# The Homes of the New World/Letter XLI.

LETTER XLI.
Nahant, Massachusetts, August 1st.
A greeting and a kiss to you, my Agatha, on this cool, beautiful Sunday morning, which I am celebrating upon a rock in the midst of the sea, surrounded by glittering, dancing waves. I am with Mrs. B., in her cottage at Nahant, a little bathing-place a few miles north of Boston. The aristocracy of Boston have here their villas and cottages where they, for a couple of months in the year, enjoy the sea-air or bathing; and here, at the present moment, in these pretty dwellings, embowered by verdant, fragrant plants among the bare rocks, a select little party is assembled. Here is that splendid old Mrs. L. (the mother of Mrs. B.) in her cottage; here is Mr. Prescott, the excellent historian, with his family; the preacher Bellows, from New York; Mr. Longfellow, Mrs. S., with several other interesting persons, and the intercourse among them is easy and charming, with little dinner-parties or tea-suppers in the evenings. The Americans are in a high degree a social people, and they do not like to shut themselves up, or to shut their friends out.
I came hither that I might see Mrs. B. again, who was so infinitely kind to me; came hither from Boston, where I spent a week with my excellent friend, Dr. O., who, when he had made me strong as his patient, made me happy as his guest in his house, where I had merely one standing quarrel with him, and that was because he had not earlier made me acquainted with his wife, one of those happy, amiable characters, who are a fountain of joy and peace to all who surround them. Another singularly happy and affectionate married pair.
​I made two small excursions from Boston, one of which was to Concord, because I wished to see Emerson and Elizabeth H. once more, before leaving America for ever. I cannot exactly tell why I wished it, but my soul seemed to require it of me. I must see Emerson yet once more.
I reached Concord in the afternoon, and took up my quarters with Elizabeth H. We went together to Emerson's. Both he and his wife were from home. I went for a moment into Emerson's study, a large room, in which everything was simple, orderly, unstudied, comfortable. No refined sentiment of beauty has, as is the case at the Downings', converted the room into a temple, in which stand the statues of the heroes of science and literature. Ornament is banished from the sanctuary of the stoic philosopher; the furniture is comfortable, but of a grave character, merely as implements of usefulness; one large picture only is in the room, but this hangs there with a commanding power; it is a large oil painting, a copy of Michael Angelo's glorious “Parcæ.” The goddesses of fate, as there represented, are not horrible, they are too noble and beautiful for that, although inflexible. The one in particular, who holds the thread of life in her hand, is beautiful; she who holds the shears to sever the thread, looks up to the former with a questioning, compassionate expression, and the other replies by a smile of the most beautiful assurance and trust. Mortal cannot gaze upon it without resigning himself with confidence to the hands of the immortal, maternal powers.
Upon the large table in the centre of the room, at which Emerson sits and writes, just opposite the picture, lay a number of papers, but all in perfect order. I stood silent for a moment in the room. Emerson's spirit seemed to pervade its calm, pure atmosphere.
In the evening I saw Emerson at Elizabeth H.'s. He was kind and bright, like himself in his most amiable ​mood. I was to leave the following morning. He opposed this, however, most decidedly.
“Oh, no, no! You must not think of that!” said he, “I have been proposing to myself to drive you to one of our beautiful little forest lakes in the neighbourhood, and then you must see my mother, and receive her blessing!”
I do not know whether I have told you that Emerson has a mother, in whose countenance may be seen many features resembling those of her son. The old mother was now confined to her bed in consequence of a fall, by which she had broken her leg.
I could not resist Emerson's kindness and these words.
The following day, therefore, he called for me in a cabriolet, which he himself drove, and took me by the loveliest forest road to a little lake which lay in the bosom of the forest, like a clear, oval mirror, in a dark green frame. The place looked like a sanctuary of the kindly divinities of nature.
We talked a deal by the way; for I am always excited to conversation with Emerson in a calm and agreeable manner. Of our conversation on this occasion, I principally remember Emerson's reply to my question, whether he considered the intellectual culture of the New England States to have attained its acme, and if we might not see in these a type of the perfected American community?”
“By no means,” replied he; “there are at this time a number of Germanisms and other European ideas, nay, even ideas from Asia, which are now for the first time finding their way into the life of mind, and which will there produce new developments!”
Emerson evidently considers America intended to present under a higher metamorphosis those ideas which during the course of ages have been prefigured in other parts of the world.
As regarded the late political concessions which the Northern States made to the Slave States, the right of ​asylum to the fugitive slave, he expressed him in strong disapprobation, but still in his placid manner.
“Here is a spring famous for its excellent water,” said Emerson, as he pulled up near some lofty trees by the road-side. “May I give you a glass?”
I thanked him in the affirmative, and he alighted, fastened the reins to a tree, and soon returned with a glass of water clear as crystal from the spring.
A glass of water! How much may be comprised in this gift. Why it should become significant to me on this occasion I cannot say; but so it was. I have silently within myself combated with Emerson from the first time that I became acquainted with him. I have questioned with myself in what consisted this power of the spirit over me, when I so much disapproved of his mode of thinking, when there was so much in him which was unsatisfactory to me; in what consisted his mysterious magical power; that invigorating, refreshing influence, which I always experience in his writings, or in intercourse with him? After this cordial draught of clear water from the spring, given by his hand, I understood it. It is precisely this crystal, pure, fresh, cold water, in his individual character, in his writings, which has refreshed and will again and yet again refresh me.
I have opposed Emerson in thought with myself, and in conversation with others, who have blindly admired him. I shall oppose him also in public from the conviction within my own soul of the highest justice and necessity. But in long years to come, and when I am far from here, in my own native land, and when I am old and grey, yes, always, always will moments recur when I shall yearn towards Waldo Emerson, and long to receive from his hand that draught of fresh water.—For wine, warmth-infusing, life-renovating wine, I would go to another.
Emerson baptises in water; another there is who baptises with the spirit and with fire.
​I left Emerson with an unmingled sentiment of gratitude for what he has been to me. I may perhaps see other more beautiful and more perfect forms, but never shall I see his equal again.
During my stay in Concord I again enjoyed my intercourse with the intellectual Elizabeth H., who is possessed of great depth of feeling and knowledge; I also again saw Mrs. Channing, the younger sister of Margaret Fuller, now looking ten years older; so much had sorrow, for the tragical fate of her highly-gifted sister, weighed upon the young wife and mother.
I made another excursion from Boston, in company with the kind Miss P., to visit a seminary for teachers at West Newton, established by Horace Mann, as well as to greet once more and see Lydia Maria Child, who now resides in the neighbourhood of the seminary. I was present at a lesson in the institution, at which from fifty to sixty young girls, who are preparing themselves for instructors, were present. One of them ascended the lecturer's chair, the others being seated on benches in the large, light, airy hall. The subject of the lesson was the form of government of the United States, in which she examined the others. The young teacher was handsome, with every appearance of a gentlewoman, and with an extremely agreeable deportment and manner. When she descended from her elevated seat the others were encouraged to criticise her observations, or to point out any particulars in which she appeared to be in error. Several voices were raised in observation, one remarking that she had left the chair without any sign of acknowledgment to her audience. The young girl who next took her place had a very different manner, was not so handsome, nor had so much perhaps of the gentlewoman about her, but she was more ardent, more decided, and was evidently possessed of more than usual abilities. The subject of her lesson and examination was geographical ​statistics, and she gave it with a liveliness which animated her whole audience. She, too, descended, and was criticised in her turn. In this way the young female teacher is early accustomed to the usual consequences of publicity, and early accustomed also to pay that attention to herself in all respects which is so especially important, for the school-teacher. The outward demeanour, their movements, their gait, &c, all are subjects of observation and attention. Nothing must be allowed in the teacher which disgusts or excites ridicule in the scholar. Great numbers of young teachers are sent hence to the west and south of this vast country, where they are soon engaged by schools or—lovers.
