he inferred that in the intrinsic
degradation of their faculties the obstacle was to be found."

Thus the missionary vainly attempts, by once or twice holding up the
cross, to turn deer and tigers into lambs; vainly attempts to convince
the red man that a heavenly mandate takes from him his broad lands. He
bows his head, but does not at heart acquiesce. He cannot. It is not
true; and if it were, the descent of blood through the same channels,
for centuries, has formed habits of thought not so easily to be
disturbed.

Amalgamation would afford the only true and profound means of
civilization. But nature seems, like all else, to declare that this
race is fated to perish. Those of mixed blood fade early, and are not
generally a fine race. They lose what is best in either type,
rather than enhance the value of each, by mingling. There are
exceptions,--one or two such I know of,--but this, it is said, is the
general rule.

A traveller observes, that the white settlers who live in the woods
soon become sallow, lanky, and dejected; the atmosphere of the trees
does not agree with Caucasian lungs; and it is, perhaps, in part an
instinct of this which causes the hatred of the new settlers towards
trees. The Indian breathed the atmosphere of the forests freely; he
loved their shade. As they are effaced from the land, he fleets too; a
part of the same manifestation, which cannot linger behind its proper
era.

The Chippewas have lately petitioned the State of Michigan, that they
may be admitted as citizens; but this would be vain, unless they could
be admitted, as brothers, to the heart of the white man. And while
the latter feels that conviction of superiority which enabled our
Wisconsin friend to throw away the gun, and send the Indian to
fetch it, he needs to be very good, and very wise, not to abuse his
position. But the white man, as yet, is a half-tamed pirate, and
avails himself as much as ever of the maxim, "Might makes right." All
that civilization does for the generality is to cover up this with a
veil of subtle evasions and chicane, and here and there to rouse the
individual mind to appeal to Heaven against it.

I have no hope of liberalizing the missionary, of humanizing the
sharks of trade, of infusing the conscientious drop into the flinty
bosom of policy, of saving the Indian from immediate degradation and
speedy death. The whole sermon may be preached from the text, "Needs
be that offences must come, yet woe onto them by whom they come."
Yet, ere they depart, I wish there might be some masterly attempt to
reproduce, in art or literature, what is proper to them,--a kind of
beauty and grandeur which few of the every-day crowd have hearts to
feel, yet which ought to leave in the world its monuments, to inspire
the thought of genius through all ages. Nothing in this kind has been
done masterly; since it was Clevengers's ambition, 't is pity he had
not opportunity to try fully his powers. We hope some other mind may
be bent upon it, ere too late. At present the only lively impress
of their passage through the world is to be found in such books as
Catlin's, and some stories told by the old travellers.

Let me here give another brief tale of the power exerted by the
white man over the savage in a trying case; but in this case it was
righteous, was moral power.

"We were looking over McKenney's Tour to the Lakes, and, on observing
the picture of Key-way-no-wut, or the Going Cloud, Mr. B. observed,
'Ah, that is the fellow I came near having a fight with'; and he
detailed at length the circumstances. This Indian was a very desperate
character, and of whom, all the Leech Lake band stood in fear. He
would shoot down any Indian who offended him, without the least
hesitation, and had become quite the bully of that part of the tribe.
The trader at Leech Lake warned Mr. B. to beware of him, and said that
he once, when he (the trader) refused to give up to him his stock of
wild-rice, went and got his gun and tomahawk, and shook the tomahawk
over his head, saying, '_Now_, give me your wild-rice.' The trader
complied with his exaction, but not so did Mr. B. in the adventure
which I am about to relate. Key-way-no-wut came frequently to him with
furs, wishing him to give for them, cotton-cloth, sugar, flour, &c.
Mr. B. explained to him that he could not trade for furs, as he was
sent there as a teacher, and that it would be like putting his hand
into the fire to do so, as the traders would inform against him, and
he would be sent out of the country. At the same time, he _gave_
him the articles which he wished. Key-way-no-wut found this a very
convenient way of getting what he wanted, and followed up this sort
of game, until, at last, it became insupportable. One day the Indian
brought a very large otter-skin, and said, 'I want to get for this
ten pounds of sugar, and some flour and cloth,' adding, 'I am not like
other Indians, _I_ want to pay for what I get.' Mr. B. found that he
must either be robbed of all he had by submitting to these exactions,
or take a stand at once. He thought, however, he would try to avoid a
scrape, and told his customer he had not so much sugar to spare. 'Give
me, then,' said he, 'what you can spare'; and Mr. B., thinking to make
him back out, told him he would, give him five pounds of sugar for his
skin. 'Take it,' said the Indian. He left the skin, telling Mr. B. to
take good care of it. Mr. B. took it at once to the trader's store,
and related the circumstance, congratulating himself that he had got
rid of the Indian's exactions. But in about a month Key-way-no-wut
appeared, bringing some dirty Indian sugar, and said, 'I have brought
back the sugar that I borrowed of you, and I want my otter-skin back.'
Mr. B. told him, 'I _bought_ an otter-skin of you, but if you will
return the other articles you have got for it, perhaps I can get it
for you.' 'Where is the skin?' said he very quickly; 'what have you
done with it?' Mr. B. replied it was in the trader's store, where he
(the Indian) could not get it. At this information he was furious,
laid his hands on his knife and tomahawk, and commanded Mr. B. to
bring it at once. Mr. B. found this was the crisis, where he must take
a stand or be 'rode over rough-shod' by this man. His wife, who was
present was much alarmed, and begged he would get the skin for the
Indian, but he told her that 'either he or the Indian would soon be
master of his house, and if she was afraid to see it decided which
was to be so, she had better retire,' He turned to Key-way-no-wut, and
addressed him in a stern voice as follows: 'I will _not_ give you the
skin. How often have you come to my house, and I have shared with you
what I had. I gave you tobacco when you were well, and medicine when
you were sick, and you never went away from my wigwam with your hands
empty. And this is the way you return my treatment to you. I had
thought you were a man and a chief, but you are not, you are nothing
but an old woman. Leave this house, and never enter it again.' Mr. B.
said he expected the Indian would attempt his life when he said this,
but that he had placed himself in a position so that he could defend
himself, and looked straight into the Indian's eye, and, like other
wild beasts, he quailed before the glance of mental and moral courage.
He calmed down at once, and soon began to make apologies. Mr. B. then
told him kindly, but firmly, that, if he wished to walk in the same
path with him, he must walk as straight as the crack on the floor
before them; adding, that he would not walk with anybody who would
jostle him by walking so crooked as he had done. He was perfectly
tamed, and Mr. B. said he never had any more trouble with him."

The conviction here livingly enforced of the superiority on the side
of the white man, was thus expressed by the Indian orator at Mackinaw
while we were there. After the customary compliments about sun, dew,
&c., "This," said he, "is the difference between the white and the
red man; the white man looks to the future and paves the way for
posterity. The red man never thought of this." This is a statement
uncommonly refined for an Indian; but one of the gentlemen present,
who understood the Chippewa, vouched for it as a literal rendering of
his phrases; and he did indeed touch the vital point of difference.
But the Indian, if he understands, cannot make use of his
intelligence. The fate of his people is against it, and Pontiac and
Philip have no more chance than Julian in the times of old.

The Indian is steady to that simple creed which forms the basis of all
his mythology; that there is a God and a life beyond this; a right and
wrong which each man can see, betwixt which each man should choose;
that good brings with it its reward, and vice its punishment. His
moral code, if not as refined as that of civilized nations, is
clear and noble in the stress laid upon truth and fidelity. And all
unprejudiced observers bear testimony, that the Indians, until broken
from their old anchorage by intercourse with the whites,--who offer
them, instead, a religion of which they furnish neither interpretation
nor example,--were singularly virtuous, if virtue be allowed to
consist in a man's acting up to his own ideas of right.

My friend, who joined me at Mackinaw, happened, on the homeward
journey, to see a little Chinese girl, who had been sent over by one
of the missionaries, and observed that, in features, complexion, and
gesture, she was a counterpart to the little Indian girls she had just
seen playing about on the lake shore.

The parentage of these tribes is still an interesting subject of
speculation, though, if they be not created for this region, they have
become so assimilated to it as to retain little trace of any other. To
me it seems most probable, that a peculiar race was bestowed on each
region,[A] as the lion on one latitude and the white bear on another.
As man has two natures,--one, like that of the plants and animals,
adapted to the uses and enjoyments of this planet, another which
presages and demands a higher sphere,--he is constantly breaking
bounds, in proportion as the mental gets the better of the mere
instinctive existence. As yet, he loses in harmony of being what he
gains in height and extension; the civilized man is a larger mind, but
a more imperfect nature, than the savage.

[Footnote A: Professor Agassiz has recently published some able
scientific papers tending to enforce this theory.--ED.]

We hope there will be a national institute, containing all the remains
of the Indians, all that has been preserved by official intercourse at
Washington, Catlin's collection, and a picture-gallery as complete
as can be made, with a collection of skulls from all parts of the
country. To this should be joined the scanty library that exists on
the subject.

A little pamphlet, giving an account of the massacre at Chicago, has
lately; been published, which I wish much I had seen while there, as
it would have imparted an interest to spots otherwise barren. It is
written with animation, and in an excellent style, telling just what
we want to hear, and no more. The traits given of Indian generosity
are as characteristic as those of Indian cruelty. A lady, who was
saved by a friendly chief holding her under the waters of the lake, at
the moment the balls endangered her, received also, in the heat of the
conflict, a reviving draught from a squaw, who saw she was exhausted;
and as she lay down, a mat was hung up between her and the scene of
butchery, so that she was protected from the sight, though she could
not be from sounds full of horror.

I have not wished to write sentimentally about the Indians, however
moved by the thought of their wrongs and speedy extinction. I know
that the Europeans who took possession of this country felt themselves
justified by their superior civilization and religious ideas. Had they
been truly civilized or Christianized, the conflicts which sprang
from the collision of the two races might have been avoided; but this
cannot be expected in movements made by masses of men. The mass has
never yet been humanized, though the age may develop a human thought.
Since those conflicts and differences did arise, the hatred which
sprang from terror and suffering, on the European side, has naturally
warped the whites still further from justice.

The Indian, brandishing the scalps of his wife and friends, drinking
their blood, and eating their hearts, is by him viewed as a fiend,
though, at a distant day, he will no doubt be considered as having
acted the Roman or Carthaginian part of heroic and patriotic
self-defence, according to the standard of right and motives
prescribed by his religious faith and education. Looked at by his
own standard, he is virtuous when he most injures his enemy, and the
white, if he be really the superior in enlargement of thought, ought
to cast aside his inherited prejudices enough to see this, to look on
him in pity and brotherly good-will, and do all he can to mitigate the
doom of those who survive his past injuries.

In McKenney's book is proposed a project for organizing the Indians
under a patriarchal government; but it does not look feasible, even
on paper. Could their own intelligent men be left to act unimpeded
in their behalf, they would do far better for them than the white
thinker, with all his general knowledge. But we dare not hope
the designs of such will not always be frustrated by barbarous
selfishness, as they were in Georgia. _There_ was a chance of seeing
what might have been done, now lost for ever.

Yet let every man look to himself how far this blood shall be required
at his hands. Let the missionary, instead of preaching to the Indian,
preach to the trader who ruins him, of the dreadful account which will
be demanded of the followers of Cain, in a sphere where the accents
of purity and love come on the ear more decisively than in ours. Let
every legislator take the subject to heart, and, if he cannot undo the
effects of past sin, try for that clear view and right sense that may
save us from sinning still more deeply. And let every man and every
woman, in their private dealings with the subjugated race, avoid all
share in embittering, by insult or unfeeling prejudice, the captivity
of Israel.




CHAPTER VII.

SAULT ST. MARIE.--ST. JOSEPH'S ISLAND.--THE LAND OF
MUSIC.--RAPIDS.--HOMEWARD.--GENERAL HULL.--THE BOOK TO THE READER.


Nine days I passed alone at Mackinaw, except for occasional visits
from kind and agreeable residents at the fort, and Mr. and Mrs. A. Mr.
A., long engaged in the fur-trade, is gratefully remembered by many
travellers. From Mrs. A., also, I received kind attentions, paid in
the vivacious and graceful manner of her nation.

The society at the boarding-house entertained, being of a kind
entirely new to me. There were many traders from the remote stations,
such as La Pointe, Arbre Croche,--men who had become half wild and
wholly rude by living in the wild; but good-humored, observing, and
with a store of knowledge to impart, of the kind proper to their
place.

There were two little girls here, that were pleasant companions for
me. One gay, frank, impetuous, but sweet and winning. She was an
American, fair, and with bright brown hair. The other, a little French
Canadian, used to join me in my walks, silently take my hand, and
sit at my feet when I stopped in beautiful places. She seemed to
understand without a word; and I never shall forget her little figure,
with its light, but pensive motion, and her delicate, grave features,
with the pale, clear complexion and soft eye. She was motherless, and
much left alone by her father and brothers, who were boatmen. The two
little girls were as pretty representatives of Allegro and Penseroso
as one would wish to see.

I had been wishing that a boat would come in to take me to the Sault
St. Marie, and several times started to the window at night in hopes
that the pant and dusky-red light crossing the waters belonged to such
an one; but they were always boats for Chicago or Buffalo, till, on
the 28th of August, Allegro, who shared my plans and wishes, rushed
in to tell me that the General Scott had come; and in this little
steamer, accordingly, I set off the next morning.

I was the only lady, and attended in the cabin by a Dutch girl and
an Indian woman. They both spoke English fluently, and entertained me
much by accounts of their different experiences.

The Dutch girl told me of a dance among the common people at
Amsterdam, called the shepherd's dance. The two leaders are dressed
as shepherd and shepherdess; they invent to the music all kinds of
movements, descriptive of things that may happen in the field, and the
rest are obliged to follow. I have never heard of any dance which gave
such free play to the fancy as this. French dances merely describe
the polite movements of society; Spanish and Neapolitan, love; the
beautiful Mazurkas, &c. are war-like or expressive of wild scenery.
But in this one is great room both for fun and fancy.

The Indian was married, when young, by her parents, to a man she did
not love. He became dissipated, and did not maintain her. She left
him, taking with her their child, for whom and herself she earns a
subsistence by going as chambermaid in these boats. Now and then, she
said, her husband called on her, and asked if he might live with her
again; but she always answered, No. Here she was far freer than she
would have been in civilized life. I was pleased by the nonchalance of
this woman, and the perfectly national manner she had preserved after
so many years of contact with all kinds of people.

The two women, when I left the boat, made me presents of Indian work,
such as travellers value, and the manner of the two was characteristic
of their different nations. The Indian brought me hers, when I was
alone, looked bashfully down when she gave it, and made an almost
sentimental little speech. The Dutch girl brought hers in public, and,
bridling her short chin with a self-complacent air, observed she had
_bought_ it for me. But the feeling of affectionate regard was the
same in the minds of both.

Island after island we passed, all fairly shaped and clustering in a
friendly way, but with little variety of vegetation. In the afternoon
the weather became foggy, and we could not proceed after dark. That
was as dull an evening as ever fell.

The next morning the fog still lay heavy, but the captain took me out
in his boat on an exploring expedition, and we found the remains of
the old English fort on Point St. Joseph's. All around was so wholly
unmarked by anything but stress of wind and weather, the shores of
these islands and their woods so like one another, wild and lonely,
but nowhere rich and majestic, that there was some charm, in the
remains of the garden, the remains even of chimneys and a pier. They
gave feature to the scene.

Here I gathered many flowers, but they were the same as at Mackinaw.

The captain, though he had been on this trip hundreds of times, had
never seen this spot, and never would but for this fog, and his desire
to entertain me. He presented a striking instance how men, for the
sake of getting a living, forget to live. It is just the same in the
most romantic as the most dull and vulgar places. Men get the harness
on so fast, that they can never shake it off, unless they guard
against this danger from the very first. In Chicago, how many men live
who never find time to see the prairies, or learn anything unconnected
with the business of the day, or about the country they are living in!

So this captain, a man of strong sense and good eyesight, rarely found
time to go off the track or look about him on it. He lamented, too,
that there had been no call which, induced him to develop his powers
of expression, so that he might communicate what he had seen for the
enjoyment or instruction of others.

This is a common fault among the active men, the truly living, who
could tell what life is. It should not be so. Literature should not be
left to the mere literati,--eloquence to the mere orator; every Cæsar
should be able to write his own commentary. We want a more equal, more
thorough, more harmonious development, and there is nothing to hinder
the men of this country from it, except their own supineness, or
sordid views.

When the weather did clear, our course up the river was delightful.
Long stretched before us the island of St. Joseph's, with its fair
woods of sugar-maple. A gentleman on board, who belongs to the Fort
at the Sault, said their pastime was to come in the season of making
sugar, and pass some time on this island,--the days at work, and the
evening in dancing and other amusements. Work of this kind done in the
open air, where everything is temporary, and every utensil prepared
on the spot, gives life a truly festive air. At such times, there is
labor and no care,--energy with gayety, gayety of the heart.

I think with the same pleasure of the Italian vintage, the Scotch
harvest-home, with its evening dance in the barn, the Russian
cabbage-feast even, and our huskings and hop-gatherings. The
hop-gatherings, where the groups of men and girls are pulling down and
filling baskets with the gay festoons, present as graceful pictures as
the Italian vintage.

How pleasant is the course along a new river, the sight of new shores!
like a life, would but life flow as fast, and upbear us with as full a
stream. I hoped we should come in sight of the rapids by daylight; but
the beautiful sunset was quite gone, and only a young moon trembling
over the scene, when we came within hearing of them.

I sat up long to hear them merely. It was a thoughtful hour. These
two days, the 29th and 30th of August, are memorable in my life;
the latter is the birthday of a near friend. I pass them alone,
approaching Lake Superior; but I shall not enter into that truly
wild and free region; shall not have the canoe voyage, whose daily
adventure, with the camping out at night beneath the stars, would have
given an interlude of such value to my existence. I shall not see the
Pictured Rocks, their chapels and urns. It did not depend on me; it
never has, whether such things shall be done or not.

My friends! may they see, and do, and be more; especially those who
have before them a greater number of birthdays, and a more healthy and
unfettered existence!

I should like to hear some notes of earthly music to-night. By the
faint moonshine I can hardly see the banks; how they look I have no
guess, except that there are trees, and, now and then, a light lets me
know there are homes, with their various interests. I should like to
hear some strains of the flute from beneath those trees, just to break
the sound of the rapids.

  THE LAND OF MUSIC.

  When no gentle eyebeam charms;
  No fond hope the bosom warms;
  Of thinking the lone mind is tired,--
  Naught seems bright to be desired.

  Music, be thy sails unfurled;
  Bear me to thy better world;
  O'er a cold and weltering sea,
  Blow thy breezes warm and free.

  By sad sighs they ne'er were chilled,
  By sceptic spell were never stilled.
  Take me to that far-off shore,
  Where lovers meet to part no more.
      There doubt and fear and sin are o'er;
      The star of love shall set no more.

With the first light of dawn I was up and out, and then was glad I had
not seen all the night before, it came upon me with such power in its
dewy freshness. O, they are beautiful indeed, these rapids! The grace
is so much more obvious than the power. I went up through the old
Chippewa burying-ground to their head, and sat down on a large stone
to look. A little way off was one of the home-lodges, unlike in shape
to the temporary ones at Mackinaw, but these have been described by
Mrs. Jameson. Women, too, I saw coming home from the woods, stooping
under great loads of cedar-boughs, that were strapped upon their
backs. But in many European countries women carry great loads, even of
wood, upon their backs. I used to hear the girls singing and laughing
as they were cutting down boughs at Mackinaw; this part of their
employment, though laborious, gives them the pleasure of being a great
deal in the free woods.

I had ordered a canoe to take me down the rapids, and presently I saw
it coming, with the two Indian canoe-men in pink calico shirts, moving
it about with their long poles, with a grace and dexterity worthy
fairy-land. Now and then they cast the scoop-net;--all looked just as
I had fancied, only far prettier.

When they came to me, they spread a mat in the middle of the canoe; I
sat down, and in less than four minutes we had descended the rapids,
a distance of more than three quarters of a mile. I was somewhat
disappointed in this being no more of an exploit than I found it.
Having heard such expressions used as of "darting," or "shooting
down," these rapids, I had fancied there was a wall of rock somewhere,
where descent would somehow be accomplished, and that there would come
some one gasp of terror and delight, some sensation entirely new to
me; but I found myself in smooth water, before I had time to feel
anything but the buoyant pleasure of being carried so lightly through
this surf amid the breakers. Now and then the Indians spoke to
one another in a vehement jabber, which, however, had no tone that
expressed other than pleasant excitement. It is, no doubt, an act of
wonderful dexterity to steer amid these jagged rocks, when one
rude touch would tear a hole in the birch canoe; but these men are
evidently so used to doing it, and so adroit, that the silliest person
could not feel afraid. I should like to have come down twenty times,
that I might have had leisure to realize the pleasure. But the fog
which had detained us on the way shortened the boat's stay at the
Sault, and I wanted my time to walk about.

While coming down the rapids, the Indians caught a white-fish for my
breakfast; and certainly it was the best of breakfasts. The
white-fish I found quite another thing caught on the spot, and cooked
immediately, from what I had found it at Chicago or Mackinaw. Before,
I had had the bad taste to prefer the trout, despite the solemn and
eloquent remonstrances of the _habitués_, to whom the superiority of
white-fish seemed a cardinal point of faith.

I am here reminded that I have omitted that indispensable part of a
travelling journal, the account of what we found to eat. I cannot hope
to make up, by one bold stroke, all my omissions of daily record;
but that I may show myself not destitute of the common feelings of
humanity, I will observe that he whose affections turn in summer
towards vegetables should not come to this region, till the subject
of diet be better understood; that of fruit, too, there is little yet,
even at the best hotel tables; that the prairie chickens require
no praise from me, and that the trout and white-fish are worthy the
transparency of the lake waters.

In this brief mention I by no means intend to give myself an air of
superiority to the subject. If a dinner in the Illinois woods, on dry
bread and drier meat, with water from the stream that flowed hard by,
pleased me best of all, yet, at one time, when living at a house where
nothing was prepared for the table fit to touch, and even the bread
could not be partaken of without a headache in consequence, I learnt
to understand and sympathize with the anxious tone in which fathers
of families, about to take their innocent children into some scene of
wild beauty, ask first of all, "Is there a good, table?" I shall ask
just so in future. Only those whom the Powers have furnished with
small travelling cases of ambrosia can take exercise all day, and be
happy without even bread morning or night.

Our voyage back was all pleasure. It was the fairest day. I saw the
river, the islands, the clouds, to the greatest advantage.

On board was an old man, an Illinois farmer, whom I found a most
agreeable companion. He had just been with his son, and eleven other
young men, on an exploring expedition to the shores of Lake Superior.
He was the only old man of the party, but he had enjoyed most of any
the journey. He had been the counsellor and playmate, too, of the
young ones. He was one of those parents--why so rare?--who understand
and live a new life in that of their children, instead of wasting time
and young happiness in trying to make them conform to an object and
standard of their own. The character and history of each child may
be a new and poetic experience to the parent, if he will let it.
Our farmer was domestic, judicious, solid; the son, inventive,
enterprising, superficial, full of follies, full of resources, always
liable to failure, sure to rise above it. The father conformed to, and
learnt from, a character he could not change, and won the sweet from
the bitter.

His account of his life at home, and of his late adventures among the
Indians, was very amusing, but I want talent to write it down, and I
have not heard the slang of these people intimately enough. There is a
good book about Indiana, called the New Purchase, written by a person
who knows the people of the country well enough to describe them in
their own way. It is not witty, but penetrating, valuable for its
practical wisdom and good-humored fun.

There were many sportsman-stories told, too, by those from Illinois
and Wisconsin. I do not retain any of these well enough, nor any that
I heard earlier, to write them down, though they always interested me
from bringing wild natural scenes before the mind. It is pleasant
for the sportsman to be in countries so alive with game; yet it is so
plenty that one would think shooting pigeons or grouse would seem
more like slaughter, than the excitement of skill to a good sportsman.
Hunting the deer is full of adventure, and needs only a Scrope to
describe it to invest the Western woods with _historic_ associations.

How pleasant it was to sit and hear rough men tell pieces out of their
own common lives, in place of the frippery talk of some fine circle
with its conventional sentiment, and timid, second-hand criticism.
Free blew the wind, and boldly flowed the stream, named for Mary
mother mild.

A fine thunder-shower came on in the afternoon. It cleared at sunset,
just as we came in sight of beautiful Mackinaw, over which, a rainbow
bent in promise of peace.

I have always wondered, in reading travels, at the childish joy
travellers felt at meeting people they knew, and their sense of
loneliness when they did not, in places where there was everything new
to occupy the attention. So childish, I thought, always to be longing
for the new in the old, and the old in the new. Yet just such sadness
I felt, when I looked on the island glittering in the sunset, canopied
by the rainbow, and thought no friend would welcome me there; just
such childish joy I felt to see unexpectedly on the landing the face
of one whom I called friend.

The remaining two or three days were delightfully spent, in walking or
boating, or sitting at the window to see the Indians go. This was not
quite so pleasant as their coming in, though accomplished with
the same rapidity; a family not taking half an hour to prepare for
departure, and the departing canoe a beautiful object. But they left
behind, on all the shore, the blemishes of their stay,--old rags,
dried boughs, fragments of food, the marks of their fires. Nature
likes to cover up and gloss over spots and scars, but it would take
her some time to restore that beach to the state it was in before they
came.

S. and I had a mind for a canoe excursion, and we asked one of the
traders to engage us two good Indians, that would not only take us
out, but be sure and bring us back, as we could not hold converse
with them. Two others offered their aid, beside the chief's son,
a fine-looking youth of about sixteen, richly dressed in blue
broadcloth, scarlet sash and leggins, with a scarf of brighter red
than the rest, tied around his head, its ends falling gracefully
on one shoulder. They thought it, apparently, fine amusement to
be attending two white women; they carried us into the path of
the steamboat, which was going out, and paddled with all their
force,--rather too fast, indeed, for there was something of a swell on
the lake, and they sometimes threw water into the canoe. However, it
flew over the waves, light as a seagull. They would say, "Pull away,"
and "Ver' warm," and, after these words, would laugh gayly. They
enjoyed the hour, I believe, as much as we.

The house where we lived belonged to the widow of a French trader, an
Indian by birth, and wearing the dress of her country She spoke
French fluently, and was very ladylike in her manners. She is a great
character among them. They were all the time coming to pay her homage,
or to get her aid and advice; for she is, I am told, a shrewd woman of
business. My companion carried about her sketch-book with her, and
the Indians were interested when they saw her using her pencil, though
less so than about the sun-shade. This lady of the tribe wanted to
borrow the sketches of the beach, with its lodges and wild groups, "to
show to the _savages_" she said.

Of the practical ability of the Indian women, a good specimen is given
by McKenney, in an amusing story of one who went to Washington, and
acted her part there in the "first circles," with a tact and sustained
dissimulation worthy of Cagliostro. She seemed to have a thorough
love of intrigue for its own sake, and much dramatic talent. Like the
chiefs of her nation, when on an expedition among the foe, whether for
revenge or profit, no impulses of vanity or way-side seductions
had power to turn her aside from carrying out her plan as she had
originally projected it.

Although I have little to tell, I feel that I have learnt a great deal
of the Indians, from observing them even in this broken and degraded
condition. There is a language of eye and motion which cannot be put
into words, and which teaches what words never can. I feel acquainted
with the soul of this race; I read its nobler thought in their defaced
figures. There _was_ a greatness, unique and precious, which he who
does not feel will never duly appreciate the majesty of nature in this
American continent.

I have mentioned that the Indian orator, who addressed the agents on
this occasion, said, the difference between the white man and the red
man is this: "The white man no sooner came here, than he thought of
preparing the way for his posterity; the red man never thought of
this." I was assured this was exactly his phrase; and it defines the
true difference. We get the better because we do

  "Look before and after."

But, from, the same cause, we

  "Pine for what is not."

The red man, when happy, was thoroughly happy; when good, was simply
good. He needed the medal, to let him know that he _was_ good.

These evenings we were happy, looking over the old-fashioned garden,
over the beach, over the waters and pretty island opposite, beneath
the growing moon. We did not stay to see it full at Mackinaw; at two
o'clock one night, or rather morning, the Great Western came snorting
in, and we must go; and Mackinaw, and all the Northwest summer, is now
to me no more than picture and dream:--

  "A dream within a dream."

These last days at Mackinaw have been pleasanter than the "lonesome"
nine, for I have recovered the companion with whom I set out from the
East,--one who sees all, prizes all, enjoys much, interrupts never.

At Detroit we stopped for half a day. This place is famous in our
history, and the unjust anger at its surrender is still expressed
by almost every one who passes there. I had always shared the common
feeling on this subject; for the indignation at a disgrace to our arms
that seemed so unnecessary has been handed down from father to child,
and few of us have taken the pains to ascertain where the blame
lay. But now, upon the spot, having read all the testimony, I felt
convinced that it should rest solely with the government, which, by
neglecting to sustain General Hull, as he had a right to expect they
would, compelled him to take this step, or sacrifice many lives, and
of the defenceless inhabitants, not of soldiers, to the cruelty of a
savage foe, for the sake of his reputation.

I am a woman, and unlearned in such affairs; but, to a person
with common sense and good eyesight, it is clear, when viewing
the location, that, under the circumstances, he had no prospect of
successful defence, and that to attempt it would have been an act of
vanity, not valor.

I feel that I am not biassed in this judgment by my personal
relations, for I have always heard both sides, and though my feelings
had been moved by the picture of the old man sitting in the midst
of his children, to a retired and despoiled old age, after a life
of honor and happy intercourse with the public, yet tranquil, always
secure that justice must be done at last, I supposed, like others,
that he deceived himself, and deserved to pay the penalty for failure
to the responsibility he had undertaken. Now, on the spot, I change,
and believe the country at large must, erelong, change from this
opinion. And I wish to add my testimony, however trifling its weight,
before it be drowned in the voice of general assent, that I may do
some justice to the feelings which possess me here and now.

A noble boat, the Wisconsin, was to be launched this afternoon; the
whole town was out in many-colored array, the band playing. Our boat
swept round to a good position, and all was ready but--the Wisconsin,
which could not be made to stir. This was quite a disappointment. It
would have been an imposing sight.

In the boat many signs admonished that we were floating eastward. A
shabbily-dressed phrenologist laid his hand on every head which would
bend, with half-conceited, half-sheepish expression, to the trial of
his skill. Knots of people gathered here and there to discuss points
of theology. A bereaved lover was seeking religious consolation
in--Butler's Analogy, which he had purchased for that purpose.
However, he did not turn over many pages before his attention was
drawn aside by the gay glances of certain damsels that came on board
at Detroit, and, though Butler might afterwards be seen sticking
from his pocket, it had not weight to impede him from many a feat of
lightness and liveliness. I doubt if it went with him from the boat.
Some there were, even, discussing the doctrines of Fourier. It seemed
pity they were not going to, rather than from, the rich and free
country where it would be so much easier than with us to try the great
experiment of voluntary association, and show beyond a doubt that "an
ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure," a maxim of the "wisdom
of nations" which has proved of little practical efficacy as yet.

Better to stop before landing at Buffalo, while I have yet the
advantage over some of my readers.




THE BOOK TO THE READER,

WHO OPENS, AS AMERICAN READERS OFTEN DO,--AT THE END.

  To see your cousin in her country home,
  If at the time of blackberries you come,
  "Welcome, my friends," she cries with ready glee,
  "The fruit is ripened, and the paths are free.
  But, madam, you will tear that handsome gown;
  The little boy be sure to tumble down;
  And, in the thickets where they ripen best,
  The matted ivy, too, its bower has drest.
  And then the thorns your hands are sure to rend,
  Unless with heavy gloves you will defend;
  Amid most thorns the sweetest roses blow,
  Amid most thorns the sweetest berries grow."

  If, undeterred, you to the fields must go,
    You tear your dresses and you scratch your hands;
  But, in the places where the berries grow,
    A sweeter fruit the ready sense commands,
  Of wild, gay feelings, fancies springing sweet,--
  Of bird-like pleasures, fluttering and fleet.