After that I saw Horace Mann, the hopeful, meritorious man of education for the rising generation, and his agreeable young wife at their cottage. I wished to have had some earnest conversation with him on the insufficiency of schools as educational institutions, but I forgot myself in Lydia Maria Child's home and company, until the railroad train was just setting off, and I was then obliged to return to Boston.
That noble and refined woman and gifted authoress lives here on a little farm, not much unlike a Swedish peasant's wife, and not in her proper element. A pretty little Spanish child, one of the many whom Lydia Maria Child had rescued from want, lives here with her, and for her in heartfelt love. Friends surround her with affectionate solicitude. In North America, less than anywhere else, need people be solitary or neglected, unless they deserve to be so; and they who deserve many friends find them also.
During my stay in Boston I have been much interested by the new drawing-school for women, similar to that at Philadelphia, which is about to be established there by a Mr. Whitacker, from London—a man with all the philanthropy of England in his eyes. Many respectable and ​wealthy men are ready to aid in this institution by every means in their power, from the interest they take in the future prospects of young women. I was present during a lesson given in the school, and rejoiced heartily in the prospects which these schools open for thousands of young women, and for the beautifying of life in general I think of Sweden and Swedish girls, Swedish drawing-schools, Swedish art and manufactures, and grow enthusiastic, with many thoughts for the future.
It is now so cold, cheerless, and rainy in Boston as I have not seen it during the summer. Ever since the eclipse of the sun, it has been as cloudy and cold as with us in October. This American climate leaps continually from one extreme to another. I am as cold as in winter. In other respects I am more vigorous than I have ever been since I left home, and I need be so, to do all which I have still to do. Thus, for instance, I have been to-day in action, and engaged in conversation from seven this morning till half-past eleven at night, at five different places, some in and some out of Boston, with different persons, with whom I have had to enter into interesting conversations on theology, art, politics, &c. with gentlemen quite at home on all these subjects; but this has amused rather than wearied me. Among my more intimate acquaintance in Boston during the last winter, I have again met with an interesting lady, a Miss Parsons, of weak physical constitution, but of an unusually beautiful soul; that is to say, she is clairvoyant without sleeping, and can give the contents of a letter, or the character and state of the writer, merely by holding the letter closed in her hands, or pressing it upon her forehead. I would not believe in this species of clairvoyance at first; but have been obliged to believe in it after I had placed a letter from you in Swedish in her hand, without her having beforehand any knowledge of who had written the letter, or anything about you. Besides which, her character is ​far above any charlatanism. But this clear-sighted soul lives at the expense of the body which becomes, as it were, more and more transparent and spirit-like.
At the house of my good doctor I have again seen many of my dear Boston friends, and made some new and interesting acquaintances, among whom is the Unitarian minister, Dr. Garratt.
Monday.—I heard in Nahant church yesterday an excellent sermon by Mr. Bellows—one of those beautiful discourses from the very centre of Christianity; such a one as ought to be preached by the sea, the great sea in which all the individual waves rise and sink as in one general maternal bosom: as all separate Christian sects and creeds in the ocean of Christian love.
I had in the evening, the great pleasure of conversing with two cultivated and thinking women of my acquaintance, about the ladies of America; of that deficiency of many-sided development, that deficiency of instinct for the higher human interests, and of that want of ability for conversation which is found in so great a number. These amiable ladies, themselves distinguished in all respects, agree with me in many of my observations, and, like myself, cannot see any means of alleviating these deficiences, expecting by a more thorough system of cultivation, a more broad and general development of mind. And many are the signs which seem to make this inevitable, if woman will maintain the esteem of their own sex as well as that of the men. Men have in general, at this time, more gallantry than actual esteem for women. They are polite to them, ready to comply with their wishes; but they regard them evidently more as pretty children than as their reasonable equals, and do not give them their society when they seek strengthening food for soul and thought. The many beautiful examples which one meets to the contrary, of a perfect relationship between the two sexes, cannot be said to belong to the rule. ​Women, it is true, govern in the home and in social life, but that is frequently rather through their weaknesses than their virtues.
We spake of the signs which are indicative of the approach of a better state of things. We saw it gradually advancing in the public consciousness, and we considered also, as the forerunner of this, the Rights of Women Conventions, which have now been held annually for some years in the Northern States. Any extravagance in these merely marks a moment of transition which will cease of itself when the end is attained. Many true and profound thoughts were expressed in the last great Convention which was held last year in Massachusetts, and at which thousands of both men and women were present; excellent speeches were delivered, beautiful speeches, worthy of those dignified speakers.
Among these thoughts I in particular remember what was said on the life and culture of past ages in comparison with those of the present time.
“Occupations and objects in life do not now separate the sexes as was the case formerly. Man, except only in occasional instances, does not now live for the warlike profession; he does not now practise, above everything else, strength of body and achievements of arms; the two sexes have, in a more spiritual sphere of life, come nearer to each other in the home and in social life. Woman becomes more and more the companion and helpmate of man; his powers of soul will be crippled or elevated in proportion as he finds in her that which retards or animates them. And the circumscribing of her development must operate unfavourably upon himself.”
This was said—but far better than I have said it, by Mrs. Paulina Davis, the lovely president of the Convention, that pale lady with the noble features and countenance, and the rich golden hair, whom I saw at my good female doctor's, Miss H.
​The women of America have, as I have already said, their noblest types in the best of the American women. Nowhere can be found greater steadfastness to duty, or more energy of character, united to greater gentleness and grace.
I have here greatly enjoyed the pure, fresh sea-air, amid quiet, social intercourse with kind and cultivated, people, under circumstances which combined enjoyment with all the charms and comforts of life. The “cottage” of the New World is a type of the pretty and the convenient united. Nature and art unite here to embrace man. The verandah which runs round the house, with its leafy and flowery creepers, shadowy and fragrant, affords the most beautiful place for the quiet enjoyment, as well of nature as of society, during the most lovely weather.
I had imagined Prescott the historian, to be an old man, bent down by study and labour, during which he had become almost blind. I could scarcely believe my eyes when, on the contrary, I found in him a tall and lively gentleman, with far more of the youth than of the aged thinker in his appearance and manner. His conversation and manners denote genius; they are full of life.
We have now moonlight, and our drives in the evenings along the sea-shore, whilst the waves are foaming and roaring, are a great enjoyment. Mrs. B. is one of the most delightful of hostesses, and with little Julia ——, ah! they who had such a little girl!
White Mountains, New Hampshire, August 10th.
Again several pleasant days have passed since I last wrote you from Nahant.
I went from Nahant to Salem on the 8th of this month, and at the house of the Mayor there, Mr. S., was in company with, and shook hands with between fifty and ​sixty Salemites, among whom were some very pretty young witches, and some very kind friends of mine.
The next morning, rush went we—my clever and agreeable hostess Mrs. S., and myself—from Salem to Boston to see several persons; to be present at a lesson at Mr. Whitacker's drawing-school, and at another at Mr. Barnard's phonographic-school for little girls, who all conducted themselves like so many little miracles; to see Mrs. H., of Belmont near Charleston, yet once more, ah! for the last time. Then back to the O.'s to write notes, see people, arrange meetings, take leave, and a deal more. Then we rushed back again by railway to Salem to dinner and an evening party. Then, one day to write, and comparatively speaking to rest, amid quiet calls, promenades, and conversation about the witch-trials at Salem in the year 1692, during which trials the same species of phenomena were exhibited, as those which appeared among us in Dalecarlia a few years ago. Even in the free State of the Pilgrims a considerable number of innocent persons, especially women, were suspected of witchcraft, imprisoned, tortured, and several of them were put to death.
We are now, thank God, so far removed from such horrible scenes—more, however, by spirit than by time—that we speak of them as we speak of mad-house scenes, and make merry with them, when we are in good humour.