  Another year, you cannot go yourself,
    To win the berries from the thickets wild,
  And housewife skill, instead, has filled the shelf
    With blackberry jam, "by best receipts compiled,--
  Not made with country sugar, for too strong
  The flavors that to maple-juice belong;
  But foreign sugar, nicely mixed 'to suit
  The taste,' spoils not the fragrance of the fruit."

  "'Tis pretty good," half-tasting, you reply,
  "I scarce should know it from fresh blackberry.
  But the best pleasure such a fruit can yield
  Is to be gathered in the open field;
  If only as an article of food,
  Cherry or crab-apple is quite as good;
  And, for occasions of festivity,
  West India sweetmeats you had better buy."

  Thus, such a dish of homely sweets as these
  In neither way may chance the taste to please.

  Yet try a little with the evening-bread;
  Bring a good needle for the spool of thread;
  Take fact with fiction, silver with the lead,
  And, at the mint, you can get gold instead;
  In fine, read me, even as you would be read.




PART II.

THINGS AND THOUGHTS IN EUROPE.




LETTER I.

PASSAGE IN THE CAMBRIA.--LORD AND LADY FALKLAND.--CAPTAIN
JUDKINS.--LIVERPOOL.--MANCHESTER.--MECHANICS' INSTITUTE.--"THE
DIAL."--PEACE AND WAR.--THE WORKING-MEN OF ENGLAND.--THEIR TRIBUTE TO
SIR ROBERT PEEL.--THE ROYAL INSTITUTE.--STATUES.--CHESTER.--BATHING.


Ambleside, Westmoreland, 23d August, 1846.

I take the first interval of rest and stillness to be filled up by
some lines for the Tribune. Only three weeks have passed since leaving
New York, but I have already had nine days of wonder in England, and,
having learned a good deal, suppose I may have something to tell.

Long before receiving this, you know that we were fortunate in the
shortest voyage ever made across the Atlantic,[A]--only ten days
and sixteen hours from Boston to Liverpool. The weather and all
circumstances were propitious; and, if some of us were weak of head
enough to suffer from the smell and jar of the machinery, or other
ills by which the sea is wont to avenge itself on the arrogance of
its vanquishers, we found no pity. The stewardess observed that she
thought "any one tempted God Almighty who complained on a voyage where
they did not even have to put guards to the dishes"!

[Footnote A: True at the time these Letters were written.--ED.]

As many contradictory counsels were given us with regard to going in
one of the steamers in preference to a sailing vessel, I will mention
here, for the benefit of those who have not yet tried one, that he
must be fastidious indeed who could complain of the Cambria. The
advantage of a quick passage and certainty as to the time of arrival,
would, with us, have outweighed many ills; but, apart from this, we
found more space than we expected and as much as we needed for a
very tolerable degree of convenience in our sleeping-rooms, better
ventilation than Americans in general can be persuaded to accept,
general cleanliness, and good attendance. In the evening, when the
wind was favorable, and the sails set, so that the vessel looked like
a great winged creature darting across the apparently measureless
expanse, the effect was very grand, but ah! for such a spectacle one
pays too dear; I far prefer looking out upon "the blue and foaming
sea" from a firm green shore.

Our ship's company numbered several pleasant members, and that desire
prevailed in each to contribute to the satisfaction of all, which, if
carried out through the voyage of life, would make this earth as happy
as it is a lovely abode. At Halifax we took in the Governor of Nova
Scotia, returning from his very unpopular administration. His lady was
with, him, a daughter of William the Fourth and the celebrated Mrs.
Jordan. The English on board, and the Americans, following their lead,
as usual, seemed to attach much importance to her left-handed alliance
with one of the dullest families that ever sat upon a throne, (and
that is a bold word, too,) none to her descent from one whom Nature
had endowed with her most splendid regalia,--genius that fascinated
the attention of all kinds and classes of men, grace and winning
qualities that no heart could resist. Was the cestus buried with her,
that no sense of its pre-eminent value lingered, as far as I could
perceive, in the thoughts of any except myself?

We had a foretaste of the delights of living under an aristocratical
government at the Custom-House, where our baggage was detained, and
we waiting for it weary hours, because of the preference given to
the mass of household stuff carried back by this same Lord and Lady
Falkland.

Captain Judkins of the Cambria, an able and prompt commander, is the
man who insisted upon Douglass being admitted to equal rights upon his
deck with the insolent slave-holders, and assumed a tone toward their
assumptions, which, if the Northern States had had the firmness, good
sense, and honor to use, would have had the same effect, and put
our country in a very different position from that she occupies at
present. He mentioned with pride that he understood the New York
Herald called him "the Nigger Captain," and seemed as willing to
accept the distinction as Colonel McKenney is to wear as his last
title that of "the Indian's friend."

At the first sight of the famous Liverpool Docks, extending miles on
each side of our landing, we felt ourselves in a slower, solider, and
not on that account less truly active, state of things than at home.
That impression is confirmed. There is not as we travel that rushing,
tearing, and swearing, that snatching of baggage, that prodigality of
shoe-leather and lungs, which attend the course of the traveller in
the United States; but we do not lose our "goods," we do not miss our
car. The dinner, if ordered in time, is cooked properly, and served
punctually, and at the end of the day more that is permanent seems to
have come of it than on the full-drive system. But more of this, and
with a better grace, at a later day.

The day after our arrival we went to Manchester. There we went over
the magnificent warehouse of ---- Phillips, in itself a Bazaar ample
to furnish provision for all the wants and fancies of thousands. In
the evening we went to the Mechanics' Institute, and saw the boys
and young men in their classes. I have since visited the Mechanics'
Institute at Liverpool, where more than seventeen hundred pupils are
received, and with more thorough educational arrangements; but the
excellent spirit, the desire for growth in wisdom and enlightened
benevolence, is the same in both. For a very small fee, the mechanic,
clerk, or apprentice, and the women of their families, can receive
various good and well-arranged instruction, not only in common
branches of an English education, but in mathematics, composition,
the French and German, languages, the practice and theory of the Fine
Arts, and they are ardent in availing themselves of instruction in
the higher branches. I found large classes, not only in architectural
drawing, which may be supposed to be followed with a view to
professional objects, but landscape also, and as large in German as
in French. They can attend many good lectures and concerts without
additional charge, for a due place is here assigned to music as to its
influence on the whole mind. The large and well-furnished libraries
are in constant requisition, and the books in most constant demand
are not those of amusement, but of a solid and permanent interest and
value. Only for the last year in Manchester, and for two in Liverpool,
have these advantages been extended to girls; but now that part of
the subject is looked upon as it ought to be, and begins to be treated
more and more as it must and will be wherever true civilization is
making its way. One of the handsomest houses in Liverpool has been
purchased for the girls' school, and room and good arrangement been
afforded for their work and their play. Among other things they are
taught, as they ought to be in all American schools, to cut out and
make dresses.

I had the pleasure of seeing quotations made from our Boston "Dial,"
in the address in which the Director of the Liverpool Institute, a
very benevolent and intelligent man, explained to his disciples and
others its objects, and which concludes thus:--

"But this subject of self-improvement is inexhaustible. If traced to
its results in action, it is, in fact, 'The Whole Duty of Man.' What
of detail it involves and implies, I know that you will, each and all,
think out for yourselves. Beautifully has it been said: 'Is not the
difference between spiritual and material things just this,--that in
the one case we must watch details, in the other, keep alive the high
resolve, and the details will take care of themselves? Keep the sacred
central fire burning, and throughout the system, in each of its acts,
will be warmth and glow enough.'[A]

[Footnote A: The Dial, Vol. I. p. 188, October, 1840, "Musings of a
Recluse."]

"For myself, if I be asked what my purpose is in relation to you, I
would briefly reply, It is that I may help, be it ever so feebly, to
train up a race of young men, who shall escape vice by rising above
it; who shall love truth because it is truth, not because it brings
them wealth or honor; who shall regard life as a solemn thing,
involving too weighty responsibilities to be wasted in idle or
frivolous pursuits; who shall recognize in their daily labors, not
merely a tribute to the "hard necessity of daily bread," but a field
for the development of their better nature by the discharge of duty;
who shall judge in all things for themselves, bowing the knee to no
sectarian or party watchwords of any kind; and who, while they think
for themselves, shall feel for others, and regard their talents, their
attainments, their opportunities, their possessions, as blessings held
in trust for the good of their fellow-men."

I found that The Dial had been read with earnest interest by some of
the best minds in these especially practical regions, that it had been
welcomed as a representative of some sincere and honorable life in
America, and thought the fittest to be quoted under this motto:--

  "What are noble deeds but noble thoughts realized?"

Among other signs of the times we bought Bradshaw's Railway Guide,
and, opening it, found extracts from the writings of our countrymen,
Elihu Burritt and Charles Sumner, on the subject of Peace, occupying
a leading place in the "Collect," for the month, of this little
hand-book, more likely, in an era like ours, to influence the conduct
of the day than would an illuminated breviary. Now that peace is
secured for the present between our two countries, the spirit is
not forgotten that quelled the storm. Greeted on every side with
expressions of feeling about the blessings of peace, the madness and
wickedness of war, that would be deemed romantic in our darker land,
I have answered to the speakers, "But you are mightily pleased, and
illuminate for your victories in China and Ireland, do you not?" and
they, unprovoked by the taunt, would mildly reply, "_We_ do not, but
it is too true that a large part of the nation fail to bring home
the true nature and bearing of those events, and apply principle to
conduct with as much justice as they do in the case of a nation nearer
to them by kindred and position. But we are sure that feeling is
growing purer on the subject day by day, and that there will soon be a
large majority against war on any occasion or for any object."

I heard a most interesting letter read from a tradesman in one of the
country towns, whose daughters are self-elected instructors of the
people in the way of cutting out from books and pamphlets fragments on
the great subjects of the day, which they send about in packages, or
paste on walls and doors. He said that one such passage, pasted on a
door, he had seen read with eager interest by hundreds to whom such
thoughts were, probably, quite new, and with some of whom it could
scarcely fail to be as a little seed of a large harvest. Another good
omen I found in written tracts by Joseph Barker, a working-man of the
town of Wortley, published through his own printing-press.

How great, how imperious the need of such men, of such deeds, we felt
more than ever, while compelled to turn a deaf ear to the squalid and
shameless beggars of Liverpool, or talking by night in the streets of
Manchester to the girls from the Mills, who were strolling bareheaded,
with coarse, rude, and reckless air, through the streets, or seeing
through the windows of the gin-palaces the women seated drinking, too
dull to carouse. The homes of England! their sweetness is melting into
fable; only the new Spirit in its holiest power can restore to those
homes their boasted security of "each man's castle," for Woman, the
warder, is driven into the street, and has let fall the keys in her
sad plight. Yet darkest hour of night is nearest dawn, and there seems
reason to believe that

  "There's a good time coming."

Blest be those who aid, who doubt not that

  "Smallest helps, if rightly given,
  Make the impulse stronger;
  'Twill be strong enough one day."

Other things we saw in Liverpool,--the Royal Institute, with the
statue of Roscoe by Chantrey, and in its collection from the works
of the early Italian artists, and otherwise, bearing traces of that
liberality and culture by which the man, happy enough to possess them,
and at the same time engaged with his fellow-citizens in practical
life, can do so much more to enlighten and form them, than prince or
noble possibly can with far larger pecuniary means. We saw the statue
of Huskisson in the Cemetery. It is fine as a portrait statue, but
as a work of art wants firmness and grandeur. I say it is fine as a
portrait statue, though we were told it is not like the original; but
it is a good conception of an individuality which might exist, if it
does not yet. It is by Gibson, who received his early education in
Liverpool. I saw there, too, the body of an infant borne to the grave
by women; for it is a beautiful custom, here, that those who have
fulfilled all other tender offices to the little being should hold to
it the same relation to the very last.

From Liverpool we went to Chester, one of the oldest cities in
England, a Roman station once, and abode of the "Twentieth Legion,"
"the Victorious." Tiles bearing this inscription, heads of Jupiter,
and other marks of their occupation, have, not long ago, been detected
beneath the sod. The town also bears the marks of Welsh invasion and
domestic struggles. The shape of a cross in which it is laid out, its
walls and towers, its four arched gateways, its ramparts and ruined,
towers, mantled with ivy, its old houses with Biblical inscriptions,
its cathedral,--in which tall trees have grown up amid the arches, a
fresh garden-plot, with flowers, bright green and red, taken place
of the altar, and a crowd of revelling swallows supplanted the sallow
choirs of a former priesthood,--present a _tout-ensemble_ highly
romantic in itself, and charming, indeed, to Transatlantic eyes. Yet
not to all eyes would it have had charms, for one American traveller,
our companion on the voyage, gravely assured us that we should find
the "castles and that sort of thing all humbug," and that, if we
wished to enjoy them, it would "be best to sit at home and read some
_handsome_ work on the subject."

At the hotel in Liverpool and that in Manchester I had found no bath,
and asking for one at Chester, the chambermaid said, with earnest
good-will, that "they had none, but she thought she could get me
a note from her master to the Infirmary (!!) if I would go there."
Luckily I did not generalize quite as rapidly as travellers in America
usually do, and put in the note-book,--"_Mem._: None but the sick ever
bathe in England"; for in the next establishment we tried, I found
the plentiful provision for a clean and healthy day, which I had read
would be met _everywhere_ in this country.

All else I must defer to my next, as the mail is soon to close.




LETTER II.

CHESTER.--ITS MUSEUM.--TRAVELLING COMPANIONS.--A BENGALESE.--
WESTMORELAND.--AMBLESIDE.--COBDEN AND BRIGHT.--A SCOTCH
LADY.--WORDSWORTH.--HIS FLOWERS.--MISS MARTINEAU.


Ambleside. Westmoreland, 27th August, 1846.

I forgot to mention, in writing of Chester, an object which gave me
pleasure. I mentioned, that the wall which enclosed the old town was
two miles in circumference; far beyond this stretches the modern
part of Chester, and the old gateways now overarch the middle of long
streets. This wall is now a walk for the inhabitants, commanding a
wide prospect, and three persons could walk abreast on its smooth
flags. We passed one of its old picturesque towers, from whose top
Charles the First, poor, weak, unhappy king, looked down and saw his
troops defeated by the Parliamentary army on the adjacent plain. A
little farther on, one of these picturesque towers is turned to the
use of a Museum, whose stock, though scanty, I examined with singular
pleasure, for it had been made up by truly filial contributions
from, all who had derived benefit from Chester, from the Marquis
of Westminster--whose magnificent abode, Eton Hall, lies not far
off--down to the merchant's clerk, who had furnished it in his leisure
hours with a geological chart, the soldier and sailor, who sent back
shells, insects, and petrifactions from their distant wanderings, and
a boy of thirteen, who had made, in wood, a model of its cathedral,
and even furnished it with a bell to ring out the evening chimes. Many
women had been busy in filling these magazines for the instruction
and the pleasure of their fellow-townsmen. Lady ----, the wife of the
captain of the garrison, grateful for the gratuitous admission of the
soldiers once a month,--a privilege of which the keeper of the Museum
(a woman also, who took an intelligent pleasure in her task) assured
me that they were eager to avail themselves,--had given a fine
collection of butterflies, and a ship. An untiring diligence had
been shown in adding whatever might stimulate or gratify imperfectly
educated minds. I like to see women perceive that there are other
ways of doing good besides making clothes for the poor or teaching
Sunday-school; these are well, if well directed, but there are many
other ways, some as sure and surer, and which benefit the giver no
less than the receiver.

I was waked from sleep at the Chester Inn by a loud dispute between
the chambermaid and an unhappy elderly gentleman, who insisted that he
had engaged the room in which I was, had returned to sleep in it,
and consequently must do so. To her assurances that the lady was long
since in possession, he was deaf; but the lock, fortunately for me,
proved a stronger defence. With all a chambermaid's morality, the
maiden boasted to me, "He said he had engaged 44, and would not
believe me when I assured him it was 46; indeed, how could he? I did
not believe myself." To my assurance that, if I had known the room,
was his, I should not have wished for it, but preferred taking a
worse, I found her a polite but incredulous listener.

Passing from Liverpool to Lancaster by railroad, that convenient but
most unprofitable and stupid way of travelling, we there took the
canal-boat to Kendal, and passed pleasantly through a country of that
soft, that refined and cultivated loveliness, which, however much
we have heard of it, finds the American eye--accustomed to so much
wildness, so much rudeness, such a corrosive action of man upon
nature--wholly unprepared. I feel all the time as if in a sweet dream,
and dread to be presently awakened by some rude jar or glare; but none
comes, and here in Westmoreland--but wait a moment, before we speak of
that.

In the canal-boat we found two well-bred English gentlemen, and two
well-informed German gentlemen, with whom we had some agreeable talk.
With one of the former was a beautiful youth, about eighteen, whom I
supposed, at the first glance, to be a type of that pure East-Indian
race whose beauty I had never seen represented before except in
pictures; and he made a picture, from which I could scarcely take my
eyes a moment, and from it could as ill endure to part. He was dressed
in a broadcloth robe richly embroidered, leaving his throat and the
upper part of his neck bare, except that he wore a heavy gold chain.
A rich shawl was thrown gracefully around him; the sleeves of his robe
were loose, with white sleeves below. He wore a black satin cap. The
whole effect of this dress was very fine yet simple, setting off to
the utmost advantage the distinguished beauty of his features, in
which there was a mingling of national pride, voluptuous sweetness in
that unconscious state of reverie when it affects us as it does in the
flower, and intelligence in its newly awakened purity. As he turned
his head, his profile was like one I used to have of Love asleep,
while Psyche leans over him with the lamp; but his front face,
with the full, summery look of the eye, was unlike that. He was a
Bengalese, living in England for his education, as several others are
at present. He spoke English well, and conversed on several subjects,
literary and political, with grace, fluency, and delicacy of thought.

Passing from Kendal to Ambleside, we found a charming abode furnished
us by the care of a friend in one of the stone cottages of this
region, almost the only one _not_ ivy-wreathed, but commanding a
beautiful view of the mountains, and truly an English home in its
neatness, quiet, and delicate, noiseless attention to the wants of all
within its walls. Here we have passed eight happy days, varied by
many drives, boating excursions on Grasmere and Winandermere, and the
society of several agreeable persons. As the Lake district at this
season draws together all kinds of people, and a great variety beside
come from, all quarters to inhabit the charming dwellings that
adorn its hill-sides and shores, I met and saw a good deal of the
representatives of various classes, at once. I found here two landed
proprietors from other parts of England, both "travelled English,"
one owning a property in Greece, where he frequently resides,
both warmly engaged in Reform measures, anti-Corn-Law,
anti-Capital-Punishment,--one of them an earnest student of Emerson's
Essays. Both of them had wives, who kept pace with their projects and
their thoughts, active and intelligent women, true ladies, skilful in
drawing and music; all the better wives for the development of every
power. One of them told me, with a glow of pride, that it was not long
since her husband had been "cut" by all his neighbors among the gentry
for the part he took against the Corn Laws; but, she added, he was now
a favorite with them all. Verily, faith will remove mountains, if
only you do join with it any fair portion of the dove and serpent
attributes.

I found here, too, a wealthy manufacturer, who had written many
valuable pamphlets on popular subjects. He said: "Now that the
progress of public opinion was beginning to make the Church and the
Army narrower fields for the younger sons of 'noble' families, they
sometimes wish to enter into trade; but, beside the aversion which had
been instilled into them for many centuries, they had rarely patience
and energy for the apprenticeship requisite to give the needed
knowledge of the world and habits of labor." Of Cobden he said: "He
is inferior in acquirements to very many of his class, as he is
self-educated and had everything to learn after he was grown up;
but in clear insight there is none like him." A man of very little
education, whom I met a day or two after in the stage-coach, observed
to me: "Bright is far the more eloquent of the two, but Cobden is
more felt, just _because_ his speeches are so plain, so merely
matter-of-fact and to the point."

We became acquainted also with Dr. Gregory, Professor of Chemistry
at Edinburgh, a very enlightened and benevolent man, who in many ways
both instructed and benefited us. He is the friend of Liebig, and one
of his chief representatives here.

We also met a fine specimen of the noble, intelligent Scotchwoman,
such as Walter Scott and Burns knew how to prize. Seventy-six years
have passed over her head, only to prove in her the truth of my
theory, that we need never grow old. She was "brought up" in the
animated and intellectual circle of Edinburgh, in youth an apt
disciple, in her prime a bright ornament of that society. She had been
an only child, a cherished wife, an adored mother, unspoiled by love
in any of these relations, because that love was founded on knowledge.
In childhood she had warmly sympathized in the spirit that animated
the American Revolution, and Washington had been her hero; later, the
interest of her husband in every struggle for freedom had cherished
her own; she had known in the course of her long life many eminent
men, knew minutely the history of efforts in that direction, and
sympathized now in the triumph of the people over the Corn Laws, as
she had in the American victories, with as much ardor as when a girl,
though with a wiser mind. Her eye was full of light, her manner and
gesture of dignity; her voice rich, sonorous, and finely modulated;
her tide of talk marked by candor, justice, and showing in every
sentence her ripe experience and her noble, genial nature. Dear to
memory will be the sight of her in the beautiful seclusion of her home
among the mountains, a picturesque, flower-wreathed dwelling, where
affection, tranquillity, and wisdom were the gods of the hearth, to
whom was offered no vain oblation. Grant us more such women, Time!
Grant to men the power to reverence, to seek for such!

Our visit to Mr. Wordsworth was very pleasant. He also is seventy-six,
but his is a florid, fair old age. He walked with us to all his
haunts about the house. Its situation is beautiful, and the "Rydalian
Laurels" are magnificent. Still I saw abodes among the hills that
I should have preferred for Wordsworth, more wild and still, more
romantic; the fresh and lovely Rydal Mount seems merely the retirement
of a gentleman, rather than the haunt of a poet. He showed his
benignity of disposition in several little things, especially in
his attentions to a young boy we had with us. This boy had left the
Circus, exhibiting its feats of horsemanship in Ambleside "for that
day only," at his own desire to see Wordsworth, and I feared he would
be disappointed, as I know I should have been at his age, if, when
called to see a poet, I had found no Apollo, flaming with youthful
glory, laurel-crowned and lyre in hand, but, instead, a reverend old
man clothed in black, and walking with cautious step along the level
garden-path; however, he was not disappointed, but seemed in timid
reverence to recognize the spirit that had dictated "Laodamia" and
"Dion,"--and Wordsworth, in his turn, seemed to feel and prize a
congenial nature in this child.

Taking us into the house, he showed us the picture of his sister,
repeating with much expression some lines of hers, and those so famous
of his about her, beginning, "Five years," &c.; also his own picture,
by Inman, of whom he spoke with esteem.

Mr. Wordsworth is fond of the hollyhock, a partiality scarcely
deserved by the flower, but which marks the simplicity of his
tastes. He had made a long avenue of them of all colors, from the
crimson-brown to rose, straw-color, and white, and pleased himself
with having made proselytes to a liking for them among his neighbors.

I never have seen such magnificent fuchsias as at Ambleside, and there
was one to be seen in every cottage-yard. They are no longer here
under the shelter of the green-house, as with us, and as they used to
be in England. The plant, from its grace and finished elegance, being
a great favorite of mine, I should like to see it as frequently and of
as luxuriant a growth at home, and asked their mode of culture, which
I here mark down, for the benefit of all who may be interested. Make
a bed of bog-earth and sand, put down slips of the fuchsia, and give
them a great deal of water,--this is all they need. People have them
out here in winter, but perhaps they would not bear the cold of our
Januaries.

Mr. Wordsworth spoke with, more liberality than we expected of the
recent measures about the Corn Laws, saying that "the principle was
certainly right, though as to whether existing interests had been as
carefully attended to as was just, he was not prepared to say." His
neighbors were pleased to hear of his speaking thus mildly, and hailed
it as a sign that he was opening his mind to more light on these
subjects. They lament that his habits of seclusion keep him much
ignorant of the real wants of England and the world. Living in this
region, which is cultivated by small proprietors, where there is
little poverty, vice, or misery, he hears not the voice which cries so
loudly from other parts of England, and will not be stilled by sweet
poetic suasion or philosophy, for it is the cry of men in the jaws of
destruction.

It was pleasant to find the reverence inspired by this great and pure
mind warmest nearest home. Our landlady, in heaping praises upon him,
added, constantly, "And Mrs. Wordsworth, too." "Do the people here,"
said I, "value Mr. Wordsworth most because he is a celebrated writer?"
"Truly, madam," said she, "I think it is because he is so kind a
neighbor."

  "True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home."

Dr. Arnold, too,--who lived, as his family still live, here,--diffused
the same ennobling and animating spirit among those who knew him in
private, as through the sphere of his public labors.

Miss Martineau has here a charming residence; it has been finished
only a few months, but all about it is in unexpectedly fair order, and
promises much beauty after a year or two of growth. Here we found her
restored to full health and activity, looking, indeed, far better than
she did when in the United States. It was pleasant to see her in this
home, presented to her by the gratitude of England for her course of
energetic and benevolent effort, and adorned by tributes of affection
and esteem from many quarters. From the testimony of those who were
with her in and since her illness, her recovery would seem to be of
as magical quickness and sure progress as has been represented. At
the house of Miss Martineau I saw Milman, the author, I must not say
poet,--a specimen of the polished, scholarly man of the world.

We passed one most delightful day in a visit to Langdale,--the scene
of "The Excursion,"--and to Dungeon-Ghyll Force. I am finishing my
letter at Carlisle on my way to Scotland, and will give a slight
sketch of that excursion, and one which occupied another day, from
Keswick to Buttermere and Crummock Water, in my next.




LETTER III.

WESTMORELAND.--LANGDALE.--DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE.--KESWICK.--CARLISLE.--
BRANXHOLM.--SCOTT.--BURNS.


Edinburgh, 20th September, 1846.

I have too long delayed writing up my journal.--Many interesting
observations slip from recollection if one waits so many days:
yet, while travelling, it is almost impossible to find an hour when
something of value to be seen will not be lost while writing.

I said, in closing my last, that I would write a little more about
Westmoreland; but so much, has happened since, that I must now dismiss
that region with all possible brevity.

The first day of which I wished to speak was passed in visiting
Langdale, the scene of Wordsworth's "Excursion." Our party of eight
went in two of the vehicles called cars or droskas,--open carriages,
each drawn by one horse. They are rather fatiguing to ride in, but
good to see from. In steep and stony places all alight, and the driver
leads the horse: so many of these there are, that we were four or
five hours in going ten miles, including the pauses when we wished to
_look_.

The scenes through which we passed are, indeed, of the most wild and
noble character. The wildness is not savage, but very calm. Without
recurring to details, I recognized the tone and atmosphere of that
noble poem, which was to me, at a feverish period in my life, as pure
waters, free breezes, and cold blue sky, bringing a sense of eternity
that gave an aspect of composure to the rudest volcanic wrecks of
time.

We dined at a farm-house of the vale, with its stone floors, old
carved cabinet (the pride of a house of this sort), and ready
provision of oaten cakes. We then ascended a near hill to the
waterfall called Dungeon-Ghyll Force, also a subject touched by
Wordsworth's Muse. You wind along a path for a long time, hearing the
sound of the falling water, but do not see it till, descending by a
ladder the side of the ravine, you come to its very foot. You find
yourself then in a deep chasm, bridged over by a narrow arch of rock;
the water falls at the farther end in a narrow column. Looking up, you
see the sky through a fissure so narrow as to make it look very pure
and distant. One of our party, passing in, stood some time at the foot
of the waterfall, and added much to its effect, as his height gave a
measure by which to appreciate that of surrounding objects, and his
look, by that light so pale and statuesque, seemed to inform the place
with the presence of its genius.

Our circuit homeward from this grand scene led us through some
lovely places, and to an outlook upon the most beautiful part of
Westmoreland. Passing over to Keswick we saw Derwentwater, and near it
the Fall of Lodore. It was from Keswick that we made the excursion
of a day through Borrowdale to Buttermere and Crummock Water, which
I meant to speak of, but find it impossible at this moment. The mind
does not now furnish congenial colors with which to represent the
vision of that day: it must still wait in the mind and bide its time,
again to emerge to outer air.

At Keswick we went to see a model of the Lake country which gives an
excellent idea of the relative positions of all objects. Its maker had
given six years to the necessary surveys and drawings. He said that
he had first become acquainted with the country from his taste for
fishing, but had learned to love its beauty, till the thought arose of
making this model; that while engaged in it, he visited almost every
spot amid the hills, and commonly saw both sunrise and sunset upon
them; that he was happy all the time, but almost too happy when he saw
one section of his model coming out quite right, and felt sure at last
that he should be quite successful in representing to others the home
of his thoughts. I looked upon him as indeed an enviable man, to have
a profession so congenial with his feelings, in which he had been so
naturally led to do what would be useful and pleasant for others.

Passing from Keswick through a pleasant and cultivated country, we
paused at "fair Carlisle," not voluntarily, but because we could not
get the means of proceeding farther that day. So, as it was one in
which

  "The sun shone fair on Carlisle wall,"

we visited its Cathedral and Castle, and trod, for the first time, in
some of the footsteps of the unfortunate Queen of Scots.

Passing next day the Border, we found the mosses all drained, and
the very existence of sometime moss-troopers would have seemed
problematical, but for the remains of Gilnockie,--the tower of Johnnie
Armstrong, so pathetically recalled in one of the finest of the
Scottish ballads. Its size, as well as that of other keeps, towers,
and castles, whose ruins are reverentially preserved in Scotland,
gives a lively sense of the time when population was so scanty, and
individual manhood grew to such force. Ten men in Gilnockie were
stronger then in proportion to the whole, and probably had in them
more of intelligence, resource, and genuine manly power, than ten
regiments now of red-coats drilled to act out manoeuvres they do not
understand, and use artillery which needs of them no more than the
match to go off and do its hideous message.

Farther on we saw Branxholm, and the water in crossing which the
Goblin Page was obliged to resume his proper shape and fly, crying,
"Lost, lost, lost!" Verily these things seem more like home than one's
own nursery, whose toys and furniture could not in actual presence
engage the thoughts like these pictures, made familiar as household
words by the most generous, kindly genius that ever blessed this
earth.

On the coach with us was a gentleman coming from London to make his
yearly visit to the neighborhood of Burns, in which he was born. "I
can now," said he, "go but once a year; when a boy, I never let a week
pass without visiting the house of Burns." He afterward observed, as
every step woke us to fresh recollections of Walter Scott, that Scott,
with all his vast range of talent, knowledge, and activity, was a poet
of the past only, and in his inmost heart wedded to the habits of a
feudal aristocracy, while Burns is the poet of the present and the
future, the man of the people, and throughout a genuine man. This is
true enough; but for my part I cannot endure a comparison which by a
breath of coolness depreciates either. Both were wanted; each
acted the important part assigned him by destiny with a wonderful
thoroughness and completeness. Scott breathed the breath just fleeting
from the forms of ancient Scottish heroism and poesy into new,--he
made for us the bridge by which we have gone into the old Ossianic
hall and caught the meaning just as it was about to pass from us for
ever. Burns is full of the noble, genuine democracy which seeks not
to destroy royalty, but to make all men kings, as he himself was, in
nature and in action. They belong to the same world; they are pillars
of the same church, though they uphold its starry roof from opposite
sides. Burns was much the rarer man; precisely because he had most of
common nature on a grand scale; his humor, his passion, his sweetness,
are all his own; they need no picturesque or romantic accessories to
give them due relief: looked at by all lights they are the same. Since
Adam, there has been none that approached nearer fitness to stand
up before God and angels in the naked majesty of manhood than Robert
Burns;--but there was a serpent in his field also! Yet but for his
fault we could never have seen brought out the brave and patriotic
modesty with which he owned it. Shame on him who could bear to think
of fault in this rich jewel, unless reminded by such confession.

We passed Abbotsford without stopping, intending to go there on our
return. Last year five hundred Americans inscribed their names in its
porter's book. A raw-boned Scotsman, who gathered his weary length
into our coach on his return from a pilgrimage thither, did us the
favor to inform us that "Sir Walter was a vara intelligent mon," and
the guide-book mentions "the American Washington" as "a worthy old
patriot." Lord safe us, cummers, what news be there!