This was done last year in the city of Salem, on the great American day, the 4th of July. They celebrated it by a grand historical, humorous procession, in which also witch-trials, with their dramatis personæ, both witches and judges were introduced, in grotesque, old-fashioned costume.
Among the historical tableaux of the procession was a series also which exhibited the progress made in the means of communication within the last fifty years. First came ​a horseman, riding slowly along, with the following inscription, “From Salem to Boston in forty-eight hours' time.” Then came an old, heavy diligence, with the inscription, “From Salem to Boston in twelve hours' time.” After them came a railway train, inscribed, “From Salem to Boston in half-an-hour;” and lastly an iron wire of the electric telegraph, inscribed, “From Salem to Boston in no time at all!” The whole of the historical procession seemed to me one of the cleverest, most ingenious and amusing popular festivals which I ever heard of, and is said to have caused the greatest delight. The New World, which is altogether deficient in traditional popular festivals (with the exception of the beautiful Thanksgiving day), seems to have begun a new series of such, of a more rational purport, and with more food for sound thought and sentiment, than the European popular amusements, which are often utterly devoid of meaning. Among the American festivals I have heard some very beautiful ones mentioned; the so-called Floral-feasts, in the months of May and June, which seem to me like lovely children of the spirit of the New World. But still working-days are in this country so supreme, that people are hardly able to occupy themselves with festivals, at least as the product of a self-conscious, developed, popular life.
On the 7th of August I left Salem for the White Mountains, in company with Mrs. S. and her young son. Her voluntary offer to be my companion on this excursion was particularly agreeable to me, because I like her manners and her society, and I can, while I make this journey with her, avoid great parties and great companies, and can go about in freedom among the mountains, the waterfalls, and the forests, and see everything as I wish to see it, in the quietest and the most agreeable manner in the world.
The first day's journey, was to the Shaker community ​at Canterbury, on the Merrimac river in New Hampshire, which I wished to visit that I might see its Botanic Garden, and become somewhat better acquainted with this remarkable sect. I had letters to the chief family of this Shaker-community, from my little ladies' doctor in Boston, Miss H., who is frequently called in here as physician. We went by railway into New Hampshire, but left it again in a forest, where we were to take a carriage which should convey us to the Shaker-village at some miles distance. After various small misadventures, we obtained a cart in which was a seat, on which Mrs. S. and I could sit, our driver sitting half on a little barrel, and half on our knees. Thus proceeded we leisurely with a leisurely horse, along heavy, sandy roads, through the forest. It began to rain, first very small, then thicker and faster. We hoisted our umbrellas, and sate patiently for between two and three hours. Very glad, however, were we when at length, we perceived through the veil of rain, the cheerful, yellow two-storied houses of the Shaker-village, shining out on the green hills, through the rain, at some distance from us.
Pretty much like wet hens, we descended from our cart, and soon a hospitable door was opened to us, and two young sisters with gentle, pale countenances, led us into a great chamber, where everything was neat and delicate, and rubbed as bright as in a doll's house. I produced my letter, and immediately saw its good effect in an increased kindliness, and by the cordial manner in which Harriet H. was inquired after.
It was late when we arrived. The kind sisters gave us tea, with excellent bread and butter, preserves, &c., and at my request sang, the while, some of their spiritual songs. Their manner was tranquil, and though not cheerful, had a heartfelt gentleness and serenity in it. After this evening meal, we were conducted to our chambers, two large, light rooms, where nothing was unnecessarily ornamental, but ​where everything was neat and convenient. Sister Lavinia took us particularly under her charge.
Some streaks of light in the west at sunset had led me to hope for a bright morrow, and they did not deceive me. The brightest of suns shone the next morning over the Shaker-dwellings and the pastoral pleasing country which surrounded them, and a considerable portion of which belonged to their community. Not a single dwelling except their own was to be seen in that solitary region; and the whole scene which more immediately surrounded these, was altogether as quiet and as orderly, as if a life of labour did not exist there. It was altogether so calm and silent that it almost struck the mind as something spiritual.
After breakfast, which the sisters served in an excellent and bountiful manner, we were asked if we would like to see the school, and on answering in the affirmative, we were conducted into a spacious hall, in which about twenty little well-dressed girls were receiving instruction from a female teacher. This teacher, whom I will call Dora, was still quite young, and of singular beauty, neither had her complexion that paleness, so common among women of this community; her cheeks were fresh as the blush of morning, and more beautiful eyes than hers I never beheld.
She allowed the little girls to show us one of their symbolic games. They placed themselves in a wide circle, each one standing at three or four paces distant from the other. They then began to sing very sweetly little verses, which, though I cannot give with literal accuracy, were in substance as follows:—
* Must I here alone be standing,
* Having none whom I can love;
* Having none my friend to be,
* None who will grow fond of me?
On this each little girl approached the one nearest to ​another, and taking each other's hands, they laid them upon their hearts, and sung—
* Nay, my sister come thou nearer,
* And I will to thee be dearer,
* Be to thee a faithful friend;
* I will share with thee thy sadness;
* Thou shalt share with me my gladness!
* Every one hath here a place
* In a sisterly embrace.
With this the children all took hold of hands, and slowly moving around in a circle, repeated the while these last words, or something like them; and so doing, approached nearer and nearer together, wove their arms round each other like a garland of flowers, then sank upon their knees, singing the while a hymn, the first verse of which was—
* Heavenly Father, look down in mercy
* On this little flock,
* United in thy name!
* Give us of thy Holy Spirit, &c.
Whilst singing this hymn, and while still upon their knees, the children all kissed each other, after which they rose up and separated. The beautiful symbolic meaning contained in the whole game, its simplicity, and the beautiful grace with which it was performed; the thought of the difference in the spirit of this game to the bitter reality of many a solitary existence in the great community of the world, affected me deeply; I could not refrain from weeping. Mrs. S. was also very much affected. From this moment the Shaker-sisters were our friends and sisters, and embraced us with the greatest cordiality. Another beautiful song, worthy of serious attention, was sung very well by the children. It began “Speak gently,” and showed in several stanzas the effect of a gentle word. A song it was which all children ought to learn, and all grown people commit to memory.
It was an unexpected thing to me to meet with children ​here well practised also in grammar, writing, arithmetic, geography, and other ordinary branches of learning. As a reward for, and an inducement to industry and good behaviour, they receive small coloured cards, printed with proverbs or exhortations, among which an occasional spur to a praiseworthy ambition was not wanting.
From the school we went to the room where the fine weaving was done, for which this Shaker-community is celebrated.
We saw in one room a knitting-machine, which knit woollen jackets very cleverly, and could produce three in a shorter time than would be required for two pair of human hands to complete one. This machine, which seemed almost entirely to go on by itself, looked very curious and almost like an enchanted thing.
We next paid a visit to the Dairy, and to the room in which the cheese-making was done, and where a number of fresh, colossal cheeses testified to the good condition of the dairy-farm and all that appertained thereto. The handsome, clever sister who managed this department was so fond of her employment, that although she might have exchanged it for another, she had not done so, and had now been engaged in it for several years. From the Dairy we proceeded to the kitchen, where I saw six blooming and handsome young girls employed as kitchen-maids; they were at this moment engaged in baking large pies. These young girls were blooming as roses, and were ready to burst out into the gayest laughter when one gave them any occasion to do so.
“Look well after those sisters,” said I, jokingly, to the Sister President. And the six handsome girls laughed so loudly and merrily, that it was a pleasure to hear them.
From the medical garden, in which sarsaparilla and various other salutary herbs are cultivated, we went to the house where they were picked and kept, and where rosewater was being just now distilled.