This letter, meant to go by the Great Britain, many interruptions
force me to close, unflavored by one whiff from the smoke of Auld
Reekie. More and better matter shall my next contain, for here and
in the Highlands I have passed three not unproductive weeks, of which
more anon.




LETTER IV.

EDINBURGH, OLD AND NEW.--SCOTT AND BURNS.--DR. ANDREW COMBE.--AMERICAN
RE-PUBLISHING.--THE BOOKSELLING TRADE.--THE MESSRS. CHAMBERS.--DE
QUINCEY THE OPIUM-EATER.--DR. CHALMERS.


Edinburgh, September 22d, 1846.

The beautiful and stately aspect of this city has been the theme of
admiration so general that I can only echo it. We have seen it to the
greatest advantage both from Calton Hill and Arthur's Seat, and our
lodgings in Princess Street allow us a fine view of the Castle, always
impressive, but peculiarly so in the moonlit evenings of our first
week here, when a veil of mist added to its apparent size, and at the
same time gave it the air with which Martin, in his illustrations
of "Paradise Lost," has invested the palace which "rose like an
exhalation."

On this our second visit, after an absence of near a fortnight in the
Highlands, we are at a hotel nearly facing the new monument to Scott,
and the tallest buildings of the Old Town. From my windows I see
the famous Kirk, the spot where the old Tolbooth was, and can almost
distinguish that where Porteous was done to death, and other objects
described in the most dramatic part of "The Heart of Mid-Lothian." In
one of these tall houses Hume wrote part of his History of England,
and on this spot still nearer was the home of Allan Ramsay. A thousand
other interesting and pregnant associations present themselves every
time I look out of the window.

In the open square between us and the Old Town is to be the terminus
of the railroad, but as the building will be masked with trees, it
is thought it will not mar the beauty of the place; yet Scott could
hardly have looked without regret upon an object that marks so
distinctly the conquest of the New over the Old, and, appropriately
enough, his statue has its back turned that way. The effect of the
monument to Scott is pleasing, though without strict unity of thought
or original beauty of design. The statue is too much hid within the
monument, and wants that majesty of repose in the attitude and drapery
which a sitting figure should have, and which might well accompany the
massive head of Scott. Still the monument is an ornament and an honor
to the city. This is now the fourth that has been erected within two
years to commemorate the triumphs of genius. Monuments that have risen
from the same idea, and in such quick succession, to Schiller, to
Goethe, to Beethoven, and to Scott, signalize the character of the new
era still more happily than does the railroad coming up almost to the
foot of Edinburgh Castle.

The statue of Burns has been removed from the monument erected in his
honor, to one of the public libraries, as being there more accessible
to the public. It is, however, entirely unworthy its subject, giving
the idea of a smaller and younger person, while we think of Burns
as of a man in the prime of manhood, one who not only promised, but
_was_, and with a sunny glow and breadth, of character of which this
stone effigy presents no sign.

A Scottish gentleman told me the following story, which would afford
the finest subject for a painter capable of representing the glowing
eye and natural kingliness of Burns, in contrast to the poor, mean
puppets he reproved.

Burns, still only in the dawn of his celebrity, was invited to dine
with one of the neighboring so-called gentry (unhappily quite void
of true gentle blood). On arriving he found his plate set in the
servants' room!! After dinner he was invited into a room where guests
were assembled, and, a chair being placed for him at the lower end of
the board, a glass of wine was offered, and he was requested to sing
one of his songs for the entertainment of the company. He drank off
the wine, and thundered forth in reply his grand song, "For a' that
and a' that," with which it will do no harm to refresh the memories
of our readers, for we doubt there may be, even in Republican America,
those who need the reproof as much, and with far less excuse, than had
that Scottish company.

  "Is there, for honest poverty,
    That hangs his head, and a' that?
  The coward slave, we pass him by,
    We dare be poor for a' that!
    For a' that, and a' that,
    Our toils obscure, and a' that,
  The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
    The man's the gowd for a' that.

  "What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
    Wear hoddin gray, and a' that;
  Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
    A man's a man for a' that!
    For a' that, and a' that,
    Their tinsel show, and a' that,
  The honest man, though, e'er sae poor
    Is king o' men for a' that.

  "Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
    Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;
  Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
    He's but a coof for a' that;
    For a' that, and a' that,
    His ribbon, star, and a' that,
  The man of independent mind,
    He looks and laughs at a' that.

  "A prince can make a belted knight,
    A marquis, duke, and a' that;
  But an honest man's aboon his might
    Guid faith, he maunna fa' that!
    For a' that, and a' that,
    Their dignities, and a' that,
  The pith o' sense and pride o' worth
    Are higher ranks than a' that.

  "Then let us pray that, come it may,
    As come it will for a' that,
  That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
    May bear the gree, and a' that;
    For a' that, and a' that,
    It's coming yet for a' that,
  That man to man, the wide warld o'er,
    Shall brothers be for a' that."

And, having finished this prophecy and prayer, Nature's nobleman left
his churlish entertainers to hide their diminished heads in the home
they had disgraced.

We have seen all the stock lions. The Regalia people still crowd
to see, though the old natural feelings from which they so long lay
hidden seem almost extinct. Scotland grows English day by day. The
libraries of the Advocates, Writers to the Signet, &c., are fine
establishments. The University and schools are now in vacation; we are
compelled by unwise postponement of our journey to see both Edinburgh
and London at the worst possible season. We should have been here in
April, there in June. There is always enough to see, but now we find
a majority of the most interesting persons absent, and a stagnation in
the intellectual movements of the place.

We had, however, the good fortune to find Dr. Andrew Combe, who,
though a great invalid, was able and disposed for conversation at
this time. I was impressed with great and affectionate respect by
the benign and even temper of his mind, his extensive and accurate
knowledge, accompanied, as such should naturally be, by a large
and intelligent liberality. Of our country he spoke very wisely and
hopefully, though among other stories with which we, as Americans, are
put to the blush here, there is none worse than that of the conduct of
some of our publishers toward him. One of these stories I had heard
in New York, but supposed it to be exaggerated till I had it from the
best authority. It is of one of our leading houses who were publishing
on their own account and had stereotyped one of his works from an
early edition. When this work had passed through other editions and
he had for years been busy in reforming and amending it, he applied
to this house to republish from the later and better edition. They
refused. In vain he urged that it was not only for his own reputation
as an author that he was anxious, but for the good of the great
country through which writings on such, important subjects were to be
circulated, that they might have the benefit of his labors and best
knowledge. Such arguments on the stupid and mercenary tempers of those
addressed fell harmless as on a buffalo's hide might a gold-tipped
arrow. The book, they thought, answered THEIR purpose sufficiently,
for IT SELLS. Other purpose for a book they knew none. And as to the
natural rights of an author over the fruits of his mind, the distilled
essence of a life consumed in the severities of mental labor, they had
never heard of such a thing. His work was in the market, and he had
no more to do with it, that they could see, than the silkworm with the
lining of one of their coats.

Mr. Greeley, the more I look at this subject, the more I must
maintain, in opposition to your views, that the publisher cannot, if
a mere tradesman, be a man of honor. It is impossible in the nature of
things. He _must_ have some idea of the nature and value of literary
labor, or he is wholly unfit to deal with its products. He cannot
get along by occasional recourse to paid critics or readers; he must
himself have some idea what he is about. One partner, at least, in
the firm, must be a man of culture. All must understand enough to
appreciate their position, and know that he who, for his sordid aims,
circulates poisonous trash amid a great and growing people, and
makes it almost impossible for those whom Heaven has appointed as its
instructors to do their office, are the worst of traitors, and to be
condemned at the bar of nations under a sentence no less severe than
false statesmen and false priests. This matter should and must be
looked to more conscientiously.

Dr. Combe, repelled by all this indifference to conscience and natural
equity in the firm who had taken possession of his work, applied to
others. But here he found himself at once opposed by the invisible
barrier that makes this sort of tyranny so strong and so pernicious.
"It was the understanding among the trade that they were not to
interfere with one another; indeed, they could have no chance," &c.,
&c. When at last he did get the work republished in another part of
the country less favorable for his purposes, the bargain made as to
the pecuniary part of the transaction was in various ways so evaded,
that, up to this time, he has received no compensation from that
widely-circulated work, except a lock of Spurzheim's hair!!

I was pleased to hear the true view expressed by one of the Messrs.
Chambers. These brothers have worked their way up to wealth and
influence by daily labor and many steps. One of them is more the
business man, the other the literary curator of their Journal. Of this
Journal they issue regularly eighty thousand copies, and it is
doing an excellent work, by awakening among the people a desire for
knowledge, and, to a considerable extent, furnishing them with good
materials. I went over their fine establishment, where I found more
than a hundred and fifty persons, in good part women, employed, all
in well-aired, well-lighted rooms, seemingly healthy and content.
Connected with the establishment is a Savings Bank, and evening
instruction in writing, singing, and arithmetic. There was also a
reading-room, and the same valuable and liberal provision we had
found attached to some of the Manchester warehouses. Such accessories
dignify and gladden all kinds of labor, and show somewhat of the true
spirit of human brotherhood in the employer. Mr. Chambers said he
trusted they should never look on publishing _chiefly_ as _business_,
or a lucrative and respectable employment, but as the means of mental
and moral benefit to their countrymen. To one so wearied and disgusted
as I have been by vulgar and base avowals on such subjects, it was
very refreshing to hear this from the lips of a successful publisher.

Dr. Combe spoke with high praise of Mr. Hurlbart's book, "Human Rights
and their Political Guaranties," which was published at the Tribune
office. He observed that it was the work of a real thinker, and
extremely well written. It is to be republished here. Dr. Combe said
that it must make its way slowly, as it could interest those only who
were willing to read thoughtfully; but its success was sure at last.

He also spoke with, great interest and respect of Mrs. Farnham,
of whose character and the influence she has exerted on the female
prisoners at Sing Sing he had heard some account.

A person of a quite different character and celebrity is De Quincey,
the English Opium-Eater, and who lately has delighted us again with
the papers in Blackwood headed "Suspiria de Profundis." I had the
satisfaction, not easily attainable now, of seeing him for some hours,
and in the mood of conversation. As one belonging to the Wordsworth,
and Coleridge constellation, (he too is now seventy-six years of age,)
the thoughts and knowledge of Mr. De Quincey lie in the past; and
oftentimes he spoke of matters now become trite to one of a later
culture. But to all that fell from his lips, his eloquence, subtile
and forcible as the wind, full and gently falling as the evening dew,
lent a peculiar charm. He is an admirable narrator, not rapid, but
gliding along like a rivulet through a green meadow, giving and taking
a thousand little beauties not absolutely required to give his story
due relief, but each, in itself, a separate boon.

I admired, too, his urbanity, so opposite to the rapid, slang,
Vivian-Greyish style current in the literary conversation of the
day. "Sixty years since," men had time to do things better and more
gracefully than now.

With Dr. Chalmers we passed a couple of hours. He is old now, but
still full of vigor and fire. We had an opportunity of hearing a
fine burst of indignant eloquence from him. "I shall blush to my very
bones," said he, "if the _Chaarrch_"--(sound these two _rr_'s with
as much burr as possible and you will get at an idea of his mode of
pronouncing that unweariable word)--"if the Chaarrch yields to the
storm." He alluded to the outcry now raised against the Free Church by
the Abolitionists, whose motto is, "Send back the money," i.e. money
taken from the American slaveholders. Dr. Chalmers felt that, if they
did not yield from conviction, they must not to assault. His manner
of speaking on this subject gave me an idea of the nature of his
eloquence. He seldom preaches now.

A fine picture was presented by the opposition of figure and
lineaments between a young Indian, son of the celebrated Dwarkanauth
Tagore, who happened to be there that morning, and Dr. Chalmers, as
they were conversing together. The swarthy, half-timid, yet elegant
face and form of the Indian made a fine contrast with the florid,
portly, yet intellectually luminous appearance of the Doctor; half
shepherd, half orator, he looked a Shepherd King opposed to some
Arabian story-teller.

I saw others in Edinburgh of a later date who haply gave more valuable
as well as fresher revelations of the spirit, and whose names may be
by and by more celebrated than those I have cited; but for the present
this must suffice. It would take a week, if I wrote half I saw or
thought in Edinburgh, and I must close for to-day.




LETTER V.

PERTH.--TRAVELLING BY COACH.--LOCH LEVEN.--QUEEN MARY.--LOCH
KATRINE.--THE TROSACHS.--ROWARDENNAN.--A NIGHT ON BEN LOMOND.--SCOTCH
PEASANTRY.


Birmingham, September 30th, 1846.

I was obliged to stop writing at Edinburgh before the better half
of my tale was told, and must now begin there again, to speak of an
excursion into the Highlands, which occupied about a fortnight.

We left Edinburgh, by coach for Perth, and arrived there about three
in the afternoon. I have reason to be very glad that I visit this
island before the reign of the stage-coach is quite over. I have been
constantly on the top of the coach, even one day of drenching rain,
and enjoy it highly. Nothing can be more inspiring than this swift,
steady progress over such smooth roads, and placed so high as to
overlook the country freely, with the lively flourish of the horn
preluding every pause. Travelling by railroad is, in my opinion, the
most stupid process on earth; it is sleep without the refreshment of
sleep, for the noise of the train makes it impossible either to read,
talk, or sleep to advantage. But here the advantages are immense; you
can fly through this dull trance from one beautiful place to another,
and stay at each during the time that would otherwise be spent on
the road. Already the artists, who are obliged to find their home
in London, rejoice that all England is thrown open to them for
sketching-ground, since they can now avail themselves of a day's
leisure at a great distance, and with choice of position, whereas
formerly they were obliged to confine themselves to a few "green, and
bowery" spots in the neighborhood of the metropolis. But while in the
car, it is to me that worst of purgatories, the purgatory of dulness.

Well, on the coach we went to Perth, and passed through Kinross, and
saw Loch Leven, and the island where Queen Mary passed those sorrowful
months, before her romantic escape under care of the Douglas. As this
unhappy, lovely woman stands for a type in history, death, time, and
distance do not destroy her attractive power. Like Cleopatra, she has
still her adorers; nay, some are born to her in each new generation of
men. Lately she has for her chevalier the Russian Prince Labanoff, who
has spent fourteen years in studying upon all that related to her,
and thinks now that he can make out a story and a picture about the
mysteries of her short reign, which shall satisfy the desire of her
lovers to find her as pure and just as she was charming. I have only
seen of his array of evidence so much, as may be found in the pages of
Chambers's Journal, but that much does not disturb the original view I
have taken of the case; which is, that from a princess educated
under the Medici and Guise influence, engaged in the meshes of secret
intrigue to favor the Roman Catholic faith, her tacit acquiescence,
at least, in the murder of Darnley, after all his injurious conduct
toward her, was just what was to be expected. From a poor, beautiful
young woman, longing to enjoy life, exposed both by her position
and her natural fascinations to the utmost bewilderment of flattery,
whether prompted by interest or passion, her other acts of folly are
most natural, and let all who feel inclined harshly to condemn her
remember to

  "Gently scan your brother man,
  Still gentler sister woman."

Surely, in all the stern pages of life's account-book there is none on
which a more terrible price is exacted for every precious endowment.
Her rank and reign only made her powerless to do good, and exposed her
to danger; her talents only served to irritate her foes and disappoint
her friends. This most charming of women was the destruction of her
lovers: married three times, she had never any happiness as a wife,
but in both the connections of her choice found that she had either
never possessed or could not retain, even for a few weeks, the love of
the men she had chosen, so that Darnley was willing to risk her life
and that of his unborn child to wreak his wrath upon Rizzio, and after
a few weeks with Bothwell she was heard "calling aloud for a knife to
kill herself with." A mother twice, and of a son and daughter,
both the children were brought forth in loneliness and sorrow, and
separated from her early, her son educated to hate her, her
daughter at once immured in a convent. Add the eighteen years of her
imprisonment, and the fact that this foolish, prodigal world, when
there was in it one woman fitted by her grace and loveliness to charm
all eyes and enliven all fancies, suffered her to be shut up to water
with her tears her dull embroidery during all the full rose-blossom of
her life, and you will hardly get beyond this story for a tragedy, not
noble, but pallid and forlorn.

Such were the bootless, best thoughts I had while looking at the dull
blood-stain and blocked-up secret stair of Holyrood, at the ruins of
Loch Leven castle, and afterward at Abbotsford, where the picture
of Queen Mary's head, as it lay on the pillow when severed from the
block, hung opposite to a fine caricature of "Queen Elizabeth dancing
high and disposedly." In this last the face is like a mask, so
frightful is the expression of cold craft, irritated, vanity, and the
malice of a lonely breast in contrast with the attitude and elaborate
frippery of the dress. The ambassador looks on dismayed; the little
page can scarcely control the laughter which swells his boyish cheeks.
Such can win the world which, better hearts (and such Mary's was, even
if it had a large black speck in it) are most like to lose.

That was a most lovely day on which we entered Perth, and saw in full
sunshine its beautiful meadows, among them the North-Inch, the famous
battle-ground commemorated in "The Fair Maid of Perth," adorned with
graceful trees like those of the New England country towns. In the
afternoon we visited the modern Kinfauns, the stately home of Lord
Grey. The drive to it is most beautiful, on the one side the Park,
with noble heights that skirt it, on the other through a belt of trees
was seen the river and the sweep of that fair and cultivated country.
The house is a fine one, and furnished with taste, the library large,
and some good works in marble. Among the family pictures one
arrested my attention,--the face of a girl full of the most pathetic
sensibility, and with no restraint of convention upon its ardent,
gentle expression. She died young.

Returning, we were saddened, as almost always on leaving any such
place, by seeing such swarms of dirty women and dirtier children at
the doors of the cottages almost close by the gate of the avenue. To
the horrors and sorrows of the streets in such places as Liverpool,
Glasgow, and, above all, London, one has to grow insensible or die
daily; but here in the sweet, fresh, green country, where there seems
to be room for everybody, it is impossible to forget the frightful
inequalities between the lot of man and man, or believe that God can
smile upon a state of things such as we find existent here. Can any
man who has seen these things dare blame the Associationists for their
attempt to find prevention against such misery and wickedness in our
land? Rather will not every man of tolerable intelligence and good
feeling commend, say rather revere, every earnest attempt in that
direction, nor dare interfere with any, unless he has a better to
offer in its place?

Next morning we passed on to Crieff, in whose neighborhood we visited
Drummond Castle, the abode, or rather one of the abodes, of Lord
Willoughby D'Eresby. It has a noble park, through which you pass by
an avenue of two miles long. The old keep is still ascended to get
the fine view of the surrounding country; and during Queen Victoria's
visit, her Guards were quartered there. But what took my fancy most
was the old-fashioned garden, full of old shrubs and new flowers, with
its formal parterres in the shape of the family arms, and its clipped
yew and box trees. It was fresh from a shower, and now glittering and
fragrant in bright sunshine.

This afternoon we pursued our way, passing through the plantations
of Ochtertyre, a far more charming place to my taste than Drummond
Castle, freer and more various in its features. Five or six of these
fine places lie in the neighborhood of Crieff, and the traveller may
give two or three days to visiting them with a rich reward of delight.
But we were pressing on to be with the lakes and mountains rather, and
that night brought us to St. Fillan's, where we saw the moon shining
on Loch Earn.

All this region, and that of Loch Katrine and the Trosachs, which
we reached next day, Scott has described exactly in "The Lady of
the Lake"; nor is it possible to appreciate that poem, without going
thither, neither to describe the scene better than he has done after
you have seen it. I was somewhat disappointed in the pass of the
Trosachs itself; it is very grand, but the grand part lasts so
little while. The opening view of Loch Katrine, however, surpassed,
expectation. It was late in the afternoon when we launched our little
boat there for Ellen's isle.

The boatmen recite, though not _con molto espressione_, the parts of
the poem which describe these localities. Observing that they spoke of
the personages, too, with the same air of confidence, we asked if they
were sure that all this really happened. They replied, "Certainly; it
had been told from father to son through so many generations." Such
is the power of genius to interpolate what it will into the regular
log-book of Time's voyage.

Leaving Loch Katrine the following day, we entered Rob Roy's country,
and saw on the way the house where Helen MacGregor was born, and Rob
Roy's sword, which is shown in a house by the way-side.

We came in a row-boat up Loch Katrine, though both on that and Loch
Lomond you _may_ go in a hateful little steamer with a squeaking
fiddle to play Rob Roy MacGregor O. I walked almost all the way
through the pass from Loch Katrine to Loch Lomond; it was a distance
of six miles; but you feel as if you could walk sixty in that pure,
exhilarating air. At Inversnaid we took boat again to go down Loch
Lomond to the little inn of Rowardennan, from which the ascent is made
of Ben Lomond, the greatest elevation in these parts. The boatmen
are fine, athletic men; one of those with us this evening, a handsome
young man of two or three and twenty, sang to us some Gaelic songs.
The first, a very wild and plaintive air, was the expostulation of a
girl whose lover has deserted her and married another. It seems he is
ashamed, and will not even look at her when they meet upon the road.
She implores him, if he has not forgotten all that scene of bygone
love, at least to lift up his eyes and give her one friendly glance.
The sad _crooning_ burden of the stanzas in which she repeats this
request was very touching. When the boatman had finished, he hung his
head and seemed ashamed of feeling the song too much; then, when we
asked for another, he said he would sing another about a girl that was
happy. This one was in three parts. First, a tuneful address from a
maiden to her absent lover; second, his reply, assuring her of his
fidelity and tenderness; third, a strain which expresses their joy
when reunited. I thought this boatman had sympathies which would
prevent his tormenting any poor women, and perhaps make some one
happy, and this was a pleasant thought, since probably in the
Highlands, as elsewhere,

  "Maidens lend an ear too oft
    To the careless wooer;
  Maidens' hearts are _always soft_;
    Would that men's were truer!"

I don't know that I quote the words correctly, but that is the sum and
substance of a masculine report on these matters.

The first day at Rowardennan not being propitious for ascending the
mountain, we went down the lake to sup, and got very tired in various
ways, so that we rose very late next morning. Their we found a day
of ten thousand for our purpose; but unhappily a large party had come
with the sun and engaged all the horses, so that, if we went, it must
be on foot. This was something of an enterprise for me, as the ascent
is four miles, and toward the summit quite fatiguing; however, in the
pride of newly gained health and strength, I was ready, and set forth
with Mr. S. alone. We took no guide,--and the people of the house did
not advise it, as they ought. They told us afterward they thought the
day was so clear that there was no probability of danger, and they
were afraid of seeming mercenary about it. It was, however, wrong, as
they knew what we did not, that even the shepherds, if a mist comes
on, can be lost in these hills; that a party of gentlemen were so a
few weeks before, and only by accident found their way to a house on
the other side; and that a child which had been lost was not found for
five days, long after its death. We, however, nothing doubting, set
forth, ascending slowly, and often stopping to enjoy the points of
view, which are many, for Ben Lomond consists of a congeries of hills,
above which towers the true Ben, or highest peak, as the head of a
many-limbed body.

On reaching the peak, the night was one of beauty and grandeur such as
imagination never painted. You see around you no plain ground, but on
every side constellations or groups of hills exquisitely dressed in
the soft purple of the heather, amid which gleam the lakes, like eyes
that tell the secrets of the earth and drink in those of the heavens.
Peak beyond peak caught from the shifting light all the colors of the
prism, and on the farthest, angel companies seemed hovering in their
glorious white robes.

Words are idle on such subjects; what can I say, but that it was a
noble vision, that satisfied the eye and stirred the imagination in
all its secret pulses? Had that been, as afterward seemed likely,
the last act of my life, there could not have been a finer decoration
painted on the curtain which was to drop upon it.

About four o'clock we began our descent. Near the summit the traces of
the path are not distinct, and I said to Mr. S., after a while, that
we had lost it. He said, he thought that was of no consequence, we
could find oar way down. I thought however it was, as the ground was
full of springs that were bridged over in the pathway. He accordingly
went to look for it, and I stood still because so tired that I did not
like to waste any labor. Soon he called to me that he had found it,
and I followed in the direction where he seemed to be. But I mistook,
overshot it, and saw him no more. In about ten minutes I became
alarmed, and called him many times. It seems he on his side did the
same, but the brow of some hill was between us, and we neither saw nor
heard one another.

I then thought I would make the best of my way down, and I should
find him upon my arrival. But in doing so I found the justice of my
apprehension about the springs, as, so soon as I got to the foot of
the hills, I would sink up to my knees in bog, and have to go up the
hills again, seeking better crossing-places. Thus I lost much time;
nevertheless, in the twilight I saw at last the lake and the inn of
Rowardennan on its shore.

Between me and it lay direct a high heathery hill, which I afterward
found is called "The Tongue," because hemmed in on three sides by a
watercourse. It looked as if, could I only get to the bottom of that,
I should be on comparatively level ground. I then attempted to descend
in the watercourse, but, finding that impracticable, climbed on the
hill again and let myself down by the heather, for it was very steep
and full of deep holes. With great fatigue I got to the bottom, but
when about to cross the watercourse there, it looked so deep in the
dim twilight that I felt afraid. I got down as far as I could by the
root of a tree, and threw down a stone; it sounded very hollow, and
made me afraid to jump. The shepherds told me afterward, if I had, I
should probably have killed myself, it was so deep and the bed of the
torrent full of sharp stones.

I then tried to ascend the hill again, for there was no other way to
get off it, but soon sunk down utterly exhausted. When able to get up
again and look about me, it was completely dark. I saw far below me
a light, that looked about as big as a pin's head, which I knew to be
from the inn at Rowardennan, but heard no sound except the rush of the
waterfall, and the sighing of the night-wind.

For the first few minutes after I perceived I had got to my night's
lodging, such as it was, the prospect seemed appalling. I was very
lightly clad,--my feet and dress were very wet,--I had only a little
shawl to throw round me, and a cold autumn wind had already come, and
the night-mist was to fall on me, all fevered and exhausted as I was.
I thought I should not live through the night, or, if I did, live
always a miserable invalid. There was no chance to keep myself warm by
walking, for, now it was dark, it would be too dangerous to stir.

My only chance, however, lay in motion, and my only help in myself,
and so convinced was I of this, that I did keep in motion the whole
of that long night, imprisoned as I was on such a little perch of that
great mountain. _How_ long it seemed under such circumstances only
those can guess who may have been similarly circumstanced. The mental
experience of the time, most precious and profound,--for it was indeed
a season lonely, dangerous, and helpless enough for the birth of
thoughts beyond what the common sunlight will ever call to being,--may
be told in another place and time.

For about two hours I saw the stars, and very cheery and companionable
they looked; but then the mist fell, and I saw nothing more, except
such apparitions as visited Ossian on the hill-side when he went out
by night and struck the bosky shield and called to him the spirits of
the heroes and the white-armed maids with their blue eyes of grief. To
me, too, came those visionary shapes; floating slowly and gracefully,
their white robes would unfurl from the great body of mist in which
they had been engaged, and come upon me with a kiss pervasively cold
as that of death. What they might have told me, who knows, if I
had but resigned myself more passively to that cold, spirit-like
breathing!

At last the moon rose. I could not see her, but the silver light
filled the mist. Then I knew it was two o'clock, and that, having
weathered out so much of the night, I might the rest; and the hours
hardly seemed long to me more.

It may give an idea of the extent of the mountain to say that, though
I called every now and then with all my force, in case by chance some
aid might be near, and though no less than twenty men with their dogs
were looking for me, I never heard a sound except the rush of the
waterfall and the sighing of the night-wind, and once or twice the
startling of the grouse in the heather. It was sublime indeed,--a
never-to-be-forgotten presentation of stern, serene realities.

At last came the signs of day, the gradual clearing and breaking up;
some faint sounds, from I know not what. The little flies, too, arose
from their bed amid the purple heather, and bit me; truly they were
very welcome to do so. But what was my disappointment to find the mist
so thick, that I could see neither lake nor inn, nor anything to guide
me. I had to go by guess, and, as it happened, my Yankee method served
me well. I ascended the hill, crossed the torrent in the waterfall,
first drinking some of the water, which was as good at that time as
ambrosia. I crossed in that place because the waterfall made steps,
as it were, to the next hill; to be sure they were covered with water,
but I was already entirely wet with the mist, so that it did not
matter. I then kept on scrambling, as it happened, in the right
direction, till, about seven, some of the shepherds found me. The
moment they came, all my feverish strength departed, though, if
unaided, I dare say it would have kept me up during the day; and they
carried me home, where my arrival relieved my friends of distress
far greater than I had undergone, for I had had my grand solitude, my
Ossianic visions, and the pleasure of sustaining myself while they
had only doubt amounting to anguish and a fruitless search through the
night.

Entirely contrary to my expectations, I only suffered for this a few
days, and was able to take a parting look at my prison, as I went
down the lake, with feelings of complacency. It was a majestic-looking
hill, that Tongue, with the deep ravines on either side, and the
richest robe of heather I have seen anywhere.

Mr. S. gave all the men who were looking for me a dinner in the barn,
and he and Mrs. S. ministered to them, and they talked of Burns,
really the national writer, and known by them, apparently, as none
other is, and of hair-breadth escapes by flood and fell. Afterwards
they were all brought up to see me, and it was pleasing indeed to
observe the good breeding and good, feeling with which they deported
themselves on the occasion. Indeed, this adventure created quite an
intimate feeling between us and the people there. I had been much
pleased, with them before, in attending one of their dances, on
account of the genuine independence and politeness of their conduct.
They were willing and pleased to dance their Highland flings and
strathspeys for our amusement, and did it as naturally and as freely
as they would have offered the stranger the best chair.

All the rest must wait a while. I cannot economize time to keep up
my record in any proportion with what happens, nor can I get out of
Scotland on this page, as I had intended, without utterly slighting
many gifts and graces.




LETTER VI.

INVERARY.--THE ARGYLE FAMILY.--DUMBARTON.--SUNSET ON THE
CLYDE.--GLASGOW.--DIRT AND INTELLECT.--STIRLING.--"THE SCOTTISH
CHIEFS."--STIRLING CASTLE.--THE TOURNAMENT GROUND.--EDINBURGH.--JAMES
SIMPSON.--INFANT SCHOOLS.--FREE BATHS.--MELROSE.--ABBOTSFORD.--WALTER
SCOTT.--DRYBURGH ABBEY.--SCOTT'S TOMB.


Paris, November, 1846.

I am very sorry to leave such a wide gap between my letters, but I was
inevitably prevented from finishing one that was begun for the steamer
of the 4th of November. I then hoped to prepare one after my arrival
here in time for the Hibernia, but a severe cold, caught on the way,
unfitted me for writing. It is now necessary to retrace my steps a
long way, or lose sight of several things it has seemed desirable to
mention to friends in America, though I shall make out my narrative
more briefly than if nearer the time of action.

If I mistake not, my last closed just as I was looking back on the
hill where I had passed the night in all the miserable chill and amid
the ghostly apparitions of a Scotch mist, but which looked in the
morning truly beautiful, and (had I not known it too well to be
deceived) alluring, in its mantle of rich pink heath, the tallest and
most full of blossoms we anywhere saw, and with, the waterfall making
music by its side, and sparkling in the morning sun.

Passing from Tarbet, we entered the grand and beautiful pass of
Glencoe,--sublime with purple shadows with bright lights between, and
in one place showing an exquisitely silent and lonely little lake.
The wildness of the scene was heightened by the black Highland cattle
feeding here and there. They looked much at home, too, in the park at
Inverary, where I saw them next day. In Inverary I was disappointed.
I found, indeed, the position of every object the same as indicated
in the "Legend of Montrose," but the expression of the whole seemed
unlike what I had fancied. The present abode of the Argyle family is
a modern structure, and boasts very few vestiges of the old romantic
history attached to the name. The park and look-out upon the lake are
beautiful, but except from the brief pleasure derived from these, the
old cross from Iona that stands in the market-place, and the drone of
the bagpipe which lulled me to sleep at night playing some melancholy
air, there was nothing to make me feel that it was "a far cry to
Lochawe," but, on the contrary, I seemed in the very midst of the
prosaic, the civilized world.