​Finally, we were conducted into the sewing-room, which is at the same time the apartment where the aged sit together. Here, in this large, light, clean room, they sat in light-coloured and, for the most part white clothing, and with bright, kindly countenances also. There now assembled a great number of the sisters around us, and we had conversation and singing, and I read aloud to the sisters, by their desire, a Swedish psalm. I selected the one beginning, “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help,” which they thought sounded quite proper, and we joined them in singing various of their hymns, which were very beautiful, the time of which was marked, as is customary with them, by the waving of their hands. After that I made a sketch of Sister Dora, who consented on condition that I should not publish her name, “because,” said the sister mildly, “we are not accustomed to such things.” Dora belongs to the church-family of the community, and has had “inspiration,” it is said. Of a truth, a more thankful, inspired glance than hers I never beheld. And her pure beauty charmed me still more as I sketched that noble, refined profile. I made a sketch also of Lavinia. She had not Dora's severe style of beauty, but, on the contrary, the gentlest grace.
I cannot tell you how much I liked all that I saw of this little community during the whole of this day, or how admirable appeared to me the order and the neatness of everything, from the sisters themselves to everything which came under their hands. The male portion of the community were busied with the harvest, and I saw merely a few representatives of them. These seemed to me to have either a gloomy, almost fanatical expression, or to have very well-fed bodies, without any spiritual expression at all. The good sisters, who now regarded us as their friends, gave us many presents from their stores of valuable wares; implements of the work-box, fragrant ​waters, cakes of maple sugar, &c. And when on the following day we wished to pay for our entertainment, they replied, “we never take payment from our friends!” Nor would they receive the slightest sum.
A spacious travelling-wagon, with several seats, drawn by two fat horses, and driven by a stout Shaker-brother, whom no Shaker-dancing had been able to render less fat and jolly, made their appearance, and as some of the sisters said, that as it was good for their health to take a little exercise in the open air, they too drove with us to the railway station. A politeness could not possibly have been done in a more delicate or handsome manner.
And now behold us seated on buffalo-skins, Mrs. S. between two Shaker-sisters, and myself between two others, one of whom was the mild Lavinia, with two others seated behind us; and thus we take our way through the forest, whilst the Shaker-brother, a good-tempered, merry fellow, and the sisters' sing spiritual songs, some of which were very characteristic, as for instance:—
* Ye trees and shrubs be dancing,
* Ye rivers rise on high,
* The Prince of Peace is advancing, &c.
In this style we drove seven English miles through a solitary forest region; and in this style we arrived at the railway station. And here the sisters remained with us till the train came, amused by looking over the portraits and sketches in my sketching-books. As to paying anything for our journey hither, that was not to be thought of; “the sisters required exercise, and it had been a pleasure for them to be with us,” &c. It would not have been possible for people to behave with more naturally perfect delicacy than the Shaker-sisters behaved towards us. We separated with cordial shaking of hands. Many of these sisters evidently did not enjoy good health. I ascribe this less to their ​sedentary life than to their diet, which I do not believe to be wholesome. The eating of so much greasy pastry would be injurious to the soundest health in this country.
The Shaker-community of Canterbury consists of about five hundred persons. There are here a vast many more fine and beautiful countenances among the young women than in the community of New Lebanon. The costume was the same, and the customs the same also. Among their customs is that of using the pronouns “thee” and “thou” as with the Quakers; and “yea” and “nay” instead of “yes” and “no” They lay great stress upon a friendly and kind behaviour towards each other in word and deed. They endeavour in their large families to create that life of love, which is the most beautiful flower of the lesser family. Work and prayer and mutual good offices are the business of their daily life.
I have already described to you the form of government which prevails in these small communities.
The Shaker-community of Canterbury derives its principal income from its farming produce, its preparation of medicinal herbs for the pharmacopoeia, and the weaving of woollen goods.
The Shaker-communities are the most rational, and probably the happiest of all conventual institutions. I should be glad if similar ones were to be found in all countries. People may say what they will, and do the best they can in the great community, but there will always exist the need of places where the shipwrecked in life, the wearied of life, the solitary and feeble may escape as to a refuge, and where their good-will and their powers of labour may, under a wise and affectionate management, be turned to account; where the children of misfortune or misery may be brought up in purity and love; where men and women may meet and associate as brethren and sisters in goodwill and friendship, labouring all for the benefit and advantage of each other. And this is the case here. The ​Shaker-community is—admitting some small narrow peculiarities—one of the best small communities in the world, and one of the most useful in the great community.
This sect is in general not understood. People consider its dancing mode of worship to be the main principle, when in fact that might just as well be away, though I, for my part, would willingly retain it for its symbolic meaning, like the heavenly child's-play which I saw this morning.
There are seventy or eighty Shaker-communities in the free states of the Union, but that of Lebanon is the mother-community, and the others stand in a subordinate relationship to it. The sect does not appear to have increased of late years, indeed it has decreased. Every year solitary men or women, and even whole families, make their appearance to fill up the gaps which have occurred by death, or by members withdrawing from the association.
Towards the evening of this day we had a beautiful passage in the steamer across the large lake Wimpassioghee (the smile of the Great Spirit), which is scattered with small islands, and surrounded by craggy hills, and which presents splendid views of the White Mountains. Mount Washington, Mount Jefferson, Adams, La Fayette, and many other republican heroes beckoned to us in Olympian majesty, amid the splendour of the brightest August sun. The sunset was most magnificent above that quiet, smiling lake. When the sun had sunk behind the mountains we reached land, and found tolerably good quarters in the inn on the shore.
The evening was cool and bright, and it was a great happiness to me to find myself in a mountain district, and to be able to approach still nearer to the giants. Everything was still and silent around us. Late, however, in the evening a “mammoth party” arrived, forty or fifty persons, ladies and gentlemen, who, like ourselves were aiming at the White Mountains, and who took the hotel by storm. Mrs. S. and I were a little out of humour with ​the company, partly on account of the noise they made, and partly because of their “staring,” whenever we chanced to meet them. We, however, became thoroughly reconciled to them next morning, when they sent a greeting to me, and a request to sing to me on my departure.
Behold now, therefore, Mrs. S. and myself seated on buffalo-skins in the open travelling-wagon; and the company all assembled before the house, singing in quartette the touching and pretty song of “Sweet Home.” The singers stood on the piazza, and around them and our wagon were probably a hundred persons assembled, all with friendly, earnest countenances. It was Sunday morning; the sky clear and dark-blue, after thunder and rain yesterday; the atmosphere fresh and pure as that of my own native land.
I looked up to the bright sky, and thought of my home, of my beloved ones; and listening to that melodious song, “Sweet home! sweet home!” my heart swelled, and my eyes were filled with tears. I never received a more beautiful morning salutation. With this in my heart, and amid the waving and kissing of hands, we drove off in our open wagon into the verdant mountain region.
A New Hampshire farmer, strong as a giant, drove us, his horses being brisk and gentle, and his wagon like one of our ordinary carriers' wagons, resting, unlike those, on easy springs, so that it was extremely comfortable. We drove on, and our whole being was full of gladness, for the air was pure as crystal, the heat not extreme, there was no dust, and through the whole way, our road was bordered with beautiful forest, now fresh green after the rain, and before us we had the great mountains to which we were approaching nearer and nearer. There was now no snow upon their crowns, and they appeared rather green than white, and Mount Washington shrouded himself now and then in a wreath of light cloud. The scenery around us resembled the central portion of the northern mountain ​districts of Sweden. The pine-tree and the birch are indigenous here, and beneath them grow the blueberry, the raspberry, the fern, &c. Nevertheless, here also grow maize, the sugar-maple, the walnut, and chestnut-trees, with many other plants and trees which belong to a more southern climate. I cannot tell you how much I enjoyed this quiet, fresh journey in the open wagon, amid that tranquil, summer-rejoicing mountain district; or how fresh and agreeable it seemed to me, in comparison with a journey in a covered vehicle or a railway-carriage, which last, after the first two hours, becomes oppressively wearisome both to soul and body. But here we sat, awake and cheerful, the whole day through. Mount Washington stood before us the whole time like a landmark. This mountain, the largest and loftiest of the White Mountains, is not more than three thousand feet above the level of the sea, and has a very marked character. It is massive and pyramidal, but without an apex. The summit is a plateau, appearing at a distance like that which volcanoes present. But, unlike volcanoes, there is at the top of Mount Washington no crater, but a spring of fresh water. Deep furrows, as of mountain streams, plough the sides of the mountain. The other mountains, which link themselves in long array to this, bear a resemblance to it, but are less significant. All ascend in a gradual, pyramidal form, and have rounded tops or ridges.
The nearer we approached the great mountain, and the more the day declined, the cooler it became. The giants wrapped themselves in grey, misty mantles, and enfolded us in them also; they did not receive us kindly. Nevertheless, I felt kindly towards them, and with a sort of pleasure, allowed myself to be enclosed in their cold breath. My friend the moon ascended, and combated for awhile with the spirits of the mist, and looked down upon us from amid them with serene and kindly glances. My friend wished well to us, and that I knew perfectly ​well. She could not, however, perfectly penetrate those grey mantles.
We advanced deeper and deeper into the bosom of the mountains, by solitary roads, upon which we did not meet a single human being through the whole day. Already had the night set in. Whether it was the influence of the giants or not I cannot say, but I felt no sensation of weariness from the long day's journey, nay, indeed, I could very well have proceeded onward through the night. About midnight we reached our quarters, and it was with the utmost difficulty, and by making a loud noise at the door, that we could wake the landlord of the little inn. At last, however, we succeeded, and the landlord sleepy but kind and hearty, made us a fire, and prepared all that we required for refreshment and our night's rest.
11th.—A beautiful, bright morning, an enchanting morning ramble. Morning dew on the grass, in the soul, in life! The memory of the Vala Song, and its prophecy of the renovation of human beings born from dew! The heavens were a hallelujah—I have known such in the New World ! They live in my soul, enweave themselves into pictures of the imagination, long prefigured but treasured in the silent workshop of the soul. How strange! Beneath the wild heaven of South Carolina, I would merely enjoy, and, enjoying, sing praises. Here I enjoy also, but in another manner. The soul is more powerful, more alive It receives merely to give in return. It will produce—it will work. The dramatic life in the mountains, and in the mountain-streams, forests, clouds, and sunbeams, awaken the dramatic life within myself, and call into life pictures and scenes which have lain in swaddling-bands within my soul for fifteen or twenty years. They and I celebrate this morning as a festival of the resurrection. The groves are full of the songs of birds.
We shall in the afternoon proceed onward.
Franconia-Notch, La Fayette House, August 15th.
I have lived in the bosom of the White Mountains since I last wrote, heartily enjoying the companionship of the giants, the fantastic gambols of the clouds around them, the songs and the dances of the brooks in the deep glens, the whole of this bold and strong scenery, which made me feel as if at home in Sweden, amid the glorious river-valleys of Dalecarlia or Norrland. Yet the scenery here is more picturesque, more playful and fantastic, has more cheerful diversity, and the affluence of wood and the beautiful foliage in the valleys is extraordinary; you walk or drive continually between the most lovely wild hedges of hazel, elm, schumach (a very beautiful shrub, which is general throughout America), sugar-maple, yellow-birch, fir-trees, pines, and many other trees and shrubs; and on all sides is heard the singing, and the roaring of mountain-streams clear as silver, through the passes of the hills. It was so cold in certain parts of this mountain region, that it was with difficulty I could guide my pen, from the stiffness of my fingers. But both soul and body were hale, and Mrs. S. was equally vigorous and refreshing as the scenery itself, with all its heights and its singing brooks, its waving flowers and shrubs.
The peculiarity of these so-called White Mountains is, the many gigantic human profiles which, in many places, look out from the mountains with a precision and perfect regularity of outline which is quite astonishing. They have very much amused me, and I have sketched several of them in my rambles. We have our quarters here very close to one of these countenances, which has long been known under the name of “the old man of the mountain.” It has not any nobility of features, but resembles a very old man in a bad humour, and with a night-cap on his head, who is looking out from the mountain half inquisitive. Far below the old giant's face is an enchanting ​little lake, resembling a bright oval toilette glass, inclosed in a verdant frame of leafage. The old man of the mountain looks out gloomily over this quiet lake, and the clouds float far below his chin.
Another head is that of a helmeted warrior, with huge whiskers of magnificent moss, evidently one of Thor's good fellows. I flatter myself with having made the discovery of two faces. One, which is seen in the distance against the blue sky, is the countenance of a beautiful woman, glancing upwards with an expression of unspeakable melancholy. An old pine-tree stands like the sign of the cross above her head; the brow is surrounded as by a diadem of wavy hair. It is an extremely remarkable profile, especially for the soft beauty of the mouth and chin. Below this noble countenance, if you step back a few paces, another presents itself, ugly and cruel, with a great wart on its forehead. Evidently a wicked giant, who keeps a beautiful princess in captivity! I caught glimpses of several other countenances, and should certainly have traced them out if I had remained longer in company with the giants.
The Indians are said to have worshipped these faces, and to have offered sacrifices to them as to divinities; they are also said to have many legends concerning them. The conquerors and successors of the Indians have not left here any other traces than of some tragical events.
One place is called “Nancy Bridge,” from a young girl who was found here frozen to death. She was the daughter of a farmer in the neighbourhood, and had one evening a quarrel with her lover, in consequence of which he left her in anger. She followed him in a state of desperation, and was overtaken by night in a snow-storm. The next morning she was found frozen to death, and her lover became insane.
Not far from this place in the valley stands the now deserted “Wiley's House,” as it is called. A few ​years ago a large family dwelt here. One night they were aroused from sleep by a horrible noise and fall, and which was evidently the crash of an avalanche, descending from the mountain in the direction of the house and which would overwhelm it. The family rushed out in the dark night to find a place where they believed they might escape the danger. But the avalanche took precisely that direction, and overwhelmed the whole fugitive family, consisting of nine persons. Hawthorne has taken this tragical incident as the subject of one of his loveliest tales,—“The Ambitious Guest.”
It is now the custom to ascend the mountain from which the avalanche fell, to obtain from its top a view of the valley. And just now has a travelling wagon, drawn by six horses, and conveying from twenty to thirty persons, driven at full speed from the hotel up the mountain. Mrs. S. and I declined to join the party, as I have also declined to ascend Mount Washington, which is done on horseback, and with incredible difficulty, in order to see—frequently nothing, and under the most favourable circumstances, that is if there are no clouds—a confused view of land and water.
The whole of this mountain district is very wild, and there is scarcely a dwelling to be seen, excepting the hotels for travellers. It is, however, overflowing with noisy unquiet company, who do not seem to understand any other mode of enjoying nature than talking, laughing, eating, drinking, and all kinds of noisy pleasures. They post up the mountain laughing at full gallop, and come down again at full gallop. Champagne corks fly about at the hotels, gentlemen sit and play at cards in the middle of the day, and ladies talk about dressmakers and fashions. How unlike is this thoughtless life to that of nature, where the clouds come down as if to converse with the mountain, sometimes speeding over them like airy dragons, sometimes floating around them caressingly ​with garlands and light sylph-like forms, which moisten their forests with soft dewy veils; whilst in the valley below, the little streams grow and sing, and trees and flowers waft over them their blessing as they speed along their course; and above all this the play of light and shadow; sunbeams in the water-falls which leap from the mountain; the mighty rock-visages, the little twittering birds—that is life!