Leaving Inverary, we left that day the Highlands too, passing through.
Hell Glen, a very wild and grand defile. Taking boat then on Loch
Levy, we passed down the Clyde, stopping an hour or two on our way at
Dumbarton. Nature herself foresaw the era of picture when she made and
placed this rock: there is every preparation for the artist's stealing
a little piece from her treasures to hang on the walls of a room. Here
I saw the sword of "Wallace wight," shown by a son of the nineteenth
century, who said that this hero lived about fifty years ago, and who
did not know the height of this rock, in a cranny of which he lived,
or at least ate and slept and "donned his clothes." From the top of
the rock I saw sunset on the beautiful Clyde, animated that day by an
endless procession of steamers, little skiffs, and boats. In one of
the former, the Cardiff Castle, we embarked as the last light of day
was fading, and that evening found ourselves in Glasgow.

I understand there is an intellectual society of high merit in
Glasgow, but we were there only a few hours, and did not see any one.
Certainly the place, as it may be judged of merely from the general
aspect of the population and such objects as may be seen in the
streets, more resembles an _Inferno_ than any other we have yet
visited. The people are more crowded together, and the stamp of
squalid, stolid misery and degradation more obvious and appalling.
The English and Scotch do not take kindly to poverty, like those of
sunnier climes; it makes them fierce or stupid, and, life presenting
no other cheap pleasure, they take refuge in drinking.

I saw here in Glasgow persons, especially women, dressed in dirty,
wretched tatters, worse than none, and with an expression of listless,
unexpecting woe upon their faces, far more tragic than the inscription
over the gate of Dante's _Inferno_. To one species of misery suffered
here to the last extent, I shall advert in speaking of London.

But from all these sorrowful tokens I by no means inferred the
falsehood of the information, that here was to be found a circle
rich in intellect and in aspiration. The manufacturing and commercial
towns, burning focuses of grief and vice, are also the centres of
intellectual life, as in forcing-beds the rarest flowers and fruits
are developed by use of impure and repulsive materials. Where evil
comes to an extreme, Heaven seems busy in providing means for the
remedy. Glaring throughout Scotland and England is the necessity for
the devoutest application of intellect and love to the cure of ills
that cry aloud, and, without such application, erelong help _must_ be
sought by other means than words. Yet there is every reason to hope
that those who ought to help are seriously, though, slowly, becoming
alive to the imperative nature of this duty; so we must not cease
to hope, even in the streets of Glasgow, and the gin-palaces of
Manchester, and the dreariest recesses of London.

From Glasgow we passed to Stirling, like Dumbarton endeared to the
mind which cherishes the memory of its childhood more by association
with Miss Porter's Scottish Chiefs, than with "Snowdon's knight and
Scotland's king." We reached the town too late to see the castle
before the next morning, and I took up at the inn "The Scottish
Chiefs," in which I had not read a word since ten or twelve years old.
We are in the habit now of laughing when this book is named, as if it
were a representative of what is most absurdly stilted or bombastic,
but now, in reading, my maturer mind was differently impressed from
what I expected, and the infatuation with which childhood and early
youth regard this book and its companion, "Thaddeus of Warsaw," was
justified. The characters and dialogue are, indeed, out of nature, but
the sentiment that animates them is pure, true, and no less healthy
than noble. Here is bad drawing, bad drama, but good music, to which
the unspoiled heart will always echo, even when the intellect has
learned to demand a better organ for its communication.

The castle of Stirling is as rich as any place in romantic
associations. We were shown its dungeons and its Court of Lions,
where, says tradition, wild animals, kept in the grated cells
adjacent, were brought out on festival occasions to furnish
entertainment for the court. So, while lords and ladies gay danced and
sang above, prisoners pined and wild beasts starved below. This, at
first blush, looks like a very barbarous state of things, but, on
reflection, one does not find that we have outgrown it in our present
so-called state of refined civilization, only the present way of
expressing the same facts is a little different. Still lords and
ladies dance and sing, unknowing or uncaring that the laborers who
minister to their luxuries starve or are turned into wild beasts. Man
need not boast his condition, methinks, till he can weave his costly
tapestry without the side that is kept under looking thus sadly.

The tournament ground is still kept green and in beautiful order, near
Stirling castle, as a memento of the olden time, and as we passed
away down the beautiful Firth, a turn of the river gave us a very
advantageous view of it. So gay it looked, so festive in the bright
sunshine, one almost seemed to see the graceful forms of knight and
noble pricking their good steeds to the encounter, or the stalwart
Douglas, vindicating his claim to be indeed a chief by conquest in the
rougher sports of the yeomanry.

Passing along the Firth to Edinburgh, we again passed two or three
days in that beautiful city, which I could not be content to leave
so imperfectly seen, if I had not some hope of revisiting it when the
bright lights that adorn it are concentred there. In summer almost
every one is absent. I was very fortunate to see as many interesting
persons as I did. On this second visit I saw James Simpson, a
well-known philanthropist, and leader in the cause of popular
education. Infant schools have been an especial care of his, and
America as well as Scotland has received the benefit of his thoughts
on this subject. His last good work has been to induce the erection
of public baths in Edinburgh, and the working people of that place,
already deeply in his debt for the lectures he has been unwearied
in delivering for their benefit, have signified their gratitude by
presenting him with a beautiful model of a fountain in silver as an
ornament to his study. Never was there a place where such a measure
would be more important; if cleanliness be akin to godliness,
Edinburgh stands at great disadvantage in her devotions. The impure
air, the terrific dirt which surround the working people, must make
all progress in higher culture impossible; and I saw nothing which
seemed to me so likely to have results of incalculable good, as this
practical measure of the Simpsons in support of the precept,

  "Wash and be clean every whit."

We returned into England by the way of Melrose, not content to leave
Scotland without making our pilgrimage to Abbotsford. The universal
feeling, however, has made this pilgrimage so common that there
is nothing left for me to say; yet, though I had read a hundred
descriptions, everything seemed new as I went over this epitome of
the mind and life of Scott. As what constitutes the great man is more
commonly some extraordinary combination and balance of qualities, than
the highest development of any one, so you cannot but here be struck
anew by the singular combination in Scott's mind of love for the
picturesque and romantic with the plainest common sense,--a delight
in heroic excess with the prudential habit of order. Here the most
pleasing order pervades emblems of what men commonly esteem disorder
and excess.

Amid the exquisite beauty of the ruins of Dryburgh, I saw with regret
that Scott's body rests in almost the only spot that is not green, and
cannot well be made so, for the light does not reach it. That is not
a fit couch for him who dressed so many dim and time-worn relics with
living green.

Always cheerful and beneficent, Scott seemed to the common eye in like
measure prosperous and happy, up to the last years, and the chair in
which, under the pressure of the sorrows which led to his death, he
was propped up to write when brain and eye and hand refused their
aid, the product remaining only as a guide to the speculator as to the
workings of the mind in case of insanity or approaching imbecility,
would by most persons be viewed as the only saddening relic of his
career. Yet when I recall some passages in the Lady of the Lake, and
the Address to his Harp, I cannot doubt that Scott had the full share
of bitter in his cup, and feel the tender hope that we do about other
gentle and generous guardians and benefactors of our youth, that in a
nobler career they are now fulfilling still higher duties with serener
mind. Doubtless too they are trusting in us that we will try to fill
their places with kindly deeds, ardent thoughts, nor leave the world,
in their absence,

  "A dim, vast vale of tears,
    Vacant and desolate."




LETTER VII.

NEWCASTLE.--DESCENT INTO A COAL-MINE.--YORK WITH ITS MINSTER.--
SHEFFIELD.--CHATSWORTH.--WARWICK CASTLE.--LEAMINGTON AND
STRATFORD.--SHAKESPEARE.--BIRMINGHAM.--GEORGE DAWSON.--JAMES
MARTINEAU.--W.J. FOX.--W.H. CHARMING AND THEODORE PARKER.--LONDON
AND PARIS.


Paris, 1846.

We crossed the moorland in a heavy rain, and reached Newcastle late
at night. Next day we descended into a coal-mine; it was quite an odd
sensation to be taken off one's feet and dropped down into darkness
by the bucket. The stables under ground had a pleasant Gil-Blas air,
though the poor horses cannot like it much; generally they see the
light of day no more after they have once been let down into these
gloomy recesses, but pass their days in dragging cars along the rails
of the narrow passages, and their nights in eating hay and dreaming
of grass!! When we went down, we meant to go along the gallery to the
place where the miners were then at work, but found this was a walk
of a mile and a half, and, beside the weariness of picking one's steps
slowly along by the light of a tallow candle, too wet and dirty an
enterprise to be undertaken by way of amusement; so, after proceeding
half a mile or so, we begged to be restored to our accustomed level,
and reached it with minds slightly edified and face and hands much
blackened.

Passing thence we saw York with its Minster, that dream of beauty
realized. From, its roof I saw two rainbows, overarching that lovely
country. Through its aisles I heard grand music pealing. But how
sorrowfully bare is the interior of such a cathedral, despoiled of the
statues, the paintings, and the garlands that belong to the Catholic
religion! The eye aches for them. Such a church is ruined by
Protestantism; its admirable exterior seems that of a sepulchre; there
is no correspondent life within.

Within the citadel, a tower half ruined and ivy-clad, is life that
has been growing up while the exterior bulwarks of the old feudal time
crumbled to ruin. George Fox, while a prisoner at York for obedience
to the dictates of his conscience, planted here a walnut, and the tall
tree that grew from it still "bears testimony" to his living presence
on that spot. The tree is old, but still bears nuts; one of them was
taken away by my companions, and may perhaps be the parent of a tree
somewhere in America, that shall shade those who inherit the spirit,
if they do not attach importance to the etiquettes, of Quakerism.

In Sheffield I saw the sooty servitors tending their furnaces. I saw
them, also on Saturday night, after their work was done, going to
receive its poor wages, looking pallid and dull, as if they had spent
on tempering the steel that vital force that should have tempered
themselves to manhood.

We saw, also, Chatsworth, with its park and mock wilderness, and
immense conservatory, and really splendid fountains and wealth of
marbles. It is a fine expression of modern luxury and splendor, but
did not interest me; I found little there of true beauty or grandeur.

Warwick Castle is a place entirely to my mind, a real representative
of the English aristocracy in the day of its nobler life. The grandeur
of the pile itself, and its beauty of position, introduce you fitly
to the noble company with which the genius of Vandyke has peopled
its walls. But a short time was allowed to look upon these nobles,
warriors, statesmen, and ladies, who gaze upon us in turn with such a
majesty of historic association, yet was I very well satisfied. It
is not difficult to see men through the eyes of Vandyke. His way of
viewing character seems superficial, though commanding; he sees the
man in his action on the crowd, not in his hidden life; he does not,
like some painters, amaze and engross us by his revelations as to the
secret springs of conduct. I know not by what hallucination I forebore
to look at the picture I most desired to see,--that of Lucy, Countess
of Carlisle. I was looking at something else, and when the fat,
pompous butler announced her, I did not recognize her name from his
mouth. Afterward it flashed across me, that I had really been standing
before her and forgotten to look. But repentance was too late; I had
passed the castle gate to return no more.

Pretty Leamington and Stratford are hackneyed ground. Of the latter
I only observed what, if I knew, I had forgotten, that the room where
Shakespeare was born has been an object of devotion only for forty
years. England has learned much of her appreciation of Shakespeare
from the Germans. In the days of innocence, I fondly supposed that
every one who could understand English, and was not a cannibal, adored
Shakespeare and read him on Sundays always for an hour or more, and on
week days a considerable portion of the time. But I have lived to know
some hundreds of persons in my native land, without finding ten who
had any direct acquaintance with their greatest benefactor, and I dare
say in England as large an experience would not end more honorably
to its subjects. So vast a treasure is left untouched, while men are
complaining of being poor, because they have not toothpicks exactly to
their mind.

At Stratford I handled, too, the poker used to such good purpose by
Geoffrey Crayon. The muse had fled, the fire was out, and the poker
rusty, yet a pleasant influence lingered even in that cold little
room, and seemed to lend a transient glow to the poker under the
influence of sympathy.

In Birmingham I heard two discourses from one of the rising lights of
England, George Dawson, a young man of whom I had earlier heard much
in praise. He is a friend of the people, in the sense of brotherhood,
not of a social convenience or patronage; in literature catholic; in
matters of religion antisectarian, seeking truth in aspiration and
love. He is eloquent, with good method in his discourse, fire and
dignity when wanted, with a frequent homeliness in enforcement and
illustration which offends the etiquettes of England, but fits him the
better for the class he has to address. His powers are uncommon and
unfettered in their play; his aim is worthy. He is fulfilling and will
fulfil an important task as an educator of the people, if all be
not marred by a taint of self-love and arrogance now obvious in his
discourse. This taint is not surprising in one so young, who has
done so much, and in order to do it has been compelled to great
self-confidence and light heed of the authority of other minds, and
who is surrounded almost exclusively by admirers; neither is it,
at present, a large speck; it may be quite purged from him by the
influence of nobler motives and the rise of his ideal standard; but,
on the other hand, should it spread, all must be vitiated. Let us hope
the best, for he is one that could ill be spared from the band who
have taken up the cause of Progress in England.

In this connection I may as well speak of James Martineau, whom I
heard in Liverpool, and W.J. Fox, whom I heard in London.

Mr. Martineau looks like the over-intellectual, the partially
developed man, and his speech confirms this impression. He is
sometimes conservative, sometimes reformer, not in the sense of
eclecticism, but because his powers and views do not find a true
harmony. On the conservative side he is scholarly, acute,--on the
other, pathetic, pictorial, generous. He is no prophet and no sage,
yet a man full of fine affections and thoughts, always suggestive,
sometimes satisfactory; he is well adapted to the wants of that class,
a large one in the present day, who love the new wine, but do not feel
that they can afford to throw away _all_ their old bottles.

Mr. Fox is the reverse of all this: he is homogeneous in his materials
and harmonious in the results he produces. He has great persuasive
power; it is the persuasive power of a mind warmly engaged in seeking
truth for itself. He sometimes carries homeward convictions with great
energy, driving in the thought as with golden nails. A glow of kindly
human sympathy enlivens his argument, and the whole presents thought
in a well-proportioned, animated body. But I am told he is far
superior in speech on political or social problems, than on such as I
heard him discuss.

I was reminded, in hearing all three, of men similarly engaged in our
country, W.H. Charming and Theodore Parker. None of them compare
in the symmetrical arrangement of extempore discourse, or in pure
eloquence and communication of spiritual beauty, with Charming, nor in
fulness and sustained flow with Parker, but, in power of practical and
homely adaptation of their thought to common wants, they are superior
to the former, and all have more variety, finer perceptions, and are
more powerful in single passages, than Parker.

And now my pen has run to 1st October, and still I have such
notabilities as fell to my lot to observe while in London, and these
that are thronging upon me here in Paris to record for you. I am sadly
in arrears, but 't is comfort to think that such meats as I have to
serve up are as good cold as hot. At any rate, it is just impossible
to do any better, and I shall comfort myself, as often before, with
the triplet which I heard in childhood from a sage (if only sages wear
wigs!):--

  "As said the great Prince Fernando,
  What _can_ a man do,
  More than he can do?"




LETTER VIII.

RECOLLECTIONS OF LONDON.--THE ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.--LONDON CLIMATE.--OUT
OF SEASON.--LUXURY AND MISERY.--A DIFFICULT PROBLEM.--TERRORS
OF POVERTY.--JOANNA BAILLIE AND MADAME ROLAND.--HAMPSTEAD.--MISS
BERRY.--FEMALE ARTISTS.--MARGARET GILLIES.--THE PEOPLE'S
JOURNAL.--THE TIMES.--THE HOWITTS.--SOUTH WOOD SMITH.--HOUSES FOR THE
POOR.--SKELETON OF JEREMY BENTHAM.--COOPER THE POET.--THOM.


Paris, December, 1846.

I sit down here in Paris to narrate some recollections of London.
The distance in space and time is not great, yet I seem in wholly a
different world. Here in the region of wax-lights, mirrors, bright
wood fires, shrugs, vivacious ejaculations, wreathed smiles, and
adroit courtesies, it is hard to remember John Bull, with his
coal-smoke, hands in pockets, except when extended for ungracious
demand of the perpetual half-crown, or to pay for the all but
perpetual mug of beer. John, seen on that side, is certainly the most
churlish of clowns, and the most clownish of churls. But then
there are so many other sides! When a gentleman, he is so truly the
gentleman, when a man, so truly the man of honor! His graces, when he
has any, grow up from his inmost heart.

Not that he is free from humbug; on the contrary, he is prone to the
most solemn humbug, generally of the philanthrophic or otherwise moral
kind. But he is always awkward beneath the mask, and can never impose
upon anybody--but himself. Nature meant him to be noble, generous,
sincere, and has furnished him with no faculties to make himself
agreeable in any other way or mode of being. 'Tis not so with your
Frenchman, who can cheat you pleasantly, and move with grace in the
devious and slippery path. You would be almost sorry to see him quite
disinterested and straightforward, so much of agreeable talent and
naughty wit would thus lie hid for want of use. But John, O John, we
must admire, esteem, or be disgusted with thee.

As to climate, there is not much to choose at this time of year. In
London, for six weeks, we never saw the sun for coal-smoke and fog. In
Paris we have not been blessed with its cheering rays above three or
four days in the same length of time, and are, beside, tormented with
an oily and tenacious mud beneath the feet, which makes it almost
impossible to walk. This year, indeed, is an uncommonly severe one at
Paris; but then, if they have their share of dark, cold days, it must
be admitted that they do all they can to enliven them.

But to dwell first on London,--London, in itself a world. We arrived
at a time which the well-bred Englishman considers as no time at
all,--quite out of "the season," when Parliament is in session, and
London thronged with the equipages of her aristocracy, her titled
wealthy nobles. I was listened to with a smile of contempt when I
declared that the stock shows of London would yield me amusement and
employment more than sufficient for the time I had to stay. But
I found that, with my way of viewing things, it would be to me an
inexhaustible studio, and that, if life were only long enough, I would
live there for years obscure in some corner, from which I could issue
forth day by day to watch unobserved the vast stream of life, or to
decipher the hieroglyphics which ages have been inscribing on the
walls of this vast palace (I may not call it a temple), which human
effort has reared for means, not yet used efficaciously, of human
culture.

And though I wish to return to London in "the season," when that city
is an adequate representative of the state of things in England, I
am glad I did not at first see all that pomp and parade of wealth and
luxury in contrast with the misery, squalid, agonizing, ruffianly,
which stares one in the face in every street of London, and hoots at
the gates of her palaces more ominous a note than ever was that of owl
or raven in the portentous times when empires and races have crumbled
and fallen from inward decay.

It is impossible, however, to take a near view of the treasures
created by English genius, accumulated by English industry, without a
prayer, daily more fervent, that the needful changes in the condition
of this people may be effected by peaceful revolution, which shall
destroy nothing except the shocking inhumanity of exclusiveness,
which now prevents their being used, for the benefit of all. May their
present possessors look to it in time! A few already are earnest in
a good spirit. For myself, much as I pitied the poor, abandoned,
hopeless wretches that swarm in the roads and streets of England, I
pity far more the English noble, with this difficult problem before
him, and such need of a speedy solution. Sad is his life, if a
conscientious man; sadder still, if not. Poverty in England has
terrors of which I never dreamed at home. I felt that it would be
terrible to be poor there, but far more so to be the possessor of that
for which so many thousands are perishing. And the middle class, too,
cannot here enjoy that serenity which the sages have described as
naturally their peculiar blessing. Too close, too dark throng the
evils they cannot obviate, the sorrows they cannot relieve. To a man
of good heart, each day must bring purgatory which he knows not how to
bear, yet to which he fears to become insensible.

From these clouds of the Present, it is pleasant to turn the thoughts
to some objects which have cast a light upon the Past, and which, by
the virtue of their very nature, prescribe hope for the Future. I have
mentioned with satisfaction seeing some persons who illustrated
the past dynasty in the progress of thought here: Wordsworth, Dr.
Chalmers, De Quincey, Andrew Combe. With a still higher pleasure,
because to one of my own sex, whom I have honored almost above any,
I went to pay my court to Joanna Baillie. I found on her brow, not
indeed a coronal of gold, but a serenity and strength undimmed and
unbroken by the weight of more than fourscore years, or by the scanty
appreciation which her thoughts have received.

I prize Joanna Baillie and Madame Roland as the best specimens which
have been hitherto offered of women of a Roman strength and singleness
of mind, adorned by the various culture and capable of the various
action opened to them by the progress of the Christian Idea. They are
not sentimental; they do not sigh and write of withered flowers of
fond affection, and woman's heart born to be misunderstood by the
object or objects of her fond, inevitable choice. Love (the passion),
when spoken of at all by them, seems a thing noble, religious, worthy
to be felt. They do not write of it always; they did not think of it
always; they saw other things in this great, rich, suffering world. In
superior delicacy of touch, they show the woman, but the hand is firm;
nor was all their speech, one continued utterance of mere personal
experience. It contained things which are good, intellectually,
universally.

I regret that the writings of Joanna Baillie are not more known in
the United States. The Plays on the Passions are faulty in their
plan,--all attempts at comic, even at truly dramatic effect, fail; but
there are masterly sketches of character, vigorous expressions of wise
thought, deep, fervent ejaculations of an aspiring soul!

We found her in her little calm retreat at Hampstead, surrounded by
marks of love and reverence from distinguished and excellent friends.
Near her was the sister, older than herself, yet still sprightly and
full of active kindness, whose character and their mutual relation she
has, in one of her last poems, indicated with such a happy mixture of
sagacity, humor, and tender pathos, and with so absolute a truth of
outline. Although no autograph collector, I asked for theirs, and when
the elder gave hers as "sister to Joanna Baillie," it drew a tear from
my eye,--a good tear, a genuine pearl,--fit homage to that fairest
product of the soul of man, humble, disinterested tenderness.

Hampstead has still a good deal of romantic beauty. I was told it was
the favorite sketching-ground of London artists, till the railroads
gave them easy means of spending a few hours to advantage farther
off. But, indeed, there is a wonderful deal of natural beauty lying in
untouched sweetness near London. Near one of our cities it would all
have been grabbed up the first thing. But we, too, are beginning to
grow wiser.

At Richmond I went to see another lady of more than threescore years'
celebrity, more than fourscore in age, Miss Berry the friend of Horace
Walpole, and for her charms of manner and conversation long and still
a reigning power. She has still the vivacity, the careless nature, or
refined art, that made her please so much in earlier days,--still is
girlish, and gracefully so. Verily, with her was no sign of labor or
sorrow.

From the older turning to the young, I must speak with pleasure
of several girls I know in London, who are devoting themselves to
painting as a profession. They have really wise and worthy views of
the artist's avocation; if they remain true to them, they will enjoy
a free, serene existence, unprofaned by undue care or sentimental
sorrow. Among these, Margaret Gillies has attained some celebrity;
she may be known to some in America by engravings in the "People's
Journal" from her pictures; but, if I remember right, these are
coarse things, and give no just notion of her pictures, which are
distinguished for elegance and refinement; a little mannerized, but
she is improving in that respect.

The "People's Journal" comes nearer being a fair sign of the times
than any other publication of England, apparently, if we except Punch.
As for the Times, on which you all use your scissors so industriously,
it is managed with vast ability, no doubt, but the blood would tingle
many a time to the fingers' ends of the body politic, before that
solemn organ which claims to represent the heart would dare to beat in
unison. Still it would require all the wise management of the Times,
or wisdom enough to do without it, and a wide range and diversity of
talent, indeed, almost sweeping the circle, to make a People's Journal
for England. The present is only a bud of the future flower.

Mary and William Howitt are its main support. I saw them several times
at their cheerful and elegant home. In Mary Howitt I found the same
engaging traits of character we are led to expect from her books
for children. Her husband is full of the same agreeable information,
communicated in the same lively yet precise manner we find in his
books; it was like talking with old friends, except that now the
eloquence of the eye was added. At their house I became acquainted
with Dr. Southwood Smith, the well-known philanthropist. He is at
present engaged on the construction of good tenements calculated to
improve the condition of the working people. His plans look promising,
and should they succeed, you shall have a detailed account of them. On
visiting him, we saw an object which I had often heard celebrated,
and had thought would be revolting, but found, on the contrary, an
agreeable sight; this is the skeleton of Jeremy Bentham. It was at
Bentham's request that the skeleton, dressed in the same dress he
habitually wore, stuffed out to an exact resemblance of life, and with
a portrait mark in wax, the best I ever saw, sits there, as assistant
to Dr. Smith in the entertainment of his guests and companion of his
studies. The figure leans a little forward, resting the hands on a,
stout stick which Bentham always carried, and had named "Dapple";
the attitude is quite easy, the expression of the whole quite mild,
winning, yet highly individual. It is a pleasing mark of that unity
of aim and tendency to be expected throughout the life of such a mind,
that Bentham, while quite a young man, had made a will, in which, to
oppose in the most convincing manner the prejudice against dissection
of the human subject, he had given his body after death to be used in
service of the cause of science. "I have not yet been able," said the
will, "to do much service to my fellow-men by my life, but perhaps I
may in this manner by my death." Many years after, reading a pamphlet
by Dr. Smith on the same subject, he was much pleased with it,
became his friend, and bequeathed his body to his care and use, with
directions that the skeleton should finally be disposed of in the way
I have described.

The countenance of Dr. Smith has an expression of expansive, sweet,
almost childlike goodness. Miss Gillies has made a charming picture of
him, with a favorite little granddaughter nestling in his arms.

Another marked figure that I encountered on this great showboard was
Cooper, the author of "The Purgatory of Luicides," a very remarkable
poem, of which, had there been leisure before my departure, I should
have made a review, and given copious extracts in the Tribune. Cooper
is as strong a man, and probably a milder one, than when in the prison
where that poem was written. The earnestness in seeking freedom
and happiness for all men, which drew upon him that penalty, seems
unabated; he is a very significant type of the new era, and also an
agent in bringing it near. One of the poets of the people, also, I
saw,--the sweetest singer of them all,--Thom. "A Chieftain unknown
to the Queen" is again exacting a cruel tribute from him. I wish much
that some of those of New York who have taken an interest in him would
provide there a nook in which he might find refuge and solace for the
evening of his days, to sing or to work as likes him best, and where
he could bring up two fine boys to happier prospects than the parent
land will afford them. Could and would America but take from other
lands more of the talent, as well as the bone and sinew, she would be
rich.

But the stroke of the clock warns me to stop now, and begin to-morrow
with fresher eye and hand on some interesting topics. My sketches are
slight; still they cannot be made without time, and I find none to be
had in this Europe except late at night. I believe it is what all the
inhabitants use, but I am too sleepy a genius to carry the practice
far.




LETTER IX.

WRITING AT NIGHT.--LONDON.--NATIONAL GALLERY.--MURILLO.--THE FLOWER
GIRL.--NURSERY-MAIDS AND WORKING-MEN.--HAMPTON COURT.--ZOÖLOGICAL
GARDENS.--KING OF ANIMALS.--ENGLISH PIETY.--EAGLES.--SIR JOHN SOANE'S
MUSEUM.--KEW GARDENS.--THE GREAT CACTUS.--THE REFORM CLUB HOUSE.--MEN
COOKS.--ORDERLY KITCHEN.--A GILPIN EXCURSION.--THE BELL AT EDMONTON.--
OMNIBUS.--CHEAPSIDE.--ENGLISH SLOWNESS.--FREILIGRATH.--ARCADIA.--
ITALIAN SCHOOL.--MAZZINI.--ITALY.--ITALIAN REFUGEES.--CORREGGIO.--
HOPE OF ITALIANS.--ADDRESSES.--SUPPER.--CARLYLE, HIS APPEARANCE,
CONVERSATION, &C.


Again I must begin to write late in the evening. I am told it is the
custom of the literati in these large cities to work in the night. It
is easy to see that it must be almost impossible to do otherwise; yet
not only is the practice very bad for the health, and one that brings
on premature old age, but I cannot think this night-work will prove as
firm in texture and as fair of hue as what is done by sunlight. Give
me a lonely chamber, a window from which through the foliage you can
catch glimpses of a beautiful prospect, and the mind finds itself
tuned to action.

But London, London! I have yet some brief notes to make on London. We
had scarcely any sunlight by which to see pictures, and I postponed
all visits to private collections, except one, in the hope of being in
England next time in the long summer days. In the National Gallery I
saw little except the Murillos; they were so beautiful, that with me,
who had no true conception of his kind of genius before, they took
away the desire to look into anything else at the same time. They
did not affect me much either, except with a sense of content in this
genius, so rich and full and strong. It was a cup of sunny wine that
refreshed but brought no intoxicating visions. There is something
very noble in the genius of Spain, there is such an intensity and
singleness; it seems to me it has not half shown itself, and must have
an important part to play yet in the drama of this planet.

At the Dulwich Gallery I saw the Flower Girl of Murillo, an enchanting
picture, the memory of which must always

      "Cast a light upon the day,
  A light that will not pass away,
      A sweet forewarning."

Who can despair when he thinks of a form like that, so full of life
and bliss! Nature, that made such human forms to match the butterfly
and the bee on June mornings when the lime-trees are in blossom, has
surely enough of happiness in store to satisfy us all, somewhere, some
time.

It was pleasant, indeed, to see the treasures of those galleries, of
the British Museum, and of so charming a place as Hampton Court,
open to everybody. In the National Gallery one finds a throng of
nursery-maids, and men just come from their work; true, they make a
great deal of noise thronging to and fro on the uncarpeted floors
in their thick boots, and noise from which, when penetrated by
the atmosphere of Art, men in the thickest boots would know how to
refrain; still I felt that the sight of such objects must be gradually
doing them a great deal of good. The British Museum would, in itself,
be an education for a man who should go there once a week, and think
and read at his leisure moments about what he saw.

Hampton Court I saw in the gloom, and rain, and my chief recollections
are of the magnificent yew-trees beneath whose shelter--the work
of ages--I took refuge from the pelting shower. The expectations
cherished from childhood about the Cartoons were all baffled; there
was no light by which they could be seen. But I must hope to visit
Hampton Court again in the time of roses.

The Zoölogical Gardens are another pleasure of the million, since,
although something is paid there, it is so little that almost all can
afford it. To me, it is a vast pleasure to see animals where they can
show out their habits or instincts, and to see them assembled from,
all climates and countries, amid verdure and with room enough, as they
are here, is a true poem. They have a fine lion, the first I ever saw
that realized the idea we have of the king of the animal world; but
the groan and roar of this one were equally royal. The eagles were
fine, but rather disgraced themselves. It is a trait of English piety,
which would, no doubt, find its defenders among ourselves, not to feed
the animals on Sunday, that their keepers may have rest; at least
this was the explanation given us by one of these men of the state of
ravenous hunger in which we found them on the Monday. I half hope
he was jesting with us. Certain it is that the eagles were wild with
famine, and even the grandest of them, who had eyed us at first as if
we were not fit to live in the same zone with him, when the meat came
round, after a short struggle to maintain his dignity, joined in wild
shriek and scramble with the rest.

Sir John Soane's Museum I visited, containing the sarcophagus
described by Dr. Waagen, Hogarth's pictures, a fine Canaletto, and
a manuscript of Tasso. It fills the house once the residence of his
body, still of his mind. It is not a mind with which I have sympathy;
I found there no law of harmony, and it annoyed me to see things all
jumbled together as if in an old curiosity-shop. Nevertheless it was a
generous bequest, and much may perhaps be found there of value to him
who takes time to seek.

The Gardens at Kew delighted me, thereabouts all was so green, and
still one could indulge at leisure in the humorous and fantastic
associations that cluster around the name of Kew, like the curls of
a "big wig" round the serene and sleepy face of its wearer. Here are
fourteen green-houses: in one you find all the palms; in another,
the productions of the regions of snow; in another, those squibs and
humorsome utterances of Nature, the cactuses,--ay! there I saw the
great-grandfather of all the cactuses, a hoary, solemn plant, declared
to be a thousand years old, disdaining to say if it is not really
much, older; in yet another, the most exquisitely minute plants,
delicate as the tracery of frostwork, too delicate for the bowers of
fairies, such at least as visit the gross brains of earthly poets.