The senseless rioting of man in the midst of this grandeur of nature makes me almost sad for my kindred. And yet when I was young I did not understand how to enjoy life and nature in any other way. The inclination was not wanting, but there was want of education, and amid all that noisy merriment a vacuity was felt.
People seek for the spiritual champagne, but they mistake what it is.
The true has the same relation to the ordinary that Bacchus Dithyrambus has to Silenus.
Yet there were also some true worshippers of the great goddess. One day we met a father and his little daughter. They had been botanising in the woods, and showed us several beautiful vacciniums, as well as a monotropa, which has merely one single flower, and is here called the Indian pipes. The father and daughter looked gentle and happy. It was a beautiful and perfect little picture.
Mrs. S. and I. are also of that class which silently receives the great spectacle into a thankful mind; now sitting beside the silver cascades for whole hours, now wandering on solitary rambles of discovery, among the romantic mountain gorges.
We have this afternoon rambled up to the Flume. This is a narrow chasm, between two lofty granite walls, through which a stream pours in almost a direct line upwards of eight hundred feet, when it falls in a cascade from a height of six hundred feet. Along the front of one of the rock-walls, our host, in true Yankee fashion, ​had carried a pathway formed of pieces of timber, stones, branches which—did not resemble anything, but along which people to their astonishment could walk quite safely, and without the least difficulty, if they steadied themselves with one hand against the rock wall. Only a few days ago he had carried a path over the stream fifty feet higher up. At the point where it ceased we found ourselves near to an immense round block of stone which had fallen into the chasm and become fixed, so that it formed above it a kind of curtain. Beyond the gloomy gorge, which looked almost black, we saw up aloft the stream hurl itself from the left hand into the mountain chasm, in a strong stream, clear as crystal. Whence came it? That was impossible to say, but the sun shone brightly upon it, and over it a little birch-tree waved its soft, light green branches. The source of the dark river lay in light. It gladdened me, and all the way louder than that singing waterfall, sang and sported within my soul scenes and conversations which I will relate to you at home.
All this scenery and this country are refreshing, wild, and picturesque. There are many “lions” among the mountains, and a printed card which I received from our host of La Fayette House, promises—
“An echo from the cannon every evening on the lake.”
But I have already described sufficient.
We shall now proceed from the White Mountains of New Hampshire to the green hill, Vermont.
Burlington on Lake Champlain, Vermont, August 19th.
I now write to you from a beautiful house on the shores of the Lake Champlain, which has one of the most glorious views over the water and the mountain region which I have ever seen since the Lake of Geneva, ​in Switzerland. Nature is on a grander scale there; nor does the mountain of Aderundack now before me in Western New York, nor yet the green hills of Vermont, aspire to the height of the Alps; but their forms are picturesque, combined with a certain degree of grandeur and boldness, and over the whole bold and cheerful district now shines a beautiful August sun, declining towards its setting, and filling the clouds with an indescribable golden splendour. The mountain called Le lion couchant seems possessed of life, and about to rise up in the splendid glow—a magnificent giant form. And there are many other mountains in this neighbourhood, which possess strongly-marked symbolic shapes.
We, Mrs. S. and myself, are at the house of the ex-president of the academy, Mr. W., where I was kindly invited by both father and daughters. It is a noble and beautiful family, in which domestic devotion is practised, and where a mother only is wanted. This mother has now been dead two years, and is yet tenderly sorrowed for by her children, three sons and three daughters, all agreeable and highly-gifted young people. The father of the family, a stately, elderly gentleman, and strict Puritan, four ells in height, I fancy (and on whose arm as we walked together I hung like a swing in a tree), has a strongly-marked countenance, and keen, but kind eyes; he is a firm whig, and not favourable to the democrats; but in all other respects an extremely polite and agreeable gentleman, very entertaining to me in conversation, from his perfect knowledge of the ecclesiastical state of the country, from the clearness of all his views, though I could not accord with them all, and his agreeable manner of communication. The house is a villa near the city, and is possessed of all the charm and comfort of an Anglo-American home.
Yesterday we went on a pleasure party across the lake to Aderundack mountain, on the New York shore. The day ​was beautiful, so also was the excursion amid the scenery of the rapid though shallow little river Ausable, where the rocks present the appearance of regular inaccessible fortress-walls of a most remarkable character. I should, however, have enjoyed it all much more if I had not been called upon to reply to so many useless questions. There was one lady in particular, with a sharp, shrill voice, who tormented me in this style;—“Where are you intending to go when you leave this? Whence did you come from, hither? With whom did you stay there? Who did you see at their house?” and so on.
Oh! that people were but a little more like the objects of nature, that they approached each other for some definite purpose, and had a pleasure in influencing each other by silent communication of this; how much more would they then allure from us, how much more would they then know of us than by these senseless, merely outward questionings, and which the better class in this country reprobate and ridicule as much as any foreigner whatever. Neither was there a want in this pic-nic of persons such as I have just wished for. There was in particular one charming young lady of very intellectual character, and as fresh as the singing brook or the waving tree. It was an agreeable invigoration to me to sit by her, to look at her, to listen to her conversation which was overflowing with soul.
Whenever I take a fancy to a lady, and we are mutually attracted to each other, it generally happens that I very soon learn something of her biography. In that of this amiable young lady I was struck with the following:
She was overwhelmed by a severe and crushing affliction; she felt that she must either yield to it or—travel away from it, from her own thoughts, from herself. Without any fixed plan or any other object than to get away, she seated herself in a railway carriage and let the ​train convey her out into the wide world. The trees waved, and beckoned her on into the world; the clouds advanced before her, and she followed; and as one new object exchanged itself for another, her spirits grew lighter, and the whole tone of her mind improved. She could think more freely; life and everything assumed a brighter aspect. After a journey of merely a few days, she was able to return home to her parents with recovered self-possession, and peace of mind. And now—two years later—she was amazed at the amount of happiness which she was capable of enjoying.
“The time of silent sighs is past,” said Geijer, on one occasion. Ah! there is much yet wanted for that; but this is certain, that the facility there is for a change of scene, for the receiving of new impressions, and the ease with which they are imparted, approximates this time. In a country where railroads and steamboats intersect the land in all directions, and enable people to fly through the world, there is no need for them to grow mouldy as it were, or to grow sour from sitting still.
August 20th.—Pity that these days of rest in this lovely home, among its kind inmates, are now drawing to a close. I have heartily enjoyed the glorious prospects, and the pomp of the sunsets which I have witnessed from my window. These lake districts are celebrated for their magnificent sunsets. Nor have I anywhere else seen such picturesque clouds, nor such splendid transitions of colour; there is in them a joyousness and a play of colour altogether unlike the soft and mild splendour of the sky of the south. The peculiar outline of the mountains is also very attractive to me, and Le lion couchant becomes apparently every day more animated. Lake Champlain has received its name from the brave and wise Frenchman, Champlain, who first discovered and then colonised this part of the country. Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont were, at the commencement, peopled from France; and have to ​thank French missionaries, and French colonists for their first cultivation. Of this but little now remains except the names of places and rivers, and some Catholic seminaries. Vast forests, large lakes and mountains are the primeval features of these States; agriculture, the breeding of cattle, and the felling of timber, are their principal occupations. One beautiful minor branch of trade is the preparation of maple-sugar, which is in considerable demand. The maple-tree is tapped for its sap, as the birch-tree with us, and the sugar is formed into small cakes of a brown colour, and very sweet flavour.
I saw yesterday evening, at this house, a great assembly of the society of Burlington; cheerful and agreeable countenances were there—many such among the young.
There was in the company a universally beloved and esteemed schoolmistress, who had from her youth upwards laboured alone for herself and her family. She had done this so successfully as to be able to educate several younger brothers and sisters; to pay the family debts; maintain her aged mother; and finally, to build her a dwelling-house. After having accomplished all this she was now, at the age of thirty, about to be married herself to a man to whom she had long been engaged. She could now think about her own happiness, about her own house and home. The universal sympathy which seemed to have been excited, and the joy with which I heard all this related, speak highly for the rest of the community by whom the beautiful life and happiness of one humble individual is so much appreciated.