The Reform Club was the only one of those splendid establishments that
I visited. Certainly the force of comfort can no farther go, nor can
anything be better contrived to make dressing, eating, news-getting,
and even sleeping (for there are bedrooms as well as dressing-rooms
for those who will), as comfortable as can be imagined. Yet to me this
palace of so many "single gentlemen rolled into one" seemed _stupidly_
comfortable, in the absence of that elegant arrangement and vivacious
atmosphere which only women can inspire. In the kitchen, indeed, I
met them, and on that account it seemed the pleasantest part of the
building,--though even there they are but the servants of servants.
There reigned supreme a genius in his way, who has published a work
on Cookery, and around him his pupils,--young men who pay a handsome
yearly fee for novitiate under his instruction. I was not sorry,
however, to see men predominant in the cooking department, as I hope
to see that and washing transferred to their care in the progress of
things, since they are "the stronger sex."

The arrangements of this kitchen were very fine, combining great
convenience with neatness, and even elegance. Fourier himself might
have taken pleasure in them. Thence we passed into the private
apartments of the artist, and found them full of pictures by his wife,
an artist in another walk. One or two of them had been engraved. _She_
was an Englishwoman.

A whimsical little excursion we made on occasion of the anniversary of
the wedding-day of two of my friends. They had often enjoyed reading
the account of John Gilpin's in America, and now thought that, as they
were in England and near enough, they would celebrate theirs also at
"the Bell at Edmonton." I accompanied them with "a little foot-page,"
to eke out the train, pretty and graceful and playful enough for
the train of a princess. But our excursion turned out somewhat of a
failure, in an opposite way to Gilpin's. Whereas he went too fast, we
went too slow. First we took coach and went through Cheapside to take
omnibus at (strange misnomer!) the Flower-Pot. But Gilpin could never
have had his race through Cheapside as it is in its present crowded
state; we were obliged to proceed at a funeral pace. We missed the
omnibus, and when we took the next one it went with the slowness of a
"family horse" in the old chaise of a New England deacon, and, after
all, only took us half-way. At the half-way house a carriage was to
be sought. The lady who let it, and all her grooms, were to be allowed
time to recover from their consternation at so unusual a move as
strangers taking a carriage to dine at the little inn at Edmonton, now
a mere alehouse, before we could be allowed to proceed. The English
stand lost in amaze at "Yankee notions," with their quick come and
go, and it is impossible to make them "go ahead" in the zigzag
chain-lightning path, unless you push them. A rather old part of the
plan had been a pilgrimage to the grave of Lamb, with a collateral
view to the rural beauties of Edmonton, but night had fallen on all
such hopes two hours at least before we reached the Bell. _There_,
indeed, we found them somewhat more alert to comprehend our wishes;
they laughed when we spoke of Gilpin, showed us a print of the race
and the window where Mrs. Gilpin must have stood,--balcony, alas!
there was none; allowed us to make our own fire, and provided us a
wedding dinner of tough meat and stale bread. Nevertheless we danced,
dined, paid (I believe), and celebrated the wedding quite to our
satisfaction, though in the space of half an hour, as we knew
friends were even at that moment expecting us to _tea_ at some miles'
distance. But it is always pleasant in this world of routine to act
out a freak. "Such a one," said an English gentleman, "one of _us_
would rarely have dreamed of, much, less acted." "Why, was it not
pleasant?" "Oh, _very_! but _so_ out of the way!"

Returning, we passed the house where Freiligrath finds a temporary
home, earning the bread, of himself and his family in a commercial
house. England houses the exile, but not without house-tax,
window-tax, and head-tax. Where is the Arcadia that dares invite
all genius to her arms, and change her golden wheat for their green
laurels and immortal flowers? Arcadia?--would the name were America!

And now returns naturally to my mind one of the most interesting
things I have seen here or elsewhere,--the school for poor Italian
boys, sustained and taught by a few of their exiled compatriots, and
especially by the mind and efforts of Mazzini. The name of Joseph
Mazzini is well known to those among us who take an interest in the
cause of human freedom, who, not content with the peace and ease
bought for themselves by the devotion and sacrifices of their fathers,
look with anxious interest on the suffering nations who are preparing
for a similar struggle. Those who are not, like the brutes that
perish, content with the enjoyment of mere national advantages,
indifferent to the idea they represent, cannot forget that the human
family is one,

  "And beats with one great heart."

They know that there can be no genuine happiness, no salvation for
any, unless the same can be secured for all.

To this universal interest in all nations and places where man,
understanding his inheritance, strives to throw off an arbitrary rule
and establish a state of things where he shall be governed as becomes
a man, by his own conscience and intelligence,--where he may speak
the truth as it rises in his mind, and indulge his natural emotions
in purity,--is added an especial interest in Italy, the mother of
our language and our laws, our greatest benefactress in the gifts
of genius, the garden of the world, in which our best thoughts have
delighted to expatiate, but over whose bowers now hangs a perpetual
veil of sadness, and whose noblest plants are doomed to removal,--for,
if they cannot bear their ripe and perfect fruit in another climate,
they are not permitted to lift their heads to heaven in their own.

Some of these generous refugees our country has received kindly, if
not with a fervent kindness; and the word _Correggio_ is still in
my ears as I heard it spoken in New York by one whose heart long
oppression could not paralyze. _Speranza_ some of the Italian youth
now inscribe on their banners, encouraged by some traits of apparent
promise in the new Pope. However, their only true hope is in
themselves, in their own courage, and in that wisdom winch may only be
learned through many disappointments as to how to employ it so that it
may destroy tyranny, not themselves.

Mazzini, one of these noble refugees, is not only one of the heroic,
the courageous, and the faithful,--Italy boasts many such,--but he is
also one of the wise;--one of those who, disappointed in the outward
results of their undertakings, can yet "bate no jot of heart and
hope," but _must_ "steer right onward "; for it was no superficial
enthusiasm, no impatient energies, that impelled him, but an
understanding of what _must_ be the designs of Heaven with regard to
man, since God is Love, is Justice. He is one who can live fervently,
but steadily, gently, every day, every hour, as well as on great,
occasions, cheered by the light of hope; for, with Schiller, he is
sure that "those who live for their faith shall behold it living."
He is one of those same beings who, measuring all things by the ideal
standard, have yet no time to mourn over failure or imperfection;
there is too much to be done to obviate it.

Thus Mazzini, excluded from publication in his native language, has
acquired the mastery both of French and English, and through his
expressions in either shine the thoughts which animated his earlier
effort with mild and steady radiance. The misfortunes of his country
have only widened the sphere of his instructions, and made him an
exponent of the better era to Europe at large. Those who wish to form
an idea of his mind could not do better than to read his sketches of
the Italian Martyrs in the "People's Journal." They will find there,
on one of the most difficult occasions, an ardent friend speaking of
his martyred friends with, the purity of impulse, warmth of sympathy,
largeness and steadiness of view, and fineness of discrimination which
must belong to a legislator for a CHRISTIAN commonwealth.

But though I have read these expressions with great delight, this
school was one to me still more forcible of the same ideas. Here these
poor boys, picked up from the streets, are redeemed from bondage and
gross ignorance by the most patient and constant devotion of time and
effort. What love and sincerity this demands from minds capable of
great thoughts, large plans, and rapid progress, only their peers can
comprehend, yet exceeding great shall he the reward; and as among
the fishermen, and poor people of Judæa were picked up those who have
become to modern Europe a leaven that leavens the whole mass, so may
these poor Italian boys yet become more efficacious as missionaries
to their people than would an Orphic poet at this period. These youths
have very commonly good faces, and eyes from which that Italian
fire that has done so much to warm the world glows out. We saw the
distribution of prizes to the school, heard addresses from Mazzini,
Pistracci, Mariotti (once a resident in our country), and an English
gentleman who takes a great interest in the work, and then adjourned
to an adjacent room, where a supper was provided for the boys and
other guests, among whom we saw some of the exiled Poles. The whole
evening gave a true and deep pleasure, though tinged with sadness. We
saw a planting of the kingdom of Heaven, though now no larger than a
grain of mustard-seed, and though perhaps none of those who watch the
spot may live to see the birds singing in its branches.

I have not yet spoken of one of _our_ benefactors, Mr. Carlyle, whom I
saw several times. I approached him with more reverence after a little
experience of England and Scotland had taught me to appreciate the
strength and height of that wall of shams and conventions which he
more than any man, or thousand men,--indeed, he almost alone,--has
begun to throw down. Wherever there was fresh thought, generous hope,
the thought of Carlyle has begun the work. He has torn off the veils
from hideous facts; he has burnt away foolish illusions; he has
awakened thousands to know what it is to be a man,--that we must live,
and not merely pretend to others that we live. He has touched the
rocks and they have given forth musical answer; little more was
wanting to begin to construct the city.

But that little was wanting, and the work of construction is left to
those that come after him: nay, all attempts of the kind he is the
readiest to deride, fearing new shams worse than the old, unable to
trust the general action of a thought, and finding no heroic man, no
natural king, to represent it and challenge his confidence.

Accustomed to the infinite wit and exuberant richness of his writings,
his talk is still an amazement and a splendor scarcely to be faced
with steady eyes. He does not converse,--only harangues. It is the
usual misfortune of such marked men (happily not one invariable or
inevitable) that they cannot allow other minds room to breathe and
show themselves in their atmosphere, and thus miss the refreshment
and instruction, which the greatest never cease to need from the
experience of the humblest. Carlyle allows no one a chance, but
bears down all opposition, not only by his wit and onset of words,
resistless in their sharpness as so many bayonets, but by actual
physical superiority, raising his voice and rushing on his opponent
with a torrent of sound. This is not the least from unwillingness to
allow freedom to others; on the contrary, no man would more enjoy
a manly resistance to his thought; but it is the impulse of a mind
accustomed to follow out its own impulse as the hawk its prey, and
which knows not how to stop in the chase. Carlyle, indeed, is arrogant
and overbearing, but in his arrogance there is no littleness or
self-love: it is the heroic arrogance of some old Scandinavian
conqueror,--it is his nature and the untamable impulse that has given
him power to crush the dragons. You do not love him, perhaps, nor
revere, and perhaps, also, he would only laugh at you if you did; but
you like him heartily, and like to see him the powerful smith, the
Siegfried, melting all the old iron in his furnace till it glows to a
sunset red, and burns you if you senselessly go too near. He seemed to
me quite isolated, lonely as the desert; yet never was man more fitted
to prize a man, could he find one to match his mood. He finds such,
but only in the past. He sings rather than talks. He pours upon you a
kind of satirical, heroical, critical poem, with regular cadences, and
generally catching up near the beginning some singular epithet, which,
serves as a _refrain_ when his song is full, or with which as with a
knitting-needle he catches up the stitches if he has chanced now
and then to let fall a row. For the higher kinds of poetry he has no
sense, and his talk on that subject is delightfully and gorgeously
absurd; he sometimes stops a minute to laugh at it himself, then
begins anew with fresh vigor; for all the spirits he is driving before
him seem to him as Fata Morganas, ugly masks, in fact, if he can but
make them turn about, but he laughs that they seem to others such
dainty Ariels. He puts out his chin sometimes till it looks like the
beak of a bird, and his eyes flash bright instinctive meanings like
Jove's bird; yet he is not calm and grand enough for the eagle: he
is more like the falcon, and yet not of gentle blood enough for that
either. He is not exactly like anything but himself, and therefore you
cannot see him without the most hearty refreshment and good-will, for
he is original, rich, and strong enough to afford a thousand, faults;
one expects some wild land in a rich kingdom. His talk, like his
books, is full of pictures, his critical strokes masterly; allow for
his point of view, and his survey is admirable. He is a large subject;
I cannot speak more or wiselier of him now, nor needs it; his works
are true, to blame and praise him, the Siegfried of England, great and
powerful, if not quite invulnerable, and of a might rather to destroy
evil than legislate for good. At all events, he seems to be what
Destiny intended, and represents fully a certain side; so we make no
remonstrance as to his being and proceeding for himself, though we
sometimes must for us.

I had meant some remarks on some fine pictures, and the little I saw
of the theatre in England; but these topics must wait till my next,
where they may connect themselves naturally enough with what I have to
say of Paris.




LETTER X.

MORE OF LONDON.--THE MODEL PRISON AT PENTONVILLE.--BATHING
ESTABLISHMENT FOR THE POOR.--ALSO ONE FOR WASHING CLOTHES.--THE
CRÈCHES OF PARIS, FOR POOR PEOPLE'S CHILDREN.--OLD DRURY
IN LONDON.--SADLER'S WELLS.--ENGLISH AND FRENCH ACTING COMPARED.--
MADEMOISELLE RACHEL.--FRENCH TRAGEDY.--ROSE CHENY.--DUMAS.--GUIZOT.--
THE PRESENTATION AT COURT OF THE YOUNG DUCHESS.--BALL AT THE
TUILERIES.--AMERICAN AND FRENCH WOMEN.--LEVERRIER.--THE SORBONNE.--
ARAGO.--DISCUSSIONS ON SUICIDE AND THE CRUSADES.--RÉMUSAT.--THE
ACADEMY.--LA MENNAIS.--BÉRANGER.--REFLECTIONS.


Paris.

When I wrote last I could not finish with London, and there remain
yet two or three things I wish to speak of before passing to my
impressions of this wonder-full Paris.

I visited the model prison at Pentonville; but though in some
respects an improvement upon others I have seen,--though there was the
appearance of great neatness and order in the arrangements of life,
kindness and good judgment in the discipline of the prisoners,--yet
there was also an air of bleak forlornness about the place, and it
fell far short of what my mind demands of such abodes considered as
redemption schools. But as the subject of prisons is now engaging the
attention of many of the wisest and best, and the tendency is in what
seems to me the true direction, I need not trouble myself to make
prude and hasty suggestions; it is a subject to which persons who
would be of use should give the earnest devotion of calm and leisurely
thought.

The same day I went to see an establishment which gave me unmixed
pleasure; it is a bathing establishment put at a very low rate to
enable the poor to avoid one of thee worst miseries of their lot, and
which yet promises _to pay_. Joined with this is an establishment for
washing clothes, where the poor can go and hire, for almost nothing,
good tubs, water ready heated, the use of an apparatus for rinsing,
drying, and ironing, all so admirably arranged that a poor woman
can in three hours get through an amount of washing and ironing
that would, under ordinary circumstances, occupy three or four days.
Especially the drying closets I contemplated with great satisfaction,
and hope to see in our own country the same arrangements throughout
the cities, and even in the towns and villages. Hanging out the
clothes is a great exposure for women, even when they have a good
place for it; but when, as is so common in cities, they must dry them
in the house, how much they suffer! In New York, I know, those poor
women who take in washing endure a great deal of trouble and toil from
this cause; I have suffered myself from being obliged to send
back what had cost them so much toil, because it had been, perhaps
inevitably, soiled in the drying or ironing, or filled with the smell
of their miscellaneous cooking. In London it is much worse. An eminent
physician told me he knew of two children whom he considered to have
died because their mother, having but one room to live in, was obliged
to wash and dry clothes close to their bed when they were ill. The
poor people in London naturally do without washing all they can, and
beneath that perpetual fall of soot the result may be guessed. All but
the very poor in England put out their washing, and this custom ought
to be universal in civilized countries, as it can be done much better
and quicker by a few regular laundresses than by many families,
and "the washing day" is so malignant a foe to the peace and joy of
households that it ought to be effaced from the calendar. But as long
as we are so miserable as to have any very poor people in this world,
_they_ cannot put out their washing, because they cannot earn enough
money to pay for it, and, preliminary to something better, washing
establishments like this of London are desirable.

One arrangement that they have here in Paris will be a good one, even
when we cease to have any very poor people, and, please Heaven, also
to have any very rich. These are the _Crèches_,--houses where poor
women leave their children to be nursed during the day while they are
at work.

I must mention that the superintendent of the washing establishment
observed, with a legitimate triumph, that it had been built without
giving a single dinner or printing a single puff,--an extraordinary
thing, indeed, for England!

To turn to something a little gayer,--the embroidery on this tattered
coat of civilized life,--I went into only two theatres; one the Old
Drury, once the scene of great glories, now of execrable music and
more execrable acting. If anything can be invented more excruciating
than an English opera, such as was the fashion at the time I was in
London, I am sure no sin of mine deserves the punishment of bearing
it.

At the Sadler's Wells theatre I saw a play which I had much admired in
reading it, but found still better in actual representation; indeed,
it seems to me there can be no better acting play: this is "The
Patrician's Daughter," by J.W. Marston. The movement is rapid, yet
clear and free; the dialogue natural, dignified, and flowing; the
characters marked with few, but distinct strokes. Where the tone
of discourse rises with manly sentiment or passion, the audience
applauded with bursts of generous feeling that gave me great pleasure,
for this play is one that, in its scope and meaning, marks the new era
in England; it is full of an experience which is inevitable to a man
of talent there, and is harbinger of the day when the noblest commoner
shall be the only noble possible in England.

But how different all this acting to what I find in France! Here the
theatre is living; you see something really good, and good throughout.
Not one touch of that stage strut and vulgar bombast of tone, which
the English actor fancies indispensable to scenic illusion, is
tolerated here. For the first time in my life I saw something
represented in a style uniformly good, and should have found
sufficient proof, if I had needed any, that all men will prefer what
is good to what is bad, if only a fair opportunity for choice
be allowed. When I came here, my first thought was to go and see
Mademoiselle Rachel. I was sure that in her I should find a true
genius, absolutely the diamond, and so it proved. I went to see her
seven or eight times, always in parts that required great force of
soul and purity of taste even to conceive them, and only once had
reason to find fault with her. On one single occasion I saw her
violate the harmony of the character to produce effect at a particular
moment; but almost invariably I found her a true artist, worthy
Greece, and worthy at many moments to have her conceptions
immortalized in marble.

Her range even in high tragedy is limited. She can only express the
darker passions, and grief in its most desolate aspects. Nature has
not gifted her with those softer and more flowery attributes that lend
to pathos its utmost tenderness. She does not melt to tears, or calm
or elevate the heart by the presence of that tragic beauty that needs
all the assaults of Fate to make it show its immortal sweetness. Her
noblest aspect is when sometimes she expresses truth in some severe
shape, and rises, simple and austere, above the mixed elements around
her. On the dark side, she is very great in hatred and revenge. I
admired her more in Phedre than in any other part in which I saw her.
The guilty love inspired by the hatred of a goddess was expressed in
all its symptoms with a force and terrible naturalness that almost
suffocated the beholder. After she had taken the poison, the
exhaustion and paralysis of the system, the sad, cold, calm submission
to Fate, were still more grand.

I had heard so much about the power of her eye in one fixed look, and
the expression she could concentrate in a single word, that the utmost
results could only satisfy my expectations. It is, indeed, something
magnificent to see the dark cloud give out such sparks, each one fit
to deal a separate death; but it was not that I admired most in her:
it was the grandeur, truth, and depth of her conception of each part,
and the sustained purity with which she represented it.

For the rest, I shall write somewhere a detailed _critique_ upon the
parts in which I saw her. It is she who has made me acquainted with
the true way of viewing French tragedy. I had no idea of its powers
and symmetry till now, and have received from the revelation high
pleasure and a crowd of thoughts.

The French language from her lips is a divine dialect; it is stripped
of its national and personal peculiarities, and becomes what any
language must, moulded by such a genius, the pure music of the heart
and soul. I never could remember her tone in speaking any word; it
was too perfect; you had received the thought quite direct. Yet, had
I never heard her speak a word, my mind would, be filled by her
attitudes. Nothing more graceful can be conceived, nor could the
genius of sculpture surpass her management of the antique drapery.

She has no beauty except in the intellectual severity of her outline,
and bears marks of age which will grow stronger every year, and make
her ugly before long. Still it will be a _grandiose_, gypsy, or rather
Sibylline ugliness, well adapted to the expression of some tragic
parts. Only it seems as if she could not live long; she expends force
enough upon a part to furnish out a dozen common lives.

Though the French tragedy is well acted throughout, yet unhappily
there is no male actor now with a spark of fire, and these men seem
the meanest pigmies by the side of Rachel;--so on the scene, beside
the tragedy intended by the author, you see also that common tragedy,
a woman of genius who throws away her precious heart, lives and dies
for one unworthy of her. In parts this effect is productive of too
much pain. I saw Rachel one night with her brother and sister. The
sister imitated her so closely that you could not help seeing she
had a manner, and an imitable manner. Her brother was in the play her
lover,--a wretched automaton, and presenting the most unhappy family
likeness to herself. Since then I have hardly cared to go and see her.
We could wish with geniuses, as with the Phoenix, to see only one of
the family at a time.

In the pathetic or sentimental drama Paris boasts another young
actress, nearly as distinguished in that walk as Rachel in hers.
This is Rose Cheny, whom we saw in her ninety-eighth personation of
Clarissa Harlowe, and afterward in Genevieve and the _Protégé sans
le Savoir_,--a little piece written expressly for her by Scribe.
The "Miss Clarisse" of the French drama is a feeble and partial
reproduction of the heroine of Richardson; indeed, the original in all
its force of intellect and character would have been too much for
the charming Rose Cheny, but to the purity and lovely tenderness of
Clarissa she does full justice. In the other characters she was
the true French girl, full of grace and a mixture of _naïveté_ and
cunning, sentiment and frivolity, that is winning and _piquant_, if
not satisfying. Only grief seems very strange to those bright eyes; we
do not find that they can weep much and bear the light of day, and the
inhaling of charcoal seems near at hand to their brightest pleasures.

At the other little theatres you see excellent acting, and a sparkle
of wit unknown to the world out of France. The little pieces in which
all the leading topics of the day are reviewed are full of drolleries
that make you laugh at each instant. _Poudre-Colon_ is the only one of
these I have seen; in this, among other jokes, Dumas, in the character
of Monte-Christo and in a costume half Oriental, half juggler, is made
to pass the other theatres in review while seeking candidates for his
new one.

Dumas appeared in court yesterday, and defended his own cause against
the editors who sue him for evading some of his engagements. I was
very desirous to hear him speak, and went there in what I was assured
would be very good season; but a French audience, who knew the ground
better, had slipped in before me, and I returned, as has been too
often the case with me in Paris, having seen nothing but endless
staircases, dreary vestibules, and _gens d'armes_. The hospitality of
_le grande nation_ to the stranger is, in many respects, admirable.
Galleries, libraries, cabinets of coins, museums, are opened in the
most liberal manner to the stranger, warmed, lighted, ay, and guarded,
for him almost all days in the week; treasures of the past are at his
service; but when anything is happening in the present, the French run
quicker, glide in more adroitly, and get possession of the ground. I
find it not the most easy matter to get to places even where there is
nothing going on, there is so much tiresome fuss of getting _billets_
from one and another to be gone through; but when something is
happening it is still worse. I missed hearing M. Guizot in his speech
on the Montpensier marriage, which would have given a very good idea
of his manner, and which, like this defence of M. Dumas, was a skilful
piece of work as regards evasion of the truth. The good feeling toward
England which had been fostered with so much care and toil seems to
have been entirely dissipated by the mutual recriminations about this
marriage, and the old dislike flames up more fiercely for having been
hid awhile beneath the ashes. I saw the little Duchess, the innocent
or ignorant cause of all this disturbance, when presented at court.
She went round the circle on the arm of the Queen. Though only
fourteen, she looks twenty, but has something fresh, engaging, and
girlish about her. I fancy it will soon be rubbed out under the drill
of the royal household.

I attended not only at the presentation, but at the ball given at
the Tuileries directly after. These are fine shows, as the suite
of apartments is very handsome, brilliantly lighted, and the French
ladies surpass all others in the art of dress; indeed, it gave me
much, pleasure to see them. Certainly there are many ugly ones, but
they are so well dressed, and have such an air of graceful vivacity,
that the general effect was that of a flower-garden. As often happens,
several American women were among the most distinguished for positive
beauty; one from Philadelphia, who is by many persons considered
the prettiest ornament of the dress circle at the Italian Opera, was
especially marked by the attention of the king. However, these ladies,
even if here a long time, do not attain the air and manner of French
women; the magnetic atmosphere that envelops them is less brilliant
and exhilarating in its attractions.

It was pleasant to my eye, which has always been so wearied in
our country by the sombre masses of men that overcloud our public
assemblies, to see them now in so great variety of costume, color, and
decoration.

Among the crowd wandered Leverrier, in the costume of Academician,
looking as if he had lost, not found, his planet. French _savants_ are
more generally men of the world, and even men of fashion, than those
of other climates; but, in his case, he seemed not to find it easy to
exchange the music of the spheres for the music of fiddles.

Speaking of Leverrier leads to another of my disappointments. I went
to the Sorbonne to hear him lecture, nothing dreaming that the old
pedantic and theological character of those halls was strictly kept up
in these days of light. An old guardian of the inner temple, seeing
me approach, had his speech all ready, and, manning the entrance, said
with a disdainful air, before we had time to utter a word, "Monsieur
may enter if he pleases, but Madame must remain here" (i.e. in
the court-yard). After some exclamations of surprise, I found an
alternative in the Hotel de Clugny, where I passed an hour very
delightfully while waiting for my companion. The rich remains of other
centuries are there so arranged that they can be seen to the best
advantage; many of the works in ivory, china, and carved wood are
truly splendid or exquisite. I saw a dagger with jewelled hilt which
talked whole poems to my mind. In the various "Adorations of the
Magi," I found constantly one of the wise men black, and with the
marked African lineaments. Before I had half finished, my companion
came and wished me at least to visit the lecture-rooms of the
Sorbonne, now that the talk, too good for female ears, was over.
But the guardian again interfered to deny me entrance. "You can go,
Madame," said he, "to the College of France; you can go to this and
t'other place, but you cannot enter here." "What, sir," said I, "is
it your institution alone that remains in a state of barbarism?" "Que
voulez vous, Madame?" he replied, and, as he spoke, his little
dog began to bark at me,--"Que voulez vous, Madame? c'est la
regle,"--"What would you have, Madam? IT IS THE RULE,"--a reply which
makes me laugh even now, as I think how the satirical wits of former
days might have used it against the bulwarks of learned dulness.

I was more fortunate in hearing Arago, and he justified all my
expectations. Clear, rapid, full and equal, his discourse is worthy
its celebrity, and I felt repaid for the four hours one is obliged to
spend in going, in waiting, and in hearing; for the lecture begins at
half past one, and you must be there before twelve to get a seat, so
constant and animated is his popularity.

I have attended, with some interest, two discussions at the
Athenée,--one on Suicide, the other on the Crusades. They are amateur
affairs, where, as always at such times, one hears much, nonsense and
vanity, much making of phrases and sentimental grimace; but there was
one excellent speaker, adroit and rapid as only a Frenchman could be.
With admirable readiness, skill, and rhetorical polish, he examined
the arguments of all the others, and built upon their failures
a triumph for himself. His management of the language, too,
was masterly, and French is the best of languages for such a
purpose,--clear, flexible, full of sparkling points and quick,
picturesque turns, with a subtile blandness that makes the dart tickle
while it wounds. Truly he pleased the fancy, filled the ear, and
carried us pleasantly along over the smooth, swift waters; but then
came from the crowd a gentleman, not one of the appointed orators
of the evening, but who had really something in his heart to say,--a
grave, dark man, with Spanish eyes, and the simple dignity of honor
and earnestness in all his gesture and manner. He said in few and
unadorned words his say, and the sense of a real presence filled the
room, and those charms of rhetoric faded, as vanish the beauties of
soap-bubbles from the eyes of astonished childhood.

I was present on one good occasion at the Academy the day that M.
Rémusat was received there in the place of Royer-Collard. I looked
down from one of the tribunes upon the flower of the celebrities of
France, that is to say, of the celebrities which are authentic, _comme
il faut_. Among them were many marked faces, many fine heads; but
in reading the works of poets we always fancy them about the age of
Apollo himself, and I found with pain some of my favorites quite old,
and very unlike the company on Parnassus as represented by Raphael.
Some, however, were venerable, even noble, to behold. Indeed, the
literary dynasty of France is growing old, and here, as in England
and Germany, there seems likely to occur a serious gap before the
inauguration of another, if indeed another is coming.

However, it was an imposing sight; there are men of real distinction
now in the Academy, and Molière would have a fair chance if he
were proposed to-day. Among the audience I saw many ladies of fine
expression and manner, as well as one or two _precieuses ridicules_, a
race which is never quite extinct.

M. Rémusat, as is the custom on these occasions, painted the portrait
of his predecessor; the discourse was brilliant and discriminating
in the details, but the orator seemed to me to neglect drawing some
obvious inferences which would have given a better point of view for
his subject.

A _séance_ to me much more impressive find interesting was one which
borrowed nothing from dress, decorations, or the presence of titled
pomp. I went to call on La Mennais, to whom I had a letter, I found
him in a little study; his secretary was writing in a larger room
through which I passed. With him was a somewhat citizen-looking,
but vivacious, elderly man, whom I was at first sorry to see,
having wished for half an hour's undisturbed visit to the apostle of
Democracy. But how quickly were those feelings displaced by joy when
he named to me the great national lyrist of France, the unequalled
Béranger. I had not expected to see him at all, for he is not one to
be seen in any show place; he lives in the hearts of the people, and
needs no homage from their eyes. I was very happy in that little study
in presence of these two men, whose influence has been so great, so
real. To me Béranger has been much; his wit, his pathos, his exquisite
lyric grace, have made the most delicate strings vibrate, and I can
feel, as well as see, what he is in his nation and his place. I have
not personally received anything from La Mennais, as, born under other
circumstances, mental facts which he, once the pupil of Rome, has
learned by passing through severe ordeals, are at the basis of all
my thoughts. But I see well what he has been and is to Europe, and of
what great force of nature and spirit. He seems suffering and pale,
but in his eyes is the light of the future.

These are men who need no flourish of trumpets to announce their
coming,--no band of martial music upon their steps,--no obsequious
nobles in their train. They are the true kings, the theocratic kings,
the judges in Israel. The hearts of men make music at their approach;
the mind of the age is the historian of their passage; and only men of
destiny like themselves shall be permitted to write their eulogies, or
fill their vacant seats.

Wherever there is a genius like his own, a germ of the finest fruit
still hidden beneath the soil, the "_Chante pauvre petit_" of Béranger
shall strike, like a sunbeam, and give it force to emerge, and
wherever there is the true Crusade,--for the spirit, not the tomb of
Christ,--shall be felt an echo of the "_Que tes armes soient benis
jeune soldat_" of La Mennais.




LETTER XI.

FRANCE AND HER ARTISTIC EXCELLENCE.--THE PICTURES OF HORACE
VERNET.--DE LA ROCHE.--LEOPOLD ROBERT.--CONTRAST BETWEEN THE FRENCH
AND ENGLISH SCHOOLS OF ART.--THE GENERAL APPRECIATION OF TURNER'S
PICTURES.--BOTANICAL MODELS IN WAX.--MUSIC.--THE OPERA.--DUPREZ.--
LABLACHE.--RONCONI.--GRISI.--PERSIANA.--"SEMIRAMIDE" AS PERFORMED BY
THE NEW YORK AND PARIS OPERAS.--MARIO.--COLETTI.--GARDINI.--
"DON GIOVANNI."--THE WRITER'S TRIAL OF THE "LETHEON."--ITS EFFECTS.


It needs not to speak in this cursory manner of the treasures of Art,
pictures, sculptures, engravings, and the other riches which France
lays open so freely to the stranger in her Musées. Any examination
worth writing of such objects, or account of the thoughts they
inspire, demands a place by itself, and an ample field in which to
expatiate. The American, first introduced to some good pictures by the
truly great geniuses of the religious period in Art, must, if capable
at all of mental approximation to the life therein embodied, be too
deeply affected, too full of thoughts, to be in haste to say anything,
and for me, I bide my time.

No such great crisis, however, is to be apprehended from acquaintance
with the productions of the modern French school. They are, indeed,
full of talent and of vigor, but also melodramatic and exaggerated to
a degree that seems to give the nightmare passage through the fresh
and cheerful day. They sound no depth of soul, and are marked with the
signet of a degenerate age.

Thus speak I generally. To the pictures of Horace Vernet one cannot
but turn a gracious eye, they are so faithful a transcript of the life
which circulates around us in the present state of things, and we
are willing to see his nobles and generals mounted on such excellent
horses. De la Roche gives me pleasure; there is in his pictures a
simple and natural poesy; he is a man who has in his own heart a well
of good water, whence he draws for himself when the streams are mixed
with strange soil and bear offensive marks of the bloody battles of
life.

The pictures of Leopold Robert I find charming. They are full of vigor
and nobleness; they express a nature where all is rich, young, and on
a large scale. Those that I have seen are so happily expressive of the
thoughts and perceptions of early manhood, I can hardly regret he
did not live to enter on another stage of life, the impression now
received is so single.

The effort of the French school in Art, as also its main tendency in
literature, seems to be to turn the mind inside out, in the coarsest
acceptation of such a phrase. Art can only be truly Art by presenting
an adequate outward symbol of some fact in the interior life. But then
it _is_ a symbol that Art seeks to present, and not the fact itself.
These French painters seem to have no idea of this; they have not
studied the method of Nature. With the true artist, as with Nature
herself, the more full the representation, the more profound and
enchanting is the sense of mystery. We look and look, as on a flower
of which we cannot scrutinize the secret life, yet b; looking seem
constantly drawn nearer to the soul that causes and governs that life.
But in the French pictures suffering is represented by streams of
blood,--wickedness by the most ghastly contortions.

I saw a movement in the opposite direction in England; it was in
Turner's pictures of the later period. It is well known that Turner,
so long an idol of the English public, paints now in a manner which
has caused the liveliest dissensions in the world of connoisseurs.
There are two parties, one of which maintains, not only that the
pictures of the late period are not good, but that they are not
pictures at all,--that it is impossible to make out the design, or
find what Turner is aiming at by those strange blotches of color.
The other party declare that these pictures are not only good, but
divine,--that whoever looks upon them in the true manner will not fail
to find there somewhat ineffably and transcendently admirable,--the
soul of Art. Books have been written to defend this side of the
question.

I had become much interested about this matter, as the fervor of
feeling on either side seemed to denote that there was something real
and vital going on, and, while time would not permit my visiting other
private collections in London and its neighborhood, I insisted on
taking it for one of Turner's pictures. It was at the house of one of
his devoutest disciples, who has arranged everything in the rooms to
harmonize with them. There were a great many of the earlier period;
these seemed to me charming, but superficial, views of Nature. They
were of a character that he who runs may read,--obvious, simple,
graceful. The later pictures were quite a different matter;
mysterious-looking things,--hieroglyphics of picture, rather than
picture itself. Sometimes you saw a range of red dots, which, after
long looking, dawned on you as the roofs of houses,--shining streaks
turned out to be most alluring rivulets, if traced with patience and
a devout eye. Above all, they charmed the eye and the thought. Still,
these pictures, it seems to me, cannot be considered fine works of
Art, more than the mystical writing common to a certain class of minds
in the United States can be called good writing. A great work of Art
demands a great thought, or a thought of beauty adequately expressed.
Neither in Art nor literature more than in life can an ordinary
thought be made interesting because well dressed. But in a transition
state, whether of Art or literature, deeper thoughts are imperfectly
expressed, because they cannot yet be held and treated masterly.
This seems to be the case with Turner. He has got beyond the English
gentleman's conventional view of Nature, which implies a _little_
sentiment and a _very_ cultivated taste; he has become awake to what
is elemental, normal, in Nature,--such, for instance, as one sees in
the working of water on the sea-shore. He tries to represent these
primitive forms. In the drawings of Piranesi, in the pictures of
Rembrandt, one sees this grand language exhibited more truly. It is
not picture, but certain primitive and leading effects of light and
shadow, or lines and contours, that captivate the attention. I saw a
picture of Rembrandt's at the Louvre, whose subject I do not know
and have never cared to inquire. I cannot analyze the group, but I
understand and feel the thought it embodies. At something similar
Turner seems aiming; an aim so opposed to the practical and outward
tendency of the English mind, that, as a matter of course, the
majority find themselves mystified, and thereby angered, but for the
same reason answering to so deep and seldom satisfied a want in the
minds of the minority, as to secure the most ardent sympathy where any
at all can be elicited.

Upon this topic of the primitive forms and operations of nature, I am
reminded of something interesting I was looking at yesterday. These
are botanical models in wax, with microscopic dissections, by an
artist from Florence, a pupil of Calamajo, the Director of the
Wax-Model Museum there. I saw collections of ten different genera,
embracing from fifty to sixty species, of Fungi, Mosses, and Lichens,
detected and displayed in all the beautiful secrets of their lives;
many of them, as observed by Dr. Leveillé of Paris. The artist told me
that a fisherman, introduced to such acquaintance with the marvels
of love and beauty which we trample under foot or burn in the chimney
each careless day, exclaimed, "'Tis the good God who protects us
on the sea that made all these"; and a similar recognition, a
correspondent feeling, will not be easily evaded by the most callous
observer. This artist has supplied many of these models to the
magnificent collection of the _Jardin des Plantes_, to Edinburgh, and
to Bologna, and would furnish them, to our museums at a much cheaper
rate than they can elsewhere be obtained. I wish the Universities of
Cambridge, New York, and other leading institutions of our country,
might avail themselves of the opportunity.

In Paris I have not been very fortunate in hearing the best music.
At the different Opera-Houses, the orchestra is always good, but the
vocalization, though far superior to what I have heard at home,
falls so far short of my ideas and hopes that--except to the Italian
Opera--I have not been often. The _Opera Comique_ I visited only
once; it was tolerably well, and no more, and, for myself, I find the
tolerable intolerable in music. At the Grand Opera I heard _Robert le
Diable_ and _Guillaume Tell_ almost with ennui; the decorations and
dresses are magnificent, the instrumental performance good, but not
one fine singer to fill these fine parts. Duprez has had a great
reputation, and probably has sung better In former days; still he
has a vulgar mind, and can never have had any merit as an artist. At
present I find him unbearable. He forces his voice, sings in the most
coarse, showy style, and aims at producing effects without regard to
the harmony of his part; fat and vulgar, he still takes the part of
the lover and young chevalier; to my sorrow I saw him in Ravenswood,
and he has well-nigh disenchanted for me the Bride of Lammermoor.

The Italian Opera is here as well sustained, I believe, as anywhere in
the world at present; all about it is certainly quite good, but alas!
nothing excellent, nothing admirable. Yet no! I must not say nothing:
Lablache is excellent,--voice, intonation, manner of song, action.
Ronconi I found good in the Doctor of "_L'Elisire d'Amore_". For the
higher parts Grisi, though now much too large for some of her parts,
and without a particle of poetic grace or dignity, has certainly
beauty of feature, and from nature a fine voice. But I find her
conception of her parts equally coarse and shallow. Her love is the
love of a peasant; her anger, though having the Italian picturesque
richness and vigor, is the anger of an Italian fishwife, entirely
unlike anything in the same rank elsewhere; her despair is that of a
person with the toothache, or who has drawn a blank in the lottery.
The first time I saw her was in _Norma_; then the beauty of her
outline, which becomes really enchanting as she recalls the first
emotions of love, the force and gush of her song, filled my ear, and
charmed the senses, so that I was pleased, and did not perceive her
great defects; but with each time of seeing her I liked her less, and
now I do not like her at all.

Persiani is more generally a favorite here; she is indeed skilful
both as an actress and in the management of her voice, but I find
her expression meretricious, her singing mechanical. Neither of these
women is equal to Pico in natural force, if she had but the same
advantages of culture and environment. In hearing _Semiramide_ here,
I first learned to appreciate the degree of talent with which it
was cast in New York. Grisi indeed is a far better Semiramis than
Borghese, but the best parts of the opera lost all their charm from
the inferiority of Brambilla, who took Pico's place. Mario has a
charming voice, grace and tenderness; he fills very well the part of
the young, chivalric lover, but he has no range of power. Coletti is
a very good singer; he has not from Nature a fine voice or personal
beauty; but he has talent, good taste, and often surpasses the
expectation he has inspired. Gardini, the new singer, I have only
heard once, and that was in a lovesick-shepherd part; he showed
delicacy, tenderness, and tact. In fine, among all these male singers
there is much to please, but little to charm; and for the women, they
never fail absolutely to fill their parts, but no ray of the Muse has
fallen on them.

_Don Giovanni_ conferred on me a benefit, of which certainly its great
author never dreamed. I shall relate it,--first begging pardon of
Mozart, and assuring him I had no thought of turning his music to
the account of a "vulgar utility." It was quite by accident. After
suffering several days very much with the toothache, I resolved to get
rid of the cause of sorrow by the aid of ether; not sorry, either, to
try its efficacy, after all the marvellous stories I had heard.
The first time I inhaled it, I did not for several seconds feel the
effect, and was just thinking, "Alas! this has not power to soothe
nerves so irritable as mine," when suddenly I wandered off, I
don't know where, but it was a sensation like wandering in long
garden-walks, and through many alleys of trees,--many impressions, but
all pleasant and serene. The moment the tube was removed, I started
into consciousness, and put my hand to my cheek; but, sad! the
throbbing tooth was still there. The dentist said I had not seemed to
him insensible. He then gave me the ether in a stronger dose, and this
time I quitted the body instantly, and cannot remember any detail of
what I saw and did; but the impression was as in the Oriental tale,
where the man has his head in the water an instant only, but in his
vision a thousand years seem to have passed. I experienced that same
sense of an immense length of time and succession of impressions;
even, now, the moment my mind was in that state seems to me a far
longer period in time than my life on earth does as I look back upon
it. Suddenly I seemed to see the old dentist, as I had for the
moment before I inhaled the gas, amid his plants, in his nightcap
and dressing-gown; in the twilight the figure had somewhat of a
Faust-like, magical air, and he seemed to say, "_C'est inutile._"
Again I started up, fancying that once more he had not dared to
extract the tooth, but it was gone. What is worth, noticing is the
mental translation I made of his words, which, my ear must have
caught, for my companion tells me he said, "_C'est le moment_," a
phrase of just as many syllables, but conveying just the opposite
sense.

Ah! I how I wished then, that you had settled, there in the United
States, who really brought this means of evading a portion of the
misery of life into use. But as it was, I remained at a loss whom to
apostrophize with my benedictions, whether Dr. Jackson, Morton, or
Wells, and somebody thus was robbed of his clue;--neither does Europe
know to whom to address her medals.

However, there is no evading the heavier part of these miseries. You
avoid the moment of suffering, and escape the effort of screwing up
your courage for one of these moments, but not the jar to the whole
system. I found the effect of having taken the ether bad for me. I
seemed to taste it all the time, and neuralgic pain continued; this
lasted three days. For the evening of the third, I had taken a ticket
to _Don Giovanni_, and could not bear to give up this opera, which I
had always been longing to hear; still I was in much suffering, and,
as it was the sixth day I had been so, much weakened. However, I went,
expecting to be obliged to come out; but the music soothed the
nerves at once. I hardly suffered at all during the opera; however, I
supposed the pain would return as soon as I came out; but no! it left
me from that time. Ah! if physicians only understood the influence
of the mind over the body, instead of treating, as they so often do,
their patients like machines, and according to precedent! But I must
pause here for to-day.




LETTER XII.

ADIEU TO PARIS.--ITS SCENES.--THE PROCESSION OF THE FAT
OX.--DESTITUTION OF THE POORER CLASSES.--NEED OF A REFORM.--THE
DOCTRINES OF FOURIER MAKING PROGRESS.--REVIEW OF FOURIER'S LIFE AND
CHARACTER.--THE PARISIAN PRESS ON THE SPANISH MARRIAGE.--GUIZOT'S
POLICY.--NAPOLEON.--THE MANUSCRIPTS OF ROUSSEAU IN THE CHAMBER
OF DEPUTIES.--HIS CHARACTER.--SPEECH OF M. BERRYER IN THE
CHAMBER.--AMERICAN AND FRENCH ORATORY.--THE AFFAIR OF CRACOW.--DULL
SPEAKERS IN THE CHAMBER.--FRENCH VIVACITY.--AMUSING SCENE.--GUIZOT
SPEAKING.--INTERNATIONAL EXCHANGE OF BOOKS.--THE EVENING SCHOOL OF THE
_FRÈRES CHRETIENS_.--THE GREAT GOOD ACCOMPLISHED BY THEM.--SUGGESTIONS
FOR THE LIKE IN AMERICA.--THE INSTITUTION OF THE DEACONESSES.--THE
NEW YORK "HOME."--SCHOOL FOR IDIOTS NEAR PARIS.--THE RECLAMATION OF
IDIOTS.


I bade adieu to Paris on the 25th of February, just as we had had
one fine day. It was the only one of really delightful weather, from
morning till night, that I had to enjoy all the while I was at Paris,
from the 13th of November till the 25th of February. Let no one abuse
our climate; even in winter it is delightful, compared to the Parisian
winter of mud and mist.

This one day brought out the Parisian world in its gayest colors. I
never saw anything more animated or prettier, of the kind, than
the promenade that day in the _Champs Elysées_. Such crowds of gay
equipages, with _cavaliers_ and their _amazons_ flying through their
midst on handsome and swift horses! On the promenade, what groups of
passably pretty ladies, with excessively pretty bonnets, announcing in
their hues of light green, peach-blossom, and primrose the approach
of spring, and charming children, for French children are charming! I
cannot speak with equal approbation of the files of men sauntering
arm in arm. One sees few fine-looking men in Paris: the air,
half-military, half-dandy, of self-esteem and _savoir-faire_, is not
particularly interesting; nor are the glassy stare and fumes of bad
cigars exactly what one most desires to encounter, when the heart
is opened by the breath of spring zephyrs and the hope of buds and
blossoms.

But a French crowd is always gay, full of quick turns and drolleries;
most amusing when most petulant, it represents what is so agreeable
in the character of the nation. We have now seen it on two good
occasions, the festivities of the new year, and just after we came was
the procession of the _Fat Ox_, described, if I mistake not, by Eugene
Sue. An immense crowd thronged the streets this year to see it,
but few figures and little invention followed the emblem of plenty;
indeed, few among the people could have had the heart for such a sham,
knowing how the poorer classes have suffered from hunger this winter.
All signs of this are kept out of sight in Paris. A pamphlet, called
"The Voice of Famine," stating facts, though in the tone of vulgar
and exaggerated declamation, unhappily common to productions on the
radical side, was suppressed almost as soon as published; but the fact
cannot be suppressed, that the people in the provinces have suffered
most terribly amid the vaunted prosperity of France.

While Louis Philippe lives, the gases, compressed by his strong grasp,
may not burst up to light; but the need of some radical measures of
reform is not less strongly felt in France than elsewhere, and the
time will come before long when such will be imperatively demanded.
The doctrines of Fourier are making considerable progress, and
wherever they spread, the necessity of some practical application of
the precepts of Christ, in lieu of the mummeries of a worn-out ritual,
cannot fail to be felt. The more I see of the terrible ills which
infest the body politic of Europe, the more indignation I feel at
the selfishness or stupidity of those in my own country who oppose
an examination of these subjects,--such as is animated by the hope of
prevention. The mind of Fourier was, in many respects, uncongenial to
mine. Educated in an age of gross materialism, he was tainted by its
faults. In attempts to reorganize society, he commits the error of
making soul the result of health of body, instead of body the clothing
of soul; but his heart was that of a genuine lover of his kind, of a
philanthropist in the sense of Jesus,--his views were large and noble.
His life was one of devout study on these subjects, and I should
pity the person who, after the briefest sojourn in Manchester and
Lyons,--the most superficial acquaintance with the population of
London and Paris,--could seek to hinder a study of his thoughts, or
be wanting in reverence for his purposes. But always, always, the
unthinking mob has found stones on the highway to throw at the
prophets.

Amid so many great causes for thought and anxiety, how childish has
seemed the endless gossip of the Parisian press on the subject of
the Spanish marriage,--how melancholy the flimsy falsehoods of M.
Guizot,--more melancholy the avowal so naïvely made, amid those
falsehoods, that to his mind expediency is the best policy! This is
the policy, said he, that has made France so prosperous. Indeed, the
success is correspondent with the means, though in quite another sense
than that he meant.

I went to the _Hotel des Invalides_, supposing I should be admitted
to the spot where repose the ashes of Napoleon, for though I love not
pilgrimages to sepulchres, and prefer paying my homage to the living
spirit rather than to the dust it once animated, I should have
liked to muse a moment beside his urn; but as yet the visitor is
not admitted there. In the library, however, one sees the picture of
Napoleon crossing the Alps, opposite to that of the present King of
the French. Just as they are, these should serve as frontispieces to
two chapters of history. In the first, the seed was sown in a field of
blood indeed, yet was it the seed of all that is vital in the present
period. By Napoleon the career was really laid open to talent, and all
that is really great in France now consists in the possibility that
talent finds of struggling to the light.

Paris is a great intellectual centre, and there is a Chamber of
Deputies to represent the people, very different from the poor,
limited Assembly politically so called. Their tribune is that of
literature, and one needs not to beg tickets to mingle with the
audience. To the actually so-called Chamber of Deputies I was indebted
for two pleasures. First and greatest, a sight of the manuscripts
of Rousseau treasured in their Library. I saw them and touched
them,--those manuscripts just as he has celebrated them, written on
the fine white paper, tied with ribbon. Yellow and faded age has
made them, yet at their touch I seemed to feel the fire of youth,
immortally glowing, more and more expansive, with which his soul has
pervaded this century. He was the precursor of all we most prize.
True, his blood was mixed with madness, and the course of his actual
life made some detours through villanous places, but his spirit was
intimate with the fundamental truths of human nature, and fraught with
prophecy. There is none who has given birth to more life for this age;
his gifts are yet untold; they are too present with us; but he who
thinks really must often think with Rousseau, and learn of him even
more and more: such is the method of genius, to ripen fruit for the
crowd of those rays of whose heat they complain.

The second pleasure was in the speech of M. Berryer, when the Chamber
was discussing the Address to the King. Those of Thiers and Guizot
had been, so far, more interesting, as they stood for more that was
important; but M. Berryer is the most eloquent speaker of the House.
His oratory is, indeed, very good; not logical, but plausible, full
and rapid, with occasional bursts of flame and showers of sparks,
though indeed no stone of size and weight enough to crush any man was
thrown out of the crater. Although the oratory of our country is
very inferior to what might be expected from the perfect freedom
and powerful motive for development of genius in this province, it
presents several examples of persons superior in both force and scope,
and equal in polish, to M. Berryer.

Nothing can be more pitiful than the manner in which the infamous
affair of Cracow is treated on all hands. There is not even the
affectation of noble feeling about it. La Mennais and his coadjutors
published in _La Reforme_ an honorable and manly protest, which the
public rushed to devour the moment it was out of the press;--and no
wonder! for it was the only crumb of comfort offered to those who have
the nobleness to hope that the confederation of nations may yet be
conducted on the basis of divine justice and human right. Most men who
touched the subject apparently weary of feigning, appeared in their
genuine colors of the calmest, most complacent selfishness. As
described by Körner in the prayer of such a man:--

  "O God, save me,
  My wife, child, and hearth,
  Then my harvest also;
  Then will I bless thee,
  Though thy lightning scorch to blackness
  All the rest of human kind."

A sentiment which finds its paraphrase in the following vulgate of our
land:--

  "O Lord, save me,
  My wife, child, and brother Sammy,
  Us four, _and no more_."

The latter clause, indeed, is not quite frankly avowed as yet by
politicians.

It is very amusing to be in the Chamber of Deputies when some dull
person is speaking. The French have a truly Greek vivacity; they
cannot endure to be bored. Though their conduct is not very dignified,
I should like a corps of the same kind of sharp-shooters in our
legislative assemblies when honorable gentlemen are addressing their
constituents and not the assembly, repeating in lengthy, windy, clumsy
paragraphs what has been the truism of the newspaper press for
months previous, wickedly wasting the time that was given us to learn
something for ourselves, and help our fellow-creatures. In the French
Chamber, if a man who has nothing to say ascends the tribune, the
audience-room is filled with the noise as of myriad beehives; the
President rises on his feet, and passes the whole time of the speech
in taking the most violent exercise, stretching himself to look
imposing, ringing his bell every two minutes, shouting to the
representatives of the nation to be decorous and attentive. In vain:
the more he rings, the more they won't be still. I saw an orator in
this situation, fighting against the desires of the audience, as only
a Frenchman could,--certainly a man of any other nation would have
died of embarrassment rather,--screaming out his sentences, stretching
out both arms with an air of injured dignity, panting, growing red in
the face; but the hubbub of voices never stopped an instant. At last
he pretended to be exhausted, stopped, and took out his snuff-box.
Instantly there was a calm. He seized the occasion, and shouted out a
sentence; but it was the only one he was able to make heard. They
were not to be trapped so a second time. When any one is speaking that
commands interest, as Berryer did, the effect of this vivacity is very
pleasing, the murmur of feeling that rushes over the assembly is so
quick and electric,--light, too, as the ripple on the lake. I heard
Guizot speak one day for a short time. His manner is very deficient
in dignity,--has not even the dignity of station; you see the man of
cultivated intellect, but without inward strength; nor is even his
panoply of proof.

I saw in the Library of the Deputies some books intended to be sent
to our country through M. Vattemare. The French have shown great
readiness and generosity with regard to his project, and I earnestly
hope that our country, if it accept these tokens of good-will, will
show both energy and judgment in making a return. I do not speak from
myself alone, but from others whose opinion is entitled to the highest
respect, when I say it is not by sending a great quantity of documents
of merely local interest, that would be esteemed lumber in our garrets
at home, that you pay respect to a nation able to look beyond, the
binding of a book. If anything is to be sent, let persons of ability
be deputed to make a selection honorable to us and of value to
the French. They would like documents from our Congress,--what is
important as to commerce and manufactures; they would also like much
what can throw light on the history and character of our aborigines.
This project of international exchange could not be carried on to any
permanent advantage without accredited agents on either side, but in
its present shape it wears an aspect of good feeling that is valuable,
and may give a very desirable impulse to thought and knowledge.
M. Vattemare has given himself to the plan with indefatigable
perseverance, and I hope our country will not be backward to accord
him that furtherance he has known how to conquer from his countrymen.

To his complaisance I was indebted for opportunity of a leisurely
survey of the _Imprimeri Royale_, which gave me several suggestions
I shall impart at a more favorable time, and of the operations of the
Mint also. It was at his request that the Librarian of the Chamber
showed me the manuscripts of Rousseau, which are not always seen by
the traveller. He also introduced me to one of the evening schools of
the _Frères Chretiens_, where I saw, with pleasure, how much can be
done for the working classes only by evening lessons. In reading and
writing, adults had made surprising progress, and still more so in
drawing. I saw with the highest pleasure, excellent copies of good
models, made by hard-handed porters and errand-boys with their brass
badges on their breasts. The benefits of such an accomplishment are,
in my eyes, of the highest value, giving them, by insensible degrees,
their part in the glories of art and science, and in the tranquil
refinements of home. Visions rose in my mind of all that might be done
in our country by associations of men and women who have received the
benefits of literary culture, giving such evening lessons throughout
our cities and villages. Should I ever return, I shall propose to
some of the like-minded an association for such a purpose, and try the
experiment of one of these schools of Christian brothers, with the vow
of disinterestedness, but without the robe and the subdued priestly
manner, which even in these men, some of whom seemed to me truly good,
I could not away with.

I visited also a Protestant institution, called that of the
Deaconesses, which pleased me in some respects. Beside the regular
_Crèche_, they take the sick children of the poor, and nurse them till
they are well. They have also a refuge like that of the Home which,
the ladies of New York have provided, through which members of
the most unjustly treated class of society may return to peace and
usefulness. There are institutions of the kind in Paris, but too
formal,--and the treatment shows ignorance of human nature. I see
nothing that shows so enlightened a spirit as the Home, a little germ
of good which I hope flourishes and finds active aid in the community.
I have collected many facts with regard to this suffering class of
women, both in England and in France. I have seen them under the thin
veil of gayety, and in the horrible tatters of utter degradation. I
have seen the feelings of men with regard to their condition, and the
general heartlessness in women of more favored and protected lives,
which I can only ascribe to utter ignorance of the facts. If a
proclamation of some of these can remove it, I hope to make such a one
in the hour of riper judgment, and after a more extensive survey.

Sad as are many features of the time, we have at least the
satisfaction of feeling that if something true can be revealed, if
something wise and kind shall be perseveringly tried, it stands a
chance of nearer success than ever before; for much light has been let
in at the windows of the world, and many dark nooks have been touched
by a consoling ray. The influence of such a ray I felt in visiting
the School for Idiots, near Paris,--idiots, so called long time by
the impatience of the crowd; yet there are really none such, but only
beings so below the average standard, so partially organized, that it
is difficult for them to learn or to sustain themselves. I wept the
whole time I was in this place a shower of sweet and bitter tears; of
joy at what had been done, of grief for all that I and others possess
and cannot impart to these little ones. But patience, and the Father
of All will give them all yet. A good angel these of Paris have in
their master. I have seen no man that seemed to me more worthy of
envy, if one could envy happiness so pure and tender. He is a man
of seven or eight and twenty, who formerly came there only to give
lessons in writing, but became so interested in his charge that he
came at last to live among them and to serve them. They sing the hymns
he writes for them, and as I saw his fine countenance looking in
love on those distorted and opaque vases of humanity, where he had
succeeded in waking up a faint flame, I thought his heart could never
fail to be well warmed and buoyant. They sang well, both in parts and
in chorus, went through gymnastic exercises with order and pleasure,
then stood in a circle and kept time, while several danced extremely
well. One little fellow, with whom the difficulty seemed to be that
an excess of nervous sensibility paralyzed instead of exciting the
powers, recited poems with a touching, childish grace and perfect
memory. They write well, draw well, make shoes, and do carpenter's
work. One of the cases most interesting to the metaphysician is that
of a boy, brought there about two years and a half ago, at the age of
thirteen, in a state of brutality, and of ferocious brutality. I read
the physician's report of him at that period. He discovered no ray of
decency or reason; entirely beneath the animals in the exercise of the
senses, he discovered a restless fury beyond that of beasts of prey,
breaking and throwing down whatever came in his way; was a voracious
glutton, and every way grossly sensual. Many trials and vast patience
were necessary before an inlet could be obtained to his mind; then it
was through the means of mathematics. He delights in the figures, can
draw and name them all, detects them by the touch when blindfolded.
Each, mental effort of the kind he still follows up with an imbecile
chuckle, as indeed his face and whole manner are still that of an
idiot; but he has been raised from his sensual state, and can now
discriminate and name colors and perfumes which before were all alike
to him. He is partially redeemed; earlier, no doubt, far more might
have been done for him, but the degree of success is an earnest which
must encourage to perseverance in the most seemingly hopeless cases. I
thought sorrowfully of the persons of this class whom I have known
in our country, who might have been so raised and solaced by similar
care. I hope ample provision may erelong be made for these Pariahs of
the human race; every case of the kind brings its blessings with it,
and observation on these subjects would be as rich in suggestion for
the thought, as such acts of love are balmy for the heart.




LETTER XIII.

MUSIC IN PARIS.--CHOPIN AND THE CHEVALIER NEUKOMM.--ADIEU TO PARIS.--A
MIDNIGHT DRIVE IN A DILIGENCE.--LYONS AND ITS WEAVERS.--THEIR MANNER
OF LIFE.--A YOUNG WIFE.--THE WEAVERS' CHILDREN.--THE BANKS OF
THE RHONE.--DREARY WEATHER FOR SOUTHERN FRANCE.--THE OLD ROMAN
AMPHITHEATRE AT ARLES.--THE WOMEN OF ARLES.--MARSEILLES.--PASSAGE
TO GENOA.--ITALY.--GENOA AND NAPLES.--BAIÆ.--VESUVIUS.--THE ITALIAN
CHARACTER AT HOME.--PASSAGE FROM LEGHORN IN A SMALL STEAMER.--NARROW
ESCAPE.--A CONFUSION OF LANGUAGES.--DEGRADATION OF THE NEAPOLITANS.


Naples.

In my last days at Paris I was fortunate in hearing some delightful
music. A friend of Chopin's took me to see him, and I had the
pleasure, which the delicacy of Iris health makes a rare one for the
public, of hearing him play. All the impressions I had received from
hearing his music imperfectly performed were justified, for it has
marked traits, which can be veiled, but not travestied; but to feel
it as it merits, one must hear himself; only a person as exquisitely
organized as he can adequately express these subtile secrets of the
creative spirit.

It was with, a very different sort of pleasure that I listened to the
Chevalier Neukomm, the celebrated composer of "David," which has
been so popular in our country. I heard him improvise on the _orgue
expressif_, and afterward on a great organ which has just been built
here by Cavaille for the cathedral of Ajaccio. Full, sustained,
ardent, yet exact, the stream, of his thought bears with it the
attention of hearers of all characters, as his character, full of
_bonhommie_, open, friendly, animated, and sagacious, would seem to
have something to present for the affection and esteem of all kinds of
men.

Chopin is the minstrel, Neukomm the orator of music: we want them
both,--the mysterious whispers and the resolute pleadings from the
better world, which calls us not to slumber here, but press daily
onward to claim our heritage.

Paris! I was sad to leave thee, thou wonderful focus, where ignorance
ceases to be a pain, because there we find such means daily to lessen
it. It is the only school where I ever found abundance of teachers who
could bear being examined by the pupil in their special branches. I
must go to this school more before I again cross the Atlantic, where
often for years I have carried about some trifling question without
finding the person who could answer it. Really deep questions we must
all answer for ourselves; the more the pity, then, that we get not
quickly through with a crowd of details, where the experience of
others might accelerate our progress.

Leaving by _diligence_, we pursued our way from twelve o'clock on
Thursday till twelve at night on Friday, thus having a large share of
magnificent moonlight upon the unknown fields we were traversing. At
Chalons we took boat and reached Lyons betimes that afternoon. So
soon as refreshed, we sallied out to visit some of the garrets of the
weavers. As we were making inquiries about these, a sweet little girl
who heard us offered to be our guide. She led us by a weary, winding
way, whose pavement was much easier for her feet in their wooden
_sabots_ than for ours in Paris shoes, to the top of a hill, from
which we saw for the first time "the blue and arrowy Rhone." Entering
the light buildings on this high hill, I found each chamber
tenanted by a family of weavers,--all weavers; wife, husband, sons,
daughters,--from nine years old upward,--each was helping. On one side
were the looms; nearer the door the cooking apparatus; the beds were
shelves near the ceiling: they climbed up to them on ladders. My sweet
little girl turned out to be a wife of six or seven years' standing,
with two rather sickly-looking children; she seemed to have the
greatest comfort that is possible amid the perplexities of a hard and
anxious lot, to judge by the proud and affectionate manner in which
she always said "_mon mari_," and by the courteous gentleness of his
manner toward her. She seemed, indeed, to be one of those persons on
whom "the Graces have smiled in their cradle," and to whom a natural
loveliness of character makes the world as easy as it can be made
while the evil spirit is still so busy choking the wheat with tares.
I admired her graceful manner of introducing us into those dark little
rooms, and she was affectionately received by all her acquaintance.
But alas! that voice, by nature of such bird-like vivacity, repeated
again and again, "Ah! we are all very unhappy now." "Do you sing
together, or go to evening schools?" "We have not the heart. When we
have a piece of work, we do not stir till it is finished, and then we
run to try and get another; but often we have to wait idle for weeks.
It grows worse and worse, and they say it is not likely to be any
better. We can think of nothing, but whether we shall be able to pay
our rent. Ah! the workpeople are very unhappy now." This poor, lovely
little girl, at an age when the merchant's daughters of Boston and New
York are just gaining their first experiences of "society," knew to
a farthing the price of every article of food and clothing that is
wanted by such a household. Her thought by day and her dream by night
was, whether she should long be able to procure a scanty supply of
these, and Nature had gifted her with precisely those qualities,
which, unembarrassed by care, would have made her and all she loved
really happy; and she was fortunate now, compared with many of her sex
in Lyons,--of whom a gentleman who knows the class well said: "When
their work fails, they have no resource except in the sale of their
persons. There are but these two ways open to them, weaving or
prostitution, to gain their bread." And there are those who dare to
say that such a state of things is _well enough_, and what Providence
intended for man,--who call those who have hearts to suffer at the
sight, energy and zeal to seek its remedy, visionaries and fanatics!
To themselves be woe, who have eyes and see not, ears and hear not,
the convulsions and sobs of injured Humanity!