Saratoga, August 22nd.
I have now come hither from the society of the White and Green Mountains, from the world-despising Shakers, to the most fashionable, the worst and most worldly place in the United States, just to glance at and receive an impression of its life for my panorama of the New World.
​We left Burlington yesterday. Many of my new friends accompanied us by steamer across the lake, and our polite host, the ex-president and his only daughter—a dearly beloved, but physically delicate, young girl—came on hither, where they will remain a couple of days with us. The picture of that romantic lake and the colossal reposing granite lion, which in the setting sunlight seemed to increase in size, whilst it receded still farther and farther into the dim distance, is one which I shall ever retain in my mind among the most beautiful natural scenes of America. We reached Saratoga, in the western portion of New York, in the evening, and made that same evening our appearance in the public saloon.
Several couples, ladies and gentlemen, were promenading round and round in the middle of the room beneath the brilliant chandeliers. One couple in particular attracted our attention. It was a very handsome young girl with very beautiful and quite bare shoulders, and a young man, elegant and handsome also. They were, it was said, the lovers of the present season. Among the elderly company was one handsome old lady, who was said to be very like Mrs. Martha Washington, and who was dressed in the same old-fashioned style, which was so very becoming to her that she looked in this costume both original and extremely well. I, who am very fond of a little costume, and who would like that every person should dress themselves according to their individuality, whether of figure or fancy, was greatly amused by the assembly, and as I chanced to meet there many new and old acquaintance, I was not only amused, but soon tired and obliged to leave.
This evening, however, there is to be the great ball of the season, to which I am invited, and whither I shall go to see all that is to be seen. This season is said not to be very brilliant, owing to the coldness and wetness of the weather. It rains now.
​23rd.—Now I have seen all that is to be seen, namely, the great ball, and that is not such a very great ball after all. There were not many people, and among the people nothing remarkable, excepting some half-dozen tasteful and lovely toilettes. It would be impossible to conceive anything more harmonious and elegant, without the slightest showiness or extravagance. The ladies who wore them were also handsome and agreeable, and had in their costume adopted the style which best suited them. I was least pleased with the principal belle and dancer of the ball, because she was so very angular in figure and style, and her dancing was so abrupt, and the wreath of red Provence-roses which she wore was placed on her head with so little grace, that I could only wonder at her. Neither did the gentlemen dance well; the polka was singularly ungraceful. It was painful to me to see some pale little girls tricked out like grown people, and old before their time. To take children out of their childhood is to destroy the whole of their future.
One of the gentlemen at the ball had taken it into his head that I did not properly appreciate Gerard College at Philadelphia, and took upon himself to be my instructor on the subject of this college, which he maintained to be unparalleled in the whole world. I observed that such institutions were to be met with also in Switzerland and France. But no, not wholly such; there were no institutions in Europe altogether like this American one, which was vastly superior to all others, as he would now show me.
I felt myself indescribably incapable of learning, and sighing, bethought myself of Solomon's words, “that there was a time for all things,” wished to look quietly at the ball, and was very glad, when some new and agreeable acquaintance put an end to the lecture.
And it has often happened to me thus; just as I have had one instance of American assumption, the very ​next moment I meet with another instance of American sense and forbearance.
An elderly gentlemen at Saratoga, who appeared to be in ill health, but whose countenance was very agreeable, asked me with a diffident expression whether I really thought that the people of America were happier than those of Europe?
After so many self-conceited questions about America, it was a real refreshment to me, and I was glad that I could reply that I believed there was more hope here than elsewhere, and in that alone consisted a greater happiness.
Spite of the many examples I have had of American criticism on Americans, I cannot deny being sometimes reminded of the words of an Englishman: “I will not say that the Americans do not do many great things, but they are not done in an heroic way. And it has sometimes appeared to me that that which this people need most to make them really great is, a high-minded dissatisfaction with themselves.”
But is this to be found among Englishmen or Frenchmen? Is it possessed by any nation excepting in its noblest representatives? And such are not wanting here, as I know by frequent experience.
The illumination of the public buildings in the evening at Saratoga was tasteful. The supper and the arrangements of the ball showed care and good taste. Our sweet Vermont flower, Miss N., was unable, more was the pity! to be with us this evening. I took leave of her and her father with regret; very sorry not to be able to accept his invitation to be present with him at a grand synod of the Presbyterian Church, which will be held next month in Maine.
New York, September 4th.
Ah! my child, what a whirl of changing scenes, occupation, and engagements, have not the latter few days ​been! I could scarcely collect my faculties, much less take pen quietly in hand, and even now I am writing on flying foot, like Mercury, if I may so say, ready to be carried off at a moment's warning, or by kind friends. Nevertheless, I must give you shortly, and in great haste, a little account of my proceedings.
From Saratoga we went to Lennox, in Massachusetts, where, according to arrangement, I met my excellent friends the O.'s, from Boston. I here also parted with my agreeable travelling companion, Mrs. S., and her husband, who had kindly met us by the way.
The country around Lennox is romantically lovely, varied with wood-covered hills, and the prettiest little lakes. Amid this scenery have Catherine Sedgewick and Nathaniel Hawthorne their rural homes. I had been invited to both, and I wished to see both. I spent four and twenty hours with the excellent and amiable Catherine Sedgewick and her family, enjoying her company and that of several agreeable ladies. There were no gentlemen; gentlemen, indeed, seemed to be rare in social circles of this neighbourhood. But they were less missed here than is generally the case in society, because the women of this little circle are possessed of unusual intellectual cultivation; several of them endowed with genius and talents of a high order. Fanny Kemble has her home here when she resides in America; at the present time she is in England. The scenery is beautiful; these ladies enjoy it and each other's society, and life lacks nothing with the greater number.
I am, in a general way, struck with the excess of ladies, and the scarcity of gentlemen in the homes of the lesser cities of the Eastern States. The gentlemen are attracted to the larger cities, or to the great West, to carry on business, to construct railways, or to acquire wealth in one way or another. Many solitary ladies are met with in these Eastern States, who are neither wanting in ​charms nor endowments of soul, and yet who grow old unmarried. I have heard many of these wish for themselves a wider sphere of activity, the opportunity for leading a more cheerful and more generally useful life. The old lament over the stagnation and the heaviness of life, which I heard in Europe, is repeated here also. It ought not to be so in the young New World.
I spent an extremely agreeable day with Miss Sedgewick, and one evening with Hawthorne, in an endeavour in converse. But whether it was his fault or mine, I cannot say, it did not succeed. I had to talk by myself, and at length became quite dejected, and felt I know not how. Nevertheless, Hawthorne was evidently kind, and wished to make me comfortable—but we could not get on together in conversation. It was, however, a pleasure to me to see his beautiful, significant, though not perfectly harmonious head. The forehead is capacious and serene as the arch of heaven, and a thick mass of soft, dark-brown hair beautifully clusters around it; the fine deep-set eyes glance from beneath well arched eyebrows, like the dark but clear lakes of the neighbourhood lying in the sombre bosom of mountain and forest; the nose is refined and regular in form; the smile, like that of the sun smiling over the summer woods; nevertheless, it has a bitter expression. The whole upper portion of the countenance is classically beautiful, but the lower does not perfectly correspond, and is deficient in decided character.
Immediately in front of Hawthorne's house, lies one of those small clear lakes with its sombre margin of forest, which characterise this district, and Hawthorne seems greatly to enjoy the view of it, and the wildly wooded country. His amiable wife is inexpressibly happy to see him so happy here. A smile, a word from him conveys more to her than long speeches from other people. She reads his very soul, and—“he is the best of husbands.” ​Rose, the youngest child, is still on the mother's breast. Hawthorne's house is a happy, quiet little abode, embracing a beautiful family life.
At the rural inn where I was staying with my friends, the O.'s, also resided as guests several young girls for the benefit of country air and life. There was also a handsome and still youthful mother, with five handsome daughters. I one morning asked every one of these what she wished for as her ultimatum in life. Every one replied by mentioning some tolerably indifferent occupation and condition of life. I reproached them with not being candid, and asked them, whether in their conscience they would not reply, as an amiable young girl had done to whom I had once put the same question, “To be married, and to see all my friends happy around me?” The young girls laughed, and two of them said, “Yes, if the right man came.” And this reply is characteristic of the young American woman's state of life and feeling. These young girls, indulged by every one, enjoying their life and their liberty, without compulsion or restraint of any kind, are not likely to be anxious, or to trouble themselves about the circumstances of their lives. Yet they will not say, “no,” when “the right man comes.” And for many young girls he comes quite too soon; at least so it seems to me in many cases where they are married as soon as they cease to be children. I have heard of a young girl who was married at fourteen, and then was sent by her husband to a girls' school.
I paid a visit with my friends on Sunday to the Shaker community at New Lebanon, which is merely a few miles distant from Lennox. We were again there in a great assembly; saw precisely the same figures in the dance, and heard the same kind of discourse and singing as I had heard a year before. The same friendly Shaker sisters brought forward benches for the spectators; the same elder Evans stood up and delivered the same kind of ​reproving sermon. Everything had stood still; everything stood exactly at the same point, or moved in the same circle.
During my stay in this part of the country it was very cold. The stalks of the potatoes in the potato fields were quite destroyed by frost. The wind was keen and full of a frosty feeling. I never remember in Sweden to have felt it so cold in the month of August.
I went with the O.'s from Lennox to New York, through the beautiful Honsatonia Valley, the wonderfully picturesque, and sometimes splendidly gloomy scenery of which not all the rattle, and the dust, and the smoke of the railway, could prevent me from seeing, though I cannot say enjoying, so much does the mind become confounded by this mode of travelling.
Not far from New York we removed into another train, as long as a long street, and down which we wandered through lines of people, from one carriage to another, before we could find places. This moving street was a train conveying certainly a thousand persons. By this we arrived at New York, nor was I sorry with it, to bid farewell to American railway trains. Excellent as they are in many respects, especially by the convenience they are to all, and by their low prices, equally reasonable to all, they are fatiguing in a high degree. After the first two hours there is an end of all pleasure in travelling, and one sinks into a suffering and stupid state; one feels oneself not a human being, but a portmanteau, and I, for my part, cannot conceive a less beneficial or pleasurable mode of travelling. One cannot enjoy a mouthful of fresh air. If the quantity of smoke and dust could be diminished, it would be a great blessing to the travellers. The European railway trains, of which I have any experience, are all greatly superior to the American in this respect.
At New York I parted with the O.'s. Ah! it was ​painful for me to part with these friends, thinking, probably, that I might never see them more; my kind physician, my beloved Mary Anne, his wife! And to the last moment they overwhelmed me with proofs of love—I cannot call it any thing else. Foremost among these I reckon the directions which he has given for the management of your health, according to the information I have given him of your state, and the ample supply of homœopathic medicines which he has provided both for you and me.
Thus he and she—ah, my Agatha, there are little affectionate motherly or sisterly attentions and kindnesses which are invaluable to the stranger in a foreign land, and which affect me more than large gifts; and I have to thank her for such services, as well as many other motherly-hearted women, not only in America but in Cuba! When think how their hands laboured for me, how they cared for me to the most minute details, I feel that I must press those hands to my heart and to my lips. I shall always see in memory her kind, beautiful countenance, his grave eyes, with their glance so full of sentiment, and I shall most certainly behold them again at—the resurrection. It cannot be otherwise. The expression of such spirits cannot die.
“There is a natural body, and there is a spiritual body,” says St. Paul.
Among the friends who met me in New York was Professor de V., from Charlotte's Ville. But no longer full of cheerfulness. His beautiful home was now a house of mourning. His young wife, my beloved hostess there, had died in giving birth to her first child. I was most sincerely grieved for him and his motherless infant.
I spent some days at New York in making a closer acquaintance with that portion of the life of the great city which belongs to its night-side, to the dark realm of shadows and of hell, as it exists on the earth. I wandered through it, however, accompanied by an angel of light. ​I cannot otherwise speak of the Quaker-lady who accompanied me, for her countenance was bright and beautiful as the purest goodness, and above her mild blue eyes arched themselves brows, as bright as must have been those of the god Balder, they resembled merely a bright, golden line.
Mrs. G. is the daughter of the celebrated old Quaker, Isaac Hopper. The daughter has inherited from the father that firm spirit of human love, and that steadfastness of character which neither shrinks nor turns back from any impediment on the path which she has resolved to pursue. A great portion of her time is occupied in caring for the unfortunate, the guilty, and the prisoner, and so universally known and valued is her activity in these respects, that all prisons, all public benevolent institutions, are open to her, and whoever walks at her side through the abandoned haunts of New York may feel himself in safety. Her bright, and mild countenance is known even in the darkest places as a messenger of light.
I went with her one day through that part of New York called the Five Points, because I wished to see this region, in which the rudest and the most degraded portion of the population of the city were thronged together, probably through the attraction which causes like to seek like. Not long ago it was unsafe for a stranger within these purlieus. But the Methodists of New York conceived the divinely bold idea of building a church to God in the heart of this central point of vice and misery. They hired a house, sent a minister to reside there, established schools, woork-rooms, &c., which would give ample space for “the other master” The contest between good and evil has just begun in the Five Points, and already several signs betoken victory.
The Five Points is one of the oldest portions of New York, and received its name from five streets which open ​here into a large square. These streets, and especially the square, are the haunts of the extremest misery of that great city. Lower than to the Five Points it is not possible for fallen human nature to sink. Here are public dens of prostitution, where miserable women keep so-called “fancy-men,” and “fancy-women.” Quarrels and blows, theft and even murder, belong to the order of day and night. There is in the square, in particular, one large, yellow-coloured, dilapidated old house, called “the Old Brewery,” because formerly it was employed as such. This house is properly the head-quarters of vice and misery. And the old brewer of all the world's misery, the Evil One himself, has dominion there at this day.
We, Mrs. G. and myself, went alone through this house, where we visited many hidden dens, and conversed with their inhabitants. We considered it better and safer to go about here alone than in company with a gentleman. Neither did we meet any instance of rudeness nor even of incivility. We saw young lads sitting at the gaming-table with old ruffians; unfortunate women suffering from horrible diseases, sickly children, giddy young girls, ill-tempered women quarrelling with the whole world, and some families, also we saw, who seemed to me, wretched rather through poverty than moral degradation. From unabashed, hardened crime, to those who, sinking under the consequences of vice, are passing down to death—without an ear to listen to their groans, without sympathy and without hope—every grade of moral corruption, may be found festering and fermenting in this Old Brewery; filth, rags, pestilent air, everything is in that Old Brewery, and yet after all, I did not see anything there worse than I had seen before in Paris, London, and Stockholm. Ah, in all large cities where human masses congregrate, may be found the Old Brewery of vice and misery, dens where the old brewer distils his poison. The off-scouring of society flows hither, becomes still more ​corrupt, and will thence corrupt the atmosphere of society until the fresh and better life obtain power over the old leaven—the new church over the Old Brewery. A great movement exists in this direction at the present time. The church of Christ extends itself not merely to the soul, but is beginning to comprehend the whole human being; to develope itself in schools, in sanitory wardship, in every kind of institution which promotes the wholesome work of Christian love on earth, both for soul and body, repeating the words of the Lord to the leper: “I will; be thou