My little friend told me she had nursed both her children,--though
almost all of her class are obliged to put their children out
to nurse; "but," said she, "they are brought back so little, so
miserable, that I resolved, if possible, to keep mine with me." Next
day in the steamboat I read a pamphlet by a physician of Lyons in
which he recommends the establishment of _Crèches_, not merely like
those of Paris, to keep the children by day, but to provide wet-nurses
for them. Thus, by the infants receiving nourishment from more healthy
persons, and who under the supervision of directors would treat them
well, he hopes to counteract the tendency to degenerate in this race
of sedentary workers, and to save the mothers from too heavy a burden
of care and labor, without breaking the bond between them and their
children, whom, under such circumstances, they could visit often, and
see them taken care of as they, brought up to know nothing except how
to weave, cannot take care of them. Here, again, how is one reminded
of Fourier's observations and plans, still more enforced by the recent
developments at Manchester as to the habit of feeding children on
opium, which has grown out of the position of things there.

Descending next day to Avignon, I had the mortification of finding the
banks of the Rhone still sheeted with white, and there waded through
melting snow to Laura's tomb. We did not see Mr. Dickens's Tower and
Goblin,--it was too late in the day,--but we saw a snowball fight
between two bands of the military in the castle yard that was gay
enough to make a goblin laugh. And next day on to Arles, still
snow,--snow and cutting blasts in the South of France, where everybody
had promised us bird-songs and blossoms to console us for the
dreary winter of Paris. At Arles, indeed, I saw the little saxifrage
blossoming on the steps of the Amphitheatre, and fruit-trees in flower
amid the tombs. Here for the first time I saw the great handwriting of
the Romans in its proper medium of stone, and I was content. It looked
us grand and solid as I expected, as if life in those days was thought
worth the having, the enjoying, and the using. The sunlight was warm
this day; it lay deliciously still and calm upon the ruins. One old
woman sat knitting where twenty-five thousand persons once gazed down
in fierce excitement on the fights of men and lions. Coming back, we
were refreshed all through the streets by the sight of the women of
Arles. They answered to their reputation for beauty; tall, erect, and
noble, with high and dignified features, and a full, earnest gaze of
the eye, they looked as if the Eagle still waved its wings over their
city. Even the very old women still have a degree of beauty, because
when the colors are all faded, and the skin wrinkled, the face
retains this dignity of outline. The men do not share in these
characteristics; some priestess, well beloved of the powers of old
religion, must have called down an especial blessing on her sex in
this town.

Hence to Marseilles,--where is little for the traveller to see, except
the mixture of Oriental blood in the crowd of the streets. Thence
by steamer to Genoa. Of this transit, he who has been on the
Mediterranean in a stiff breeze well understands I can have nothing to
say, except "I suffered." It was all one dull, tormented dream to me,
and, I believe, to most of the ship's company,--a dream too of thirty
hours' duration, instead of the promised sixteen.

The excessive beauty of Genoa is well known, and the impression upon
the eye alone was correspondent with what I expected; but, alas! the
weather was still so cold I could not realize that I had actually
touched those shores to which I had looked forward all my life, where
it seemed that the heart would expand, and the whole nature be turned
to delight. Seen by a cutting wind, the marble palaces, the gardens,
the magnificent water-view of Genoa, failed to charm,--"I _saw, not
felt_, how beautiful they were." Only at Naples have I found _my_
Italy, and here not till after a week's waiting,--not till I began
to believe that all I had heard in praise of the climate of Italy
was fable, and that there is really no spring anywhere except in the
imagination of poets. For the first week was an exact copy of the
miseries of a New England spring; a bright sun came for an hour or two
in the morning, just to coax you forth without your cloak, and then
came up a villanous, horrible wind, exactly like the worst east wind
of Boston, breaking the heart, racking the brain, and turning hope and
fancy to an irrevocable green and yellow hue, in lieu of their native
rose.

However, here at Naples I _have_ at last found _my_ Italy; I have
passed through the Grotto of Pausilippo, visited Cuma, Baiæ, and
Capri, ascended Vesuvius, and found all familiar, except the sense of
enchantment, of sweet exhilaration, this scene conveys.

  "Behold how brightly breaks the morning!"

and yet all new, as if never yet described, for Nature here, most
prolific and exuberant in her gifts, has touched them all with a charm
unhackneyed, unhackneyable, which the boots of English dandies cannot
trample out, nor the raptures of sentimental tourists daub or fade.
Baiæ had still a hid divinity for me, Vesuvius a fresh baptism of
fire, and Sorrento--O Sorrento was beyond picture, beyond poesy, for
the greatest Artist had been at work there in a temper beyond the
reach of human art.

Beyond this, reader, my old friend and valued acquaintance on other
themes, I shall tell you nothing of Naples, for it is a thing apart
in the journey of life, and, if represented at all, should be so in a
fairer form than offers itself at present. Now the actual life here is
over, I am going to Rome, and expect to see that fane of thought the
last day of this week.

At Genoa and Leghorn, I saw for the first time Italians in their
homes. Very attractive I found them, charming women, refined men,
eloquent and courteous. If the cold wind hid Italy, it could not the
Italians. A little group of faces, each so full of character, dignity,
and, what is so rare in an American face, the capacity for pure,
exalting passion, will live ever in my memory,--the fulfilment of a
hope!

We started from Leghorn in an English boat, highly recommended, and as
little deserving of such praise as many another bepuffed article.
In the middle of a fine, clear night, she was run into by the mail
steamer, which all on deck clearly saw coming upon her, for no reason
that could be ascertained, except that the man at the wheel said _he_
had turned the right way, and it never seemed to occur to him that
he could change when he found the other steamer had taken the same
direction. To be sure, the other steamer was equally careless, but as
a change on our part would have prevented an accident that narrowly
missed sending us all to the bottom, it hardly seemed worth while to
persist, for the sake of convicting them of error.

Neither the Captain nor any of his people spoke French, and we had
been much amused before by the chambermaid acting out the old story of
"Will you lend me the loan of a gridiron?" A Polish lady was on board,
with a French waiting-maid, who understood no word of English. The
daughter of John Bull would speak to the lady in English, and, when
she found it of no use, would say imperiously to the _suivante_, "Go
and ask your mistress what she will have for breakfast." And now when
I went on deck there was a parley between the two steamers, which the
Captain was obliged to manage by such interpreters as he could
find; it was a long and confused business. It ended at last in the
Neapolitan steamer taking us in tow for an inglorious return to
Leghorn. When she had decided upon this she swept round, her lights
glancing like sagacious eyes, to take us. The sea was calm as a lake,
the sky full of stars; she made a long detour, with her black hull,
her smoke and lights, which look so pretty at night, then came round
to us like the bend of an arm embracing. It was a pretty picture,
worth the stop and the fright,--perhaps the loss of twenty-four hours,
though I did not think so at the time.

At Leghorn we changed the boat, and, retracing our steps, came now at
last to Naples,--to this priest-ridden, misgoverned, full of dirty,
degraded men and women, yet still most lovely Naples,--of which the
most I can say is that the divine aspect of nature _can_ make you
forget the situation of man in this region, which was surely intended
for him as a princely child, angelic in virtue, genius, and beauty,
and not as a begging, vermin-haunted, image kissing Lazzarone.




LETTER XIV.

ITALY.--MISFORTUNE OF TRAVELLERS.--ENGLISH TRAVELLERS.--
COCKNEYISM.--MACDONALD THE SCULPTOR.--BRITISH ARISTOCRACY.--
TENERANI.--WOLFF'S DIANA AND SEASONS.--GOTT.--CRAWFORD.--OVERBECK
THE PAINTER.--AMERICAN PAINTERS IN ROME.--TERRY.--GRANCH.--HICKS.--
REMAINS OF THE ANTIQUE.--ITALIAN PAINTERS.--DOMENICHIMO AND
TITIAN.--FRESCOS OF RAPHAEL.--MICHEL ANGELO.--THE COLOSSEUM.--HOLY
WEEK.--ST. PETER'S.--PIUS IX. AND HIS MEASURES.--POPULAR
ENTHUSIASM.--PUBLIC DINNER AT THE BATHS OF TITUS.--AUSTRIAN
JEALOUSY.--THE "CONTEMPORANEO."


Rome, May, 1847.

There is very little that I can like to write about Italy. Italy is
beautiful, worthy to be loved and embraced, not talked about. Yet I
remember well that, when afar, I liked to read what was written about
her; now, all thought of it is very tedious.

The traveller passing along the beaten track, vetturinoed from inn
to inn, ciceroned from gallery to gallery, thrown, through indolence,
want of tact, or ignorance of the language, too much into the
society of his compatriots, sees the least possible of the country;
fortunately, it is impossible to avoid seeing a great deal. The great
features of the part pursue and fill the eye.

Yet I find that it is quite out of the question to know Italy; to say
anything of her that is full and sweet, so as to convey any idea of
her spirit, without long residence, and residence in the districts
untouched by the scorch and dust of foreign invasion (the invasion
of the _dilettanti_ I mean), and without an intimacy of feeling, an
abandonment to the spirit of the place, impossible to most Americans.
They retain too much, of their English blood; and the travelling
English, as a class, seem to me the most unseeing of all possible
animals. There are exceptions; for instance, the perceptions and
pictures of Browning seem as delicate and just here on the spot as
they did at a distance; but, take them as a class, they have the
vulgar familiarity of Mrs. Trollope without her vivacity, the
cockneyism of Dickens without his graphic power and love of the
odd corners of human nature. I admired the English at home in
their island; I admired their honor, truth, practical intelligence,
persistent power. But they do not look well in Italy; they are not the
figures for this landscape. I am indignant at the contempt they have
presumed to express for the faults of our semi-barbarous state. What
is the vulgarity expressed in our tobacco-chewing, and way of eating
eggs, compared to that which elbows the Greek marbles, guide-book in
hand,--chatters and sneers through the Miserere of the Sistine Chapel,
beneath the very glance of Michel Angelo's Sibyls,--praises
St. Peter's as "_nice_"--talks of "_managing_" the Colosseum by
moonlight,--and snatches "_bits_" for a "_sketch_" from the sublime
silence of the Campagna.

Yet I was again reconciled with them, the other day, in visiting
the studio of Macdonald. There I found a complete gallery of the
aristocracy of England; for each lord and lady who visits Rome
considers it a part of the ceremony to sit to him for a bust. And what
a fine race! how worthy the marble! what heads of orators,
statesmen, gentlemen! of women chaste, grave, resolute, and tender!
Unfortunately, they do not look as well in flesh and blood; then
they show the habitual coldness of their temperament, the habitual
subservience to frivolous conventionalities. They need some great
occasion, some exciting crisis, in order to make them look as free and
dignified as these busts; yet is the beauty there, though, imprisoned,
and clouded, and such a crisis would show us more then one Boadicea,
more than one Alfred. Tenerani has just completed a statue which is
highly-spoken of; it is called the Angel of the Resurrection. I was
not so fortunate as to find it in his studio. In that of Wolff I saw a
Diana, ordered by the Emperor of Russia. It is modern and sentimental;
as different from, the antique Diana as the trance of a novel-read
young lady of our day from the thrill with which the ancient shepherds
deprecated the magic pervasions of Hecate, but very beautiful and
exquisitely wrought. He has also lately finished the Four Seasons,
represented as children. Of these, Winter is graceful and charming.

Among the sculptors I delayed longest in the work-rooms of Gott.
I found his groups of young figures connected with animals very
refreshing after the grander attempts of the present time. They seem
real growths of his habitual mind,--fruits of Nature, full of joy and
freedom. His spaniels and other frisky poppets would please Apollo far
better than most of the marble nymphs and muses of the present day.

Our Crawford has just finished a bust of Mrs. Crawford, which is
extremely beautiful, full of grace and innocent sweetness. All its
accessaries are charming,--the wreaths, the arrangement of drapery,
the stuff of which the robe is made. I hope it will be much seen on
its arrival in New York. He has also an Herodias in the clay, which is
individual in expression, and the figure of distinguished elegance.
I liked the designs of Crawford better than those of Gibson, who is
estimated as highest in the profession now.

Among the studios of the European painters I have visited only that of
Overbeck. It is well known in the United States what his pictures are.
I have much to say at a more favorable time of what they represented
to me. He himself looks as if he had just stepped out of one of
them,--a lay monk, with a pious eye and habitual morality of thought
which limits every gesture.

Painting is not largely represented here by American artists at
present. Terry has two pleasing pictures on the easel: one is a
costume picture of Italian life, such as I saw it myself, enchanted
beyond my hopes, on coming to Naples on a day of grand festival in
honor of Santa Agatha. Cranch sends soon to America a picture of the
Campagna, such as I saw it on my first entrance into Rome, all light
and calmness; Hicks, a charming half-length of an Italian girl,
holding a mandolin: it will be sure to please. His pictures are full
of life, and give the promise of some real achievement in Art.

Of the fragments of the great time, I have now seen nearly all that
are treasured up here: I have, however, as yet nothing of consequence
to say of them. I find that others have often given good hints as to
how they _look_; and as to what they _are_, it can only be known by
approximating to the state of soul out of which they grew. They should
not be described, but reproduced. They are many and precious, yet is
there not so much of high excellence as I had expected: they will not
float the heart on a boundless sea of feeling, like the starry night
on our Western prairies. Yet I love much to see the galleries of
marbles, even when there are not many separately admirable, amid the
cypresses and ilexes of Roman villas; and a picture that is good at
all looks very good in one of these old palaces.

The Italian painters whom I have learned most to appreciate, since
I came abroad, are Domenichino and Titian. Of others one may learn
something by copies and engravings: but not of these. The portraits
of Titian look upon me from the walls things new and strange. They are
portraits of men such as I have not known. In his picture, absurdly
called _Sacred and Profane Love_, in the Borghese Palace, one of the
figures has developed my powers of gazing to an extent unknown before.

Domenichino seems very unequal in his pictures; but when he is grand
and free, the energy of his genius perfectly satisfies. The frescos
of Caracci and his scholars in the Farnese Palace have been to me a
source of the purest pleasure, and I do not remember to have heard of
them. I loved Guercino much before I came here, but I have looked
too much at his pictures and begin to grow sick of them; he is a very
limited genius. Leonardo I cannot yet like at all, but I suppose the
pictures are good for some people to look at; they show a wonderful
deal of study and thought. That is not what I can best appreciate in
a work of art. I hate to see the marks of them. I want a simple
and direct expression of soul. For the rest, the ordinary cant of
connoisseur-ship on these matters seems in Italy even more detestable
than elsewhere.

I have not yet so sufficiently recovered from my pain at finding the
frescos of Raphael in such a state, as to be able to look at them,
happily. I had heard of their condition, but could not realize it.
However, I have gained nothing by seeing his pictures in oil, which
are well preserved. I find I had before the full impression of his
genius. Michel Angelo's frescos, in like manner, I seem to have
seen as far as I can. But it is not the same with the sculptures: my
thought had not risen to the height of the Moses. It is the only thing
in Europe, so far, which has entirely outgone my hopes. Michel Angelo
was my demigod before; but I find no offering worthy to cast at the
feet of his Moses. I like much, too, his Christ. It is a refreshing
contrast with all the other representations of the same subject.
I like it even as contrasted with Raphael's Christ of the
Transfiguration, or that of the cartoon of _Feed my Lambs_.

I have heard owls hoot in the Colosseum by moonlight, and they spoke
more to the purpose than I ever heard any other voice upon that
subject. I have seen all the pomps and shows of Holy Week in the
church of St. Peter, and found them less imposing than an habitual
acquaintance with the place, with processions of monks and nuns
stealing in now and then, or the swell of vespers from some side
chapel. I have ascended the dome, and seen thence Rome and its
Campagna, its villas with, their cypresses and pines serenely sad as
is nothing else in the world, and the fountains of the Vatican garden
gushing hard by. I have been in the Subterranean to see a poor little
boy introduced, much to his surprise, to the bosom of the Church;
and then I have seen by torch-light the stone popes where they lie on
their tombs, and the old mosaics, and virgins with gilt caps. It is
all rich, and full,--very impressive in its way. St. Peter's must be
to each one a separate poem.

The ceremonies of the Church, have been numerous and splendid during
our stay here; and they borrow unusual interest from the love and
expectation inspired by the present Pontiff. He is a man of noble
and good aspect, who, it is easy to see, has set his heart upon doing
something solid for the benefit of man. But pensively, too, must
one feel how hampered and inadequate are the means at his command
to accomplish these ends. The Italians do not feel it, but deliver
themselves, with all the vivacity of their temperament, to perpetual
hurras, vivas, rockets, and torch-light processions. I often think how
grave and sad must the Pope feel, as he sits alone and hears all this
noise of expectation.

A week or two ago the Cardinal Secretary published a circular inviting
the departments to measures which would give the people a sort of
representative council. Nothing could seem more limited than this
improvement, but it was a great measure for Rome. At night the Corso
in which, we live was illuminated, and many thousands passed through
it in a torch-bearing procession. I saw them first assembled in the
Piazza del Popolo, forming around its fountain a great circle of fire.
Then, as a river of fire, they streamed slowly through the Corso, on
their way to the Quirinal to thank the Pope, upbearing a banner on
which the edict was printed. The stream, of fire advanced slowly, with
a perpetual surge-like sound of voices; the torches flashed on the
animated Italian faces. I have never seen anything finer. Ascending
the Quirinal they made it a mount of light. Bengal fires were thrown
up, which cast their red and white light on the noble Greek figures of
men and horses that reign over it. The Pope appeared on his balcony;
the crowd shouted three vivas; he extended his arms; the crowd fell on
their knees and received his benediction; he retired, and the torches
were extinguished, and the multitude dispersed in an instant.

The same week came the natal day of Rome. A great dinner was given at
the Baths of Titus, in the open air. The company was on the grass in
the area; the music at one end; boxes filled with the handsome Roman
women occupied the other sides. It was a new thing here, this popular
dinner, and the Romans greeted it in an intoxication of hope and
pleasure. Sterbini, author of "The Vestal," presided: many others,
like him, long time exiled and restored to their country by the
present Pope, were at the tables. The Colosseum, and triumphal arches
were in sight; an effigy of the Roman wolf with her royal nursling
was erected on high; the guests, with shouts and music, congratulated
themselves on the possession, in Pius IX., of a new and nobler founder
for another state. Among the speeches that of the Marquis d'Azeglio,
a man of literary note in Italy, and son-in-law of Manzoni, contained
this passage (he was sketching the past history of Italy):--

"The crown passed to the head of a German monarch; but he wore it not
to the benefit, but the injury, of Christianity,--of the world. The
Emperor Henry was a tyrant who wearied out the patience of God. God
said to Rome, 'I give you the Emperor Henry'; and from these hills
that surround us, Hildebrand, Pope Gregory VII., raised his austere
and potent voice to say to the Emperor, 'God did not give you Italy
that you might destroy her,' and Italy, Germany, Europe, saw her
butcher prostrated at the feet of Gregory in penitence. Italy,
Germany, Europe, had then kindled in the heart the first spark of
liberty."

The narrative of the dinner passed the censor, and was published: the
Ambassador of Austria read it, and found, with a modesty and candor
truly admirable, that this passage was meant to allude to his Emperor.
He must take his passports, if such home thrusts are to be made. And
so the paper was seized, and the account of the dinner only told from,
mouth to mouth, from those who had already read it. Also the idea of a
dinner for the Pope's fête-day is abandoned, lest something too frank
should again be said; and they tell me here, with a laugh, "I fancy
you have assisted at the first and last popular dinner." Thus we may
see that the liberty of Rome does not yet advance with seven-leagued
boots; and the new Romulus will need to be prepared for deeds at least
as bold as his predecessor, if he is to open a new order of things.

I cannot well wind up my gossip on this subject better than by
translating a passage from the programme of the _Contemporaneo_, which
represents the hope of Rome at this moment. It is conducted by men of
well-known talent.

"The _Contemporaneo_ (Contemporary) is a journal of progress, but
tempered, as the good and wise think best, in conformity with the
will of our best of princes, and the wants and expectations of the
public....

"Through discussion it desires to prepare minds to receive reforms so
soon and far as they are favored by the law of _opportunity_.

"Every attempt which is made contrary to this social law must fail. It
is vain to hope fruits from a tree out of season, and equally in vain
to introduce the best measures into a country not prepared to receive
them."

And so on. I intended to have translated in full the programme,
but time fails, and the law of opportunity does not favor, as my
"opportunity" leaves for London this afternoon. I have given enough to
mark the purport of the whole. It will easily be seen that it was
not from the platform assumed by the _Contemporaneo_ that Lycurgus
legislated, or Socrates taught,--that the Christian religion was
propagated, or the Church, was reformed by Luther. The opportunity
that the martyrs found here in the Colosseum, from whose blood grew
up this great tree of Papacy, was not of the kind waited for by these
moderate progressists. Nevertheless, they may be good schoolmasters
for Italy, and are not to be disdained in these piping times of peace.

More anon, of old and new, from Tuscany.




LETTER XV.

ITALY.--FRUITS AND FLOWERS ON THE ROUTE FROM FLORENCE TO ROME.--THE
PLAIN OF UMBRIA.--ASSISI.--THE SAINTS.--TUITION IN SCHOOLS.--PIUS
IX.--THE ETRURIAN TOMB.--PERUGIA AND ITS STORES OF EARLY
ART.--PORTRAITS OF RAPHAEL.--FLORENCE.--THE GRAND DUKE AND HIS
POLICY.--THE LIBERTY OF THE PRESS AND ITS INFLUENCE.--THE AMERICAN
SCULPTORS.--GREENOUGH AND HIS NEW WORKS.--POWERS.--HIS STATUE OF
CALHOUN.--REVIEW OF HIS ENDEAVORS.--THE FESTIVALS OF ST. JOHN AT
FLORENCE.--BOLOGNA.--FEMALE PROFESSORS IN ITS UNIVERSITY.--MATILDA
TAMBRONI AND OTHERS.--MILAN AND HER FEMALE MATHEMATICIAN.--THE STATE
OF WOMAN IN ITALY.--RAVENNA AND BYRON.--VENICE.--THE ADDA.--MILAN AND
ITS NEIGHBORHOOD, AND MANZONI.--EXCITEMENTS.--NATIONAL AFFAIRS.


Milan, August 9, 1847.

Since leaving Rome, I have not been able to steal a moment from
the rich and varied objects before me to write about them. I will,
therefore, take a brief retrospect of the ground.

I passed from Florence to Rome by the Perugia route, and saw for the
first time the Italian vineyards. The grapes hung in little clusters.
When I return, they will be full of light and life, but the fields
will not be so enchantingly fresh, nor so enamelled with flowers.

The profusion of red poppies, which dance on every wall and glitter
throughout the grass, is a great ornament to the landscape. In full
sunlight their vermilion is most beautiful. Well might Ceres gather
_such_ poppies to mingle with her wheat.

We climbed the hill to Assisi, and my ears thrilled as with many old
remembered melodies, when an old peasant, in sonorous phrase, bade
me look out and see the plain of Umbria. I looked back and saw
the carriage toiling up the steep path, drawn by a pair of those
light-colored oxen Shelley so much admired. I stood near the spot
where Goethe met with a little adventure, which he has described with
even more than his usual delicate humor. Who can ever be alone for a
moment in Italy? Every stone has a voice, every grain of dust seems
instinct with spirit from the Past, every step recalls some line, some
legend of long-neglected lore.

Assisi was exceedingly charming to me. So still!--all temporal noise
and bustle seem hushed down yet by the presence of the saint. So
clean!--the rains of heaven wash down all impurities into the valley.
I must confess that, elsewhere, I have shared the feelings of Dickens
toward St. Francis and St. Sebastian, as the "Mounseer Tonsons" of
Catholic art. St. Sebastian I have not been so tired of, for the
beauty and youth of the figure make the monotony with which the
subject of his martyrdom is treated somewhat less wearisome. But St.
Francis is so sad, and so ecstatic, and so brown, so entirely the
monk,--and St. Clara so entirely the nun! I have been very sorry for
her that he was able to draw her from the human to the heavenly life;
she seems so sad and so worn out by the effort. But here at Assisi,
one cannot help being penetrated by the spirit that flowed from that
life. Here is the room where his father shut up the boy to punish his
early severity of devotion. Here is the picture which represents him
despoiled of all outward things, even his garments,--devoting himself,
body and soul, to the service of God in the way he believed most
acceptable. Here is the underground chapel, where rest those weary
bones, saluted by the tears of so many weary pilgrims who have come
hither to seek strength from his example. Here are the churches above,
full of the works of earlier art, animated by the contagion of a great
example. It is impossible not to bow the head, and feel how mighty an
influence flows from a single soul, sincere in its service of truth,
in whatever form that truth comes to it.

A troop of neat, pretty school-girls attended us about, going with
us into the little chapels adorned with pictures which open at every
corner of the streets, smiling on us at a respectful distance. Some of
them were fourteen or fifteen years old. I found reading, writing, and
sewing were all they learned at their school; the first, indeed, they
knew well enough, if they could ever get books to use it on. Tranquil
as Assisi was, on every wall was read _Viva Pio IX.!_ and we found the
guides and workmen in the shop full of a vague hope from him. The old
love which has made so rich this aerial cradle of St. Francis glows
warm as ever in the breasts of men; still, as ever, they long for
hero-worship, and shout aloud at the least appearance of an object.

The church at the foot of the hill, Santa Maria degli Angeli, seems
tawdry after Assisi. It also is full of records of St. Francis, his
pains and his triumphs. Here, too, on a little chapel, is the famous
picture by Overbeck; too exact a copy, but how different in effect
from the early art we had just seen above! Harmonious but frigid,
grave but dull; childhood is beautiful, but not when continued, or
rather transplanted, into the period where we look for passion, varied
means, and manly force.

Before reaching Perugia, I visited an Etrurian tomb, which is a little
way off the road; it is said to be one of the finest in Etruria. The
hill-side is full of them, but excavations are expensive, and not
frequent. The effect of this one was beyond my expectations; in it
were several female figures, very dignified and calm, as the dim
lamp-light fell on them by turns. The expression of these figures
shows that the position of woman in these states was noble. Their
eagles' nests cherished well the female eagle who kept watch in the
eyrie.

Perugia too is on a noble hill. What a daily excitement such a view,
taken at every step! life is worth ten times as much in a city so
situated. Perugia is full, overflowing, with the treasures of early
art. I saw them so rapidly it seems now as if in a trance, yet
certainly with a profit, a manifold gain, such as Mahomet thought he
gained from his five minutes' visits to other spheres. Here are two
portraits of Raphael as a youth: it is touching to see what effect
this angel had upon all that surrounded him from the very first.

Florence! I was there a month, and in a sense saw Florence: that is to
say, I took an inventory of what is to be seen there, and not without
great intellectual profit. There is too much that is really admirable
in art,--the nature of its growth lies before you too clearly to be
evaded. Of such things more elsewhere.

I do not like Florence as I do cities more purely Italian. The natural
character is ironed out here, and done up in a French pattern; yet
there is no French vivacity, nor Italian either. The Grand Duke--more
and more agitated by the position in which he finds himself between
the influence of the Pope and that of Austria--keeps imploring and
commanding his people to keep still, and they _are_ still and glum
as death. This is all on the outside; within, Tuscany burns. Private
culture has not been in vain, and there is, in a large circle, mental
preparation for a very different state of things from the present,
with an ardent desire to diffuse the same amid the people at large.
The sovereign has been obliged for the present to give more liberty to
the press, and there is an immediate rush of thought to the new vent;
if it is kept open a few months, the effect on the body of the people
cannot fail to be great. I intended to have translated some passages
from the programme of the _Patria_, one of the papers newly started
at Florence, but time fails. One of the articles in the same number by
Lambruschini, on the duties of the clergy at this juncture, contains
views as liberal as can be found in print anywhere in the world. More
of these things when I return to Rome in the autumn, when I hope to
find a little leisure to think over what I have seen, and, if found
worthy, to put the result in writing.

I visited the studios of our sculptors; Greenough has in clay a David
which promises high beauty and nobleness, a bass-relief, full of grace
and tender expression; he is also modelling a head of Napoleon, and
justly enthusiastic in the study. His great group I did not see in
such a state as to be secure of my impression. The face of the Pioneer
is very fine, the form of the woman graceful and expressive; but I was
not satisfied with the Indian. I shall see it more as a whole on my
return to Florence.

As to the Eve and the Greek Slave, I could only join with the rest of
the world in admiration of their beauty and the fine feeling of nature
which they exhibit. The statue of Calhoun is full of power, simple,
and majestic in attitude and expression. In busts Powers seems to
me unrivalled; still, he ought not to spend his best years on an
employment which cannot satisfy his ambition nor develop his powers.
If our country loves herself, she will order from him some great work
before the prime of his genius has been frittered away, and his best
years spent on lesser things.

I saw at Florence the festivals of St. John, but they are poor affairs
to one who has seen the Neapolitan and Roman people on such occasions.

Passing from Florence, I came to Bologna,--learned Bologna; indeed an
Italian city, full of expression, of physiognomy, so to speak. A woman
should love Bologna, for there has the spark of intellect in woman
been cherished with reverent care. Not in former ages only, but in
this, Bologna raised a woman who was worthy to the dignities of its
University, and in their Certosa they proudly show the monument to
Matilda Tambroni, late Greek Professor there. Her letters, preserved
by her friends, are said to form a very valuable collection. In their
anatomical hall is the bust of a woman, Professor of Anatomy. In Art
they have had Properzia di Rossi, Elizabetta Sirani, Lavinia Fontana,
and delight to give their works a conspicuous place.

In other cities the men alone have their _Casino dei Nobili_, where
they give balls, _conversazioni_, and similar entertainments. Here
women have one, and are the soul of society.

In Milan, also, I see in the Ambrosian Library the bust of a female
mathematician. These things make me feel that, if the state of woman
in Italy is so depressed, yet a good-will toward a better is not
wholly wanting. Still more significant is the reverence to the Madonna
and innumerable female saints, who, if, like St. Teresa, they had
intellect as well as piety, became counsellors no less than comforters
to the spirit of men.

Ravenna, too, I saw, and its old Christian art, the Pineta, where
Byron loved to ride, and the paltry apartments where, cheered by a new
affection, in which was more of tender friendship than of passion, he
found himself less wretched than at beautiful Venice or stately Genoa.

All the details of this visit to Ravenna are pretty. I shall write
them out some time. Of Padua, too, the little to be said should be
said in detail.

Of Venice and its enchanted life I could not speak; it should only
be echoed back in music. There only I began to feel in its fulness
Venetian Art. It can only be seen in its own atmosphere. Never had I
the least idea of what is to be seen at Venice. It seems to me as if
no one ever yet had seen it,--so entirely wanting is any expression
of what I felt myself. Venice! on this subject I shall not write much
till time, place, and mode agree to make it fit.

Venice, where all is past, is a fit asylum for the dynasties of the
Past. The Duchesse de Berri owns one of the finest palaces on the
Grand Canal; the Duc de Bordeaux rents another; Mademoiselle Taglioni
has bought the famous Casa d'Oro, and it is under repair. Thanks to
the fashion which has made Venice a refuge of this kind, the palaces,
rarely inhabited by the representatives of their ancient names, are
valuable property, and the noble structures will not be suffered
to lapse into the sea, above which they rose so proudly.
The restorations, too, are made with excellent taste and
judgment,--nothing is spoiled. Three of these fine palaces are now
hotels, so that the transient visitor can enjoy from their balconies
all the wondrous shows of the Venetian night and day as much as any
of their former possessors did. I was at the Europa, formerly the
Giustiniani Palace, with better air than those on the Grand Canal, and
a more unobstructed view than Danieli's.

Madame de Berri gave an entertainment on the birthnight of her son,
and the old Duchesse d'Angoulême came from Vienna to attend it. 'T
was a scene of fairy-land, the palace full of light, so that from the
canal could be seen even the pictures on the walls. Landing from the
gondolas, the elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen seemed to rise
from the water; we also saw them glide up the great stair, rustling
their plumes, and in the reception-rooms make and receive the
customary grimaces. A fine band stationed on the opposite side of the
canal played the while, and a flotilla of gondolas lingered there to
listen. I, too, amid, the mob, a pleasant position in Venice alone,
thought of the Stuarts, Bourbons, Bonapartes, here in Italy, and
offered up a prayer that other names, when the possessors have power
without the heart to use it for the emancipation of mankind, might he
added to the list, and other princes, more rich in blood than brain,
might come to enjoy a perpetual _villeggiatura_ in Italy. It did not
seem to me a cruel wish. The show of greatness will satisfy every
legitimate desire of such minds. A gentle punishment for the
distributors of _letters de cachet_ and Spielberg dungeons to their
fellow-men.

Having passed more than a fortnight at Venice, I have come here,
stopping at Vicenza, Verona, Mantua, Lago di Garda, Brescia.
Certainly I have learned more than ever in any previous ten days of my
existence, and have formed an idea what is needed for the study of Art
and its history in these regions. To be sure, I shall never have time
to follow it up, but it is a delight to look up those glorious vistas,
even when there is no hope of entering them.

A violent shower obliged me to stop on the way. It was late at night,
and I was nearly asleep, when, roused by the sound of bubbling waters,
I started up and asked, "Is that the Adda?" and it was. So deep is
the impression made by a simple natural recital, like that of Renzo's
wanderings in the _Promessi Sposi_, that the memory of his hearing the
Adda in this way occurred to me at once, and the Adda seemed familiar
as if I had been a native of this region.

As the Scottish lakes seem the domain of Walter Scott, so does Milan
and its neighborhood in the mind of a foreigner belong to Manzoni. I
have seen him since, the gentle lord of this wide domain; his hair is
white, but his eyes still beam as when he first saw the apparitions of
truth, simple tenderness, and piety which he has so admirably recorded
for our benefit. Those around lament that the fastidiousness of his
taste prevents his completing and publishing more, and that thus
a treasury of rare knowledge and refined thought will pass from
us without our reaping the benefit. We, indeed, have no title to
complain, what we do possess from his hand is so excellent.

At this moment there is great excitement in Italy. A supposed spy
of Austria has been assassinated at Ferrara, and Austrian troops are
marched there. It is pretended that a conspiracy has been discovered
in Rome; the consequent disturbances have been put down. The National
Guard is forming. All things seem to announce that some important
change is inevitable here, but what? Neither Radicals nor Moderates
dare predict with confidence, and I am yet too much a stranger
to speak with assurance of impressions I have received. But it is
impossible not to hope.




LETTER XVI.

REVIEW OF PAST AND PRESENT.--THE MERITS OF ITALIAN
LITERATURE.--MANZONI.--ITALIAN DIALECTS.--MILAN, THE MILANESE, AND
THE SIMPLICITY OF THEIR LANGUAGE.--THE NORTH OF ITALY, AND A TOUR TO
SWITZERLAND.--ITALIAN LAKES.--MAGGIORE, COMO, AND LUGANO.--LAGO DI
GARDA.--THE BOATMEN OF THE LAKES AND THE GONDOLIERS.--LADY FRANKLIN,
WIDOW OF THE NAVIGATOR.--RETURN TO AND FESTIVALS AT MILAN.--THE
ARCHBISHOP.--AUSTRIAN RULE AND AUSTRIAN POLICY.--THE FUTURE HOPES OF
ITALY.--A GLANCE AT PAVIA, FLORENCE, PARMA, AND BOLOGNA, AND THE WORKS
OF THE MASTERS.


Rome, October, 1847.

I think my last letter was from Milan, and written after I had seen
Manzoni. This was to me a great pleasure. I have now seen the most
important representatives who survive of the last epoch in thought.
Our age has still its demonstrations to make, its heroes and poets to
crown.

Although the modern Italian literature is not poor, as many persons at
a distance suppose, but, on the contrary, surprisingly rich in tokens
of talent, if we consider the circumstances under which it struggles
to exist, yet very few writers have or deserve a European or American
reputation. Where a whole country is so kept down, her best minds
cannot take the lead in the progress of the age; they have too much to
suffer, too much to explain. But among the few who, through depth of
spiritual experience and the beauty of form in which it is expressed,
belong not only to Italy, but to the world, Manzoni takes a high
rank. The passive virtues he teaches are no longer what is wanted; the
manners he paints with so delicate a fidelity are beginning to change;
but the spirit of his works,--the tender piety, the sensibility to the
meaning of every humblest form of life, the delicate humor and satire
so free from disdain,--these are immortal.

Young Italy rejects Manzoni, though not irreverently; Young Italy
prizes his works, but feels that the doctrine of "Pray and wait" is
not for her at this moment,--that she needs a more fervent hope, a
more active faith. She is right.

It is well known that the traveller, if he knows the Italian language
as written in books, the standard Tuscan, still finds himself a
stranger in many parts of Italy, unable to comprehend the dialects,
with their lively abbreviations and witty slang. That of Venice I had
understood somewhat, and could enter into the drollery and _naïveté_
of the gondoliers, who, as a class, have an unusual share of
character. But the Milanese I could not at first understand at all.
Their language seemed to me detestably harsh, and their gestures
unmeaning. But after a friend, who possesses that large and ready
sympathy easier found in Italy than anywhere else, had translated for
me verbatim into French some of the poems written in the Milanese,
and then read them aloud in the original, I comprehended the peculiar
inflection of voice and idiom in the people, and was charmed with it,
as one is with the instinctive wit and wisdom of children.

There is very little to see at Milan, compared with any other Italian
city; and this was very fortunate for me, allowing an interval
of repose in the house, which I cannot take when there is so much
without, tempting me to incessant observation and study. I went
through, the North of Italy with a constantly increasing fervor of
interest. When I had thought of Italy, it was always of the South, of
the Roman States, of Tuscany. But now I became deeply interested in
the history, the institutions, the art of the North. The fragments
of the past mark the progress of its waves so clearly, I learned to
understand, to prize them every day more, to know how to make use of
the books about them. I shall have much to say on these subjects some
day.

Leaving Milan, I went on the Lago Maggiore, and afterward into
Switzerland. Of this tour I shall not speak here; it was a beautiful
little romance by itself, and infinitely refreshing to be so near
nature in these grand and simple forms, after so much exciting thought
of Art and Man. The day passed in the St. Bernardin, with its lofty
peaks and changing lights upon the distant snows,--its holy, exquisite
valleys and waterfalls, its stories of eagles and chamois, was the
greatest refreshment I ever experienced: it was bracing as a cold bath
after the heat of a crowd amid which one has listened to some most
eloquent oration.

Returning from Switzerland, I passed a fortnight on the Lake of
Como, and afterward visited Lugano. There is no exaggeration in the
enthusiastic feeling with which artists and poets have viewed these
Italian lakes. Their beauties are peculiar, enchanting, innumerable.
The Titan of Richter, the Wanderjahre of Goethe, the Elena of Taylor,
the pictures of Turner, had not prepared me for the visions of beauty
that daily entranced the eyes and heart in those regions. To our
country Nature has been most bounteous; but we have nothing in the
same kind that can compare with these lakes, as seen under the Italian
heaven. As to those persons who have pretended to discover that the
effects of light and atmosphere were no finer than they found in our
own lake scenery, I can only say that they must be exceedingly obtuse
in organization,--a defect not uncommon among Americans.

Nature seems to have labored to express her full heart in as many
ways as possible, when she made these lakes, moulded and planted their
shores. Lago Maggiore is grand, resplendent in Its beauty; the view of
the Alps gives a sort of lyric exaltation to the scene. Lago di Garda
is so soft and fair,--so glittering sweet on one side, the ruins of
ancient palaces rise so softly with the beauties of that shore; but
at the other end, amid the Tyrol, it is sublime, calm, concentrated
in its meaning. Como cannot be better described in general than in the
words of Taylor:

  "Softly sublime, profusely fair."

Lugano is more savage, more free in its beauty. I was on it in a
high gale; there was a little clanger, just enough to exhilarate; its
waters were wild, and clouds blowing across the neighboring peaks. I
like very much the boatmen on these lakes; they have strong and prompt
character. Of simple features, they are more honest and manly than
Italian men are found in the thoroughfares; their talk is not so witty
as that of the Venetian gondoliers, but picturesque, and what the
French call _incisive_. Very touching were some of their histories, as
they told them to me while pausing sometimes on the lake.

On this lake, also, I met Lady Franklin, wife of the celebrated
navigator. She has been in the United States, and showed equal
penetration and candor in remarks on what she had seen there. She gave
me interesting particulars as to the state of things in Van Diemen's
Land, where she passed seven years when her husband was in authority
there.

I returned to Milan for the great feast of the Madonna, 8th September,
and those made for the Archbishop's entry, which took place the same
week. These excited as much feeling as the Milanese can have a chance
to display, this Archbishop being much nearer tire public heart than
his predecessor, who was a poor servant of Austria.

The Austrian rule is always equally hated, and time, instead of
melting away differences, only makes them more glaring. The Austrian
race have no faculties that can ever enable them to understand the
Italian character; their policy, so well contrived to palsy and
repress for a time, cannot kill, and there is always a force at work
underneath which shall yet, and I think now before long, shake off
the incubus. The Italian nobility have always kept the invader at a
distance; they have not been at all seduced or corrupted by the lures
of pleasure or power, but have shown a passive patriotism highly
honorable to them. In the middle class ferments much thought, and
there is a capacity for effort; in the present system it cannot show
itself, but it is there; thought ferments, and will yet produce a
wine that shall set the Lombard veins on fire when the time for action
shall arrive. The lower classes of the population are in a dull state
indeed. The censorship of the press prevents all easy, natural ways of
instructing them; there are no public meetings, no free access to them
by more instructed and aspiring minds. The Austrian policy is to allow
them a degree of material well-being, and though so much wealth is
drained from, the country for the service of the foreigners, jet
enough must remain on these rich plains comfortably to feed and clothe
the inhabitants. Yet the great moral influence of the Pope's action,
though obstructed in their case, does reach and rouse them, and they,
too, felt the thrill of indignation at the occupation of Ferrara. The
base conduct of the police toward the people, when, at Milan, some
youths were resolute to sing tire hymn in honor of Pius IX., when the
feasts for the Archbishop afforded so legitimate an occasion, roused
all the people to unwonted feeling. The nobles protested, and Austria
had not courage to persist as usual. She could not sustain her police,
who rushed upon a defenceless crowd, that had no share in what excited
their displeasure, except by sympathy, and, driving them like sheep,
wounded them _in the backs_. Austria feels that there is now no
sympathy for her in these matters; that it is not the interest of the
world to sustain her. Her policy is, indeed, too thoroughly organized
to change except by revolution; its scope is to serve, first, a
reigning family instead of the people; second, with the people to
seek a physical in preference to an intellectual good; and, third,
to prefer a seeming outward peace to an inward life. This policy may
change its opposition from the tyrannical to the insidious; it can
know no other change. Yet do I meet persons who call themselves
Americans,--miserable, thoughtless Esaus, unworthy their high
birthright,--who think that a mess of pottage can satisfy the wants of
man, and that the Viennese listening to Strauss's waltzes, the Lombard
peasant supping full of his polenta, is _happy enough_. Alas: I have
the more reason to be ashamed of my countrymen that it is not among
the poor, who have so much, toil that there is little time to think,
but those who are rich, who travel,--in body that is, they do not
travel in mind. Absorbed at home by the lust of gain, the love of
show, abroad they see only the equipages, the fine clothes, the
food,--they have no heart for the idea, for the destiny of our own
great nation: how can they feel the spirit that is struggling now in
this and others of Europe?

But of the hopes of Italy I will write more fully in another letter,
and state what I have seen, what felt, what thought. I went from
Milan, to Pavia, and saw its magnificent Certosa, I passed several
hours in examining its riches, especially the sculptures of its
façade, full of force and spirit. I then went to Florence by Parma
and Bologna. In Parma, though ill, I went to see all the works of the
masters. A wonderful beauty it is that informs them,--not that which
is the chosen food of my soul, yet a noble beauty, and which did its
message to me also. Those works are failing; it will not be useless to
describe them in a book. Beside these pictures, I saw nothing in Parma
and Modena; these states are obliged to hold their breath while their
poor, ignorant sovereigns skulk in corners, hoping to hide from the
coming storm. Of all this more in my next.




LETTER XVII.

FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF ROME IN THE SPRING.--THE POPE.--ROME AS
A CAPITAL.--TUSCANY.--THE LIBERTY OF THE PRESS THERE JUST
ESTABLISHED.--THE ENLIGHTENED MINDS AND AVAILABLE INSTRUCTORS OF
TUSCANY.--ITALIAN ESTIMATION OF PIUS IX., AND THE INFLUENCE,
PRESENT AND FUTURE, OF HIS LABORS.--FOREIGN INTRUSION THE CURSE OF
ITALY.--IRRUPTION OF THE AUSTRIANS INTO ITALY, AND ITS EFFECTS.--LOUIS
PHILIPPE'S APOSTASY TURNED TO THE ADVANTAGE OF FREEDOM.--THE GREAT
FÊTE AT FLORENCE IN HONOR OF THE GRANT OF A NATIONAL GUARD.--THE
AMERICAN SCULPTORS, GREENOUGH, CRAWFORD, AND THEIR PARTICIPATION IN
THE FÊTE.--AMERICANS GENERALLY IN ITALY.--HYMNS IN FLORENCE IN HONOR
OF PIUS IX.--HAPPY AUGURY TO BE DRAWN FROM THE WISE DOCILITY OF THE
PEOPLE.--AN EXPRESSION OF SYMPATHY FROM AMERICA TOWARD ITALY EARNESTLY
HOPED FOR.


Rome, October 18, 1847.

In the spring, when I came to Rome, the people were in the
intoxication of joy at the first serious measures of reform taken
by the Pope. I saw with pleasure their childlike joy and trust. With
equal pleasure I saw the Pope, who has not in his expression the signs
of intellectual greatness so much as of nobleness and tenderness of
heart, of large and liberal sympathies. Heart had spoken to heart
between the prince and the people; it was beautiful to see the
immediate good influence exerted by human feeling and generous
designs, on the part of a ruler. He had wished to be a father, and
the Italians, with that readiness of genius that characterizes them,
entered at once into the relation; they, the Roman people, stigmatized
by prejudice as so crafty and ferocious, showed themselves children,
eager to learn, quick to obey, happy to confide.

Still doubts were always present whether all this joy was not
premature. The task undertaken by the Pope seemed to present
insuperable difficulties. It is never easy to put new wine into old
bottles, and our age is one where all things tend to a great crisis;
not merely to revolution, but to radical reform. From the people
themselves the help must come, and not from princes; in the new state
of things, there will be none but natural princes, great men. From the
aspirations of the general heart, from the teachings of conscience
in individuals, and not from an old ivy-covered church long since
undermined, corroded by time and gnawed by vermin, the help must come.
Rome, to resume her glory, must cease to be an ecclesiastical capital;
must renounce all this gorgeous mummery, whose poetry, whose picture,
charms no one more than myself, but whose meaning is all of the past,
and finds no echo in the future. Although I sympathized warmly with
the warm love of the people, the adulation of leading writers, who
were so willing to take all from the hand of the prince, of the
Church, as a gift and a bounty, instead of implying steadily that it
was the right of the people, was very repulsive to me. The moderate
party, like all who, in a transition state, manage affairs with a
constant eye to prudence, lacks dignity always in its expositions; it
is disagreeable and depressing to read them.

Passing into Tuscany, I found the liberty of the press just
established, and a superior preparation to make use of it. The _Alba_,
the _Patria_, were begun, and have been continued with equal judgment
and spirit. Their aim is to educate the youth, to educate the
lower people; they see that this is to be done by promoting thought
fearlessly, yet urge temperance in action, while the time is yet so
difficult, and many of its signs dubious. They aim at breaking down
those barriers between the different states of Italy, relics of a
barbarous state of polity, artificially kept up by the craft of her
foes. While anxious not to break down what is really native to the
Italian character,--defences and differences that give individual
genius a chance to grow and the fruits of each region to ripen in
their natural way,--they aim at a harmony of spirit as to measures
of education and for the affairs of business, without which Italy can
never, as one nation, present a front strong enough to resist foreign
robbery, and for want of which so much time and talent are wasted
here, and internal development almost wholly checked.

There is in Tuscany a large corps of enlightened minds, well prepared
to be the instructors, the elder brothers and guardians, of the lower
people, and whose hearts burn to fulfil that noble office. Before, it
had been almost impossible to them, for the reasons I have named in
speaking of Lombardy; but during these last four months that the way
has been opened by the freedom of the press, and establishment of the
National Guard,--so valuable, first of all, as giving occasion for
public meetings and free interchange of thought between the different
classes,--it is surprising how much light they have been able to
diffuse.

A Bolognese, to whom I observed, "How can you be so full of trust when
all your hopes depend, not on the recognition of principles and wants
throughout the people, but on the life of one mortal man?" replied:
"Ah! but you don't consider that his life gives us a chance to effect
that recognition. If Pius IX. be spared to us five years, it will
be impossible for his successors ever to take a backward course. Our
nation is of a genius so vivacious,--we are unhappy, but not stupid,
we Italians,--we can learn as much in two months as other nations in
twenty years." This seemed to me no brag when I returned to Tuscany
and saw the great development and diffusion of thought that had taken
place during my brief absence. The Grand Duke, a well-intentioned,
though dull man, had dared, to declare himself "_an_ ITALIAN _prince_"
and the heart of Tuscany had bounded with hope. It is now deeply as
justly felt that _the_ curse of Italy is foreign intrusion; that
if she could dispense with foreign aid, and be free from foreign
aggression, she would find the elements of salvation within herself.
All her efforts tend that way, to re-establish the natural position of
things; may Heaven grant them success! For myself, I believe they will
attain it. I see more reason for hope, as I know more of the people.
Their rash and baffled struggles have taught them prudence; they are
wanted in the civilized world as a peculiar influence; their leaders
are thinking men, their cause is righteous. I believe that Italy will
revive to new life, and probably a greater, one more truly rich and
glorious, than at either epoch of her former greatness.

During the period of my absence, the Austrians had entered Ferrara.
It is well that they hazarded this step, for it showed them the
difficulties in acting against a prince of the Church who is at the
same time a friend to the people. The position was new, and they were
probably surprised at the result,--surprised at the firmness of the
Pope, surprised at the indignation, tempered by calm resolve, on the
part of the Italians. Louis Philippe's mean apostasy has this
time turned to the advantage of freedom. He renounced the good
understanding with England which it had been one of the leading
features of his policy to maintain, in the hope of aggrandizing and
enriching his family (not France, he did not care for France); he did
not know that he was paving the way for Italian freedom. England now
is led to play a part a little nearer her pretensions as the guardian
of progress than she often comes, and the ghost of La Fayette looks
down, not unappeased, to see the "Constitutional King" decried by the
subjects he has cheated and lulled so craftily. The king of Sardinia
is a worthless man, in whom nobody puts any trust so far as regards
his heart or honor; but the stress of things seems likely to keep him
on the right side. The little sovereigns blustered at first, then ran
away affrighted when they found there was really a spirit risen
at last within the charmed circle,--a spirit likely to defy, to
transcend, the spells of haggard premiers and imbecile monarchs.

I arrived in Florence, unhappily, too late for the great fête of the
12th of September, in honor of the grant of a National Guard. But
I wept at the mere recital of the events of that day, which, if it
should lead to no important results, must still be hallowed for ever
in the memory of Italy, for the great and beautiful emotions that
flooded the hearts of her children. The National Guard is hailed with
no undue joy by Italians, as the earnest of progress, the first step
toward truly national institutions and a representation of the people.
Gratitude has done its natural work in their hearts; it has made
them better. Some days before the fête were passed in reconciling
all strifes, composing all differences between cities, districts, and
individuals. They wished to drop all petty, all local differences, to
wash away all stains, to bathe and prepare for a new great covenant of
brotherly love, where each should act for the good of all. On that day
they all embraced in sign of this,--strangers, foes, all exchanged the
kiss of faith and love; they exchanged banners, as a token that they
would fight for, would animate, one another. All was done in that
beautiful poetic manner peculiar to this artist people; but it was the
spirit, so great and tender, that melts my heart to think of. It was
the spirit of true religion,--such, my Country! as, welling freshly
from some great hearts in thy early hours, won for thee all of value
that thou canst call thy own, whose groundwork is the assertion, still
sublime though thou hast not been true to it, that all men have equal
rights, and that these are _birth_-rights, derived from God alone.

I rejoice to say that the Americans took their share on this occasion,
and that Greenough--one of the few Americans who, living in Italy,
takes the pains to know whether it is alive or dead, who penetrates
beyond the cheats of tradesmen and the cunning of a mob corrupted
by centuries of slavery, to know the real mind, the vital blood, of
Italy--took a leading part. I am sorry to say that a large portion of
my countrymen here take the same slothful and prejudiced view as the
English, and, after many years' sojourn, betray entire ignorance of
Italian literature and Italian life, beyond what is attainable in a
month's passage through the thoroughfares. However, they did show,
this time, a becoming spirit, and erected the American eagle where
its cry ought to be heard from afar,--where a nation is striving
for independent existence, and a government representing the people.
Crawford here in Rome has had the just feeling to join the Guard, and
it is a real sacrifice for an artist to spend time on the exercises;
but it well becomes the sculptor of Orpheus,--of him who had such
faith, such music of divine thought, that he made the stones move,
turned the beasts from their accustomed haunts, and shamed hell itself
into sympathy with the grief of love. I do not deny that such a spirit
is wanted here in Italy; it is everywhere, if anything great, anything
permanent, is to be done. In reference to what I have said of many
Americans in Italy, I will only add, that they talk about the corrupt
and degenerate state of Italy as they do about that of our slaves at
home. They come ready trained to that mode of reasoning which affirms
that, because men are degraded by bad institutions, they are not fit
for better.

As to the English, some of them are full of generous, intelligent
sympathy;--indeed what is more solidly, more wisely good than the
right sort of Englishmen!--but others are like a gentleman I travelled
with the other day, a man of intelligence and refinement too as to the
details of life and outside culture, who observed, that he did not
see what the Italians wanted of a National Guard, unless to wear these
little caps. He was a man who had passed five years in Italy, but
always covered with that non-conductor called by a witty French writer
"the Britannic fluid."

Very sweet to my ear was the continual hymn in the streets of
Florence, in honor of Pius IX. It is the Roman hymn, and none of the
new ones written in Tuscany have been able to take its place. The
people thank the Grand Duke when he does them good, but they know well
from whose mind that good originates, and all their love is for the
Pope. Time presses, or I would fain describe in detail the troupe of
laborers of the lower class, marching home at night, keeping step as
if they were in the National Guard, filling the air, and cheering the
melancholy moon, by the patriotic hymns sung with the mellow tone and
in the perfect time which belong to Italians. I would describe the
extempore concerts in the streets, the rejoicings at the theatres,
where the addresses of liberal souls to the people, through that best
vehicle, the drama, may now be heard. But I am tired; what I have to
write would fill volumes, and my letter must go. I will only add
some words upon the happy augury I draw from the wise docility of the
people. With what readiness they listened to wise counsel, and the
hopes of the Pope that they would give no advantage to his enemies, at
a time when they were so fevered by the knowledge that conspiracy
was at work in their midst! That was a time of trial. On all these
occasions of popular excitement their conduct is like music, in such
order, and with such union of the melody of feeling with discretion
where to stop; but what is wonderful is that they acted in the same
manner on that difficult occasion. The influence of the Pope here is
without bounds; he can always calm the crowd at once. But in Tuscany,
where they have no such idol, they listened in the same way on a very
trying occasion. The first announcement of the regulation for the
Tuscan National Guard terribly disappointed the people; they felt that
the Grand Duke, after suffering them to demonstrate such trust and joy
on the feast of the 12th, did not really trust, on his side; that he
meant to limit them all he could. They felt baffled, cheated; hence
young men in anger tore down at once the symbols of satisfaction and
respect; but the leading men went among the people, begged them to be
calm, and wait till a deputation had seen the Grand Duke. The people,
listening at once to men who, they were sure, had at heart their best
good, waited; the Grand Duke became convinced, and all ended without
disturbance. If they continue to act thus, their hopes cannot be
baffled. Certainly I, for one, do not think that the present road will
suffice to lead Italy to her goal. But it _is_ an onward, upward road,
and the people learn as they advance. Now they can seek and think
fearless of prisons and bayonets, a healthy circulation of blood
begins, and the heart frees itself from disease.

I earnestly hope for some expression of sympathy from my country
toward Italy. Take a good chance and do something; you have shown much
good feeling toward the Old World in its physical difficulties,--you
ought to do still more in its spiritual endeavor. This cause is
OURS, above all others; we ought to show that we feel it to be so. At
present there is no likelihood of war, but in case of it I trust the
United States would not fail in some noble token of sympathy toward
this country. The soul of our nation need not wait for its government;
these things are better done by individuals. I believe some in the
United States will pay attention to these words of mine, will feel
that I am not a person to be kindled by a childish, sentimental
enthusiasm, but that I must be sure I have seen something of Italy
before speaking as I do. I have been here only seven months, but my
means of observation have been uncommon. I have been ardently desirous
to judge fairly, and had no prejudices to prevent; beside, I was not
ignorant of the history and literature of Italy, and had some common
ground on which to stand with, its inhabitants, and hear what they
have to say. In many ways Italy is of kin to us; she is the country
of Columbus, of Amerigo, of Cabot. It would please me much to see a
cannon here bought by the contributions of Americans, at whose head
should stand the name of Cabot, to be used by the Guard for salutes
on festive occasions, if they should be so happy as to have no
more serious need. In Tuscany they are casting one to be called the
"Gioberti," from a writer who has given a great impulse to the present
movement. I should like the gift of America to be called the AMERIGO,
the COLUMBO, or the WASHINGTON. Please think of this, some of my
friends, who still care for the eagle, the Fourth of July, and the old
cries of hope and honor. See if there are any objections that I do not
think of, and do something if it is well and brotherly. Ah! America,
with all thy rich boons, thou hast a heavy account to render for the
talent given; see in every way that thou be not found wanting.




LETTER XVIII.

REFLECTIONS FOR THE NEW YEAR.--AMERICANS IN EUROPE.--FRANCE, ENGLAND,
POLAND, ITALY, RUSSIA, AUSTRIA,--THEIR POLICY.--EUROPE TOILS AND
STRUGGLES.--ALL THINGS BODE A NEW OUTBREAK.--THE EAGLE OF
AMERICA STOOPS TO EARTH, AND SHARES THE CHARACTER OF THE
VULTURE.--ABOLITION.--THE YOUTH OF THE LAND.--ANTICIPATIONS OF THEIR
USEFULNESS.


This letter will reach the United States about the 1st of January; and
it may not be impertinent to offer a few New-Year's reflections. Every
new year, indeed, confirms the old thoughts, but also presents them
under some new aspects.

The American in Europe, if a thinking mind, can only become more
American. In some respects it is a great pleasure to be here. Although
we have an independent political existence, bur position toward
Europe, as to literature and the arts, is still that of a colony, and
one feels the same joy here that is experienced by the colonist in
returning to the parent home. What was but picture to us becomes
reality; remote allusions and derivations trouble no more: we see the
pattern of the stuff, and understand the whole tapestry. There is
a gradual clearing up on many points, and many baseless notions and
crude fancies are dropped. Even the post-haste passage of the business
American through the great cities, escorted by cheating couriers
and ignorant _valets de place_, unable to hold intercourse with the
natives of the country, and passing all his leisure hours with his
countrymen, who know no more than himself, clears his mind of some
mistakes,--lifts some mists from his horizon.

There are three species. First, the servile American,--a being utterly
shallow, thoughtless, worthless. He comes abroad to spend his money
and indulge his tastes. His object in Europe is to have fashionable
clothes, good foreign cookery, to know some titled persons, and
furnish himself with coffee-house gossip, by retailing which
among those less travelled and as uninformed as himself he can win
importance at home. I look with unspeakable contempt on this class,--a
class which has all the thoughtlessness and partiality of the
exclusive classes in Europe, without any of their refinement, or the
chivalric feeling which still sparkles among them here and there.
However, though these willing serfs in a free age do some little hurt,
and cause some annoyance at present, they cannot continue long; our
country is fated to a grand, independent existence, and, as its laws
develop, these parasites of a bygone period must wither and drop away.

Then there is the conceited American, instinctively bristling and
proud of--he knows not what. He does not see, not he, that the history
of Humanity for many centuries is likely to have produced results it
requires some training, some devotion, to appreciate and profit by.
With his great clumsy hands, only fitted to work on a steam-engine,
he seizes the old Cremona violin, makes it shriek with anguish, in his
grasp, and then declares he thought it was all humbug before he came,
and now he knows it; that there is not really any music in these old
things; that the frogs in one of our swamps make much finer, for they
are young and alive. To him the etiquettes of courts and camps, the
ritual of the Church, seem simply silly,--and no wonder, profoundly
ignorant as he is of their origin and meaning. Just so the legends
which are the subjects of pictures, the profound myths which are
represented in the antique marbles, amaze and revolt him; as, indeed,
such things need to be judged of by another standard than that of the
Connecticut Blue-Laws. He criticises severely pictures, feeling quite
sure that his natural senses are better means of judgment than the
rules of connoisseurs,--not feeling that, to see such objects, mental
vision as well as fleshly eyes are needed and that something is aimed
at in Art beyond the imitation of the commonest forms of Nature. This
is Jonathan in the sprawling state, the booby truant, not yet aspiring
enough to be a good school-boy. Yet in his folly there is meaning;
add thought and culture to his independence, and he will be a man of
might: he is not a creature without hope, like the thick-skinned dandy
of the class first specified.

The artistes form a class by themselves. Yet among them, though
seeking special aims by special means, may also be found the
lineaments of these two classes, as well as of the third, of which I
am now to speak.

This is that of the thinking American,--a man who, recognizing the
immense advantage of being born to a new world and on a virgin soil,
yet does not wish one seed from the past to be lost. He is anxious
to gather and carry back with him every plant that will bear a new
climate and new culture. Some will dwindle; others will attain a bloom
and stature unknown before. He wishes to gather them clean, free from
noxious insects, and to give them a fair trial in his new world. And
that he may know the conditions under which he may best place them in
that new world, he does not neglect to study their history in this.

The history of our planet in some moments seems so painfully mean
and little,--such terrible bafflings and failures to compensate some
brilliant successes,--such a crushing of the mass of men beneath, the
feet of a few, and these, too, often the least worthy,--such a small
drop of honey to each cup of gall, and, in many cases, so mingled that
it is never one moment in life purely tasted,--above all, so little
achieved for Humanity as a whole, such tides of war and pestilence
intervening to blot out the traces of each triumph,--that no wonder
if the strongest soul sometimes pauses aghast; no wonder if the many
indolently console themselves with gross joys and frivolous prizes.
Yes! those men _are_ worthy of admiration who can carry this cross
faithfully through fifty years; it is a great while for all the
agonies that beset a lover of good, a lover of men; it makes a soul
worthy of a speedier ascent, a more productive ministry in the next
sphere. Blessed are they who ever keep that portion of pure, generous
love with which they began life! How blessed those who have deepened
the fountains, and have enough to spare for the thirst of others! Some
such there are; and, feeling that, with all the excuses for failure,
still only the sight of those who triumph, gives a meaning to life or
makes its pangs endurable, we must arise and follow.

Eighteen hundred years of this Christian culture in these European
kingdoms, a great theme never lost sight of, a mighty idea, an
adorable history to which the hearts of men invariably cling, yet are
genuine results rare as grains of gold in the river's sandy bed! Where
is the genuine democracy to which the rights of all men are holy?
where the child-like wisdom learning all through life more and more
of the will of God? where the aversion to falsehood, in all its myriad
disguises of cant, vanity, covetousness, so clear to be read in all
the history of Jesus of Nazareth? Modern Europe is the sequel to that
history, and see this hollow England, with its monstrous wealth and
cruel poverty, its conventional life, and low, practical aims! see
this poor France, so full of talent, so adroit, yet so shallow and
glossy still, which could not escape from a false position with all
its baptism of blood! see that lost Poland, and this Italy bound down
by treacherous hands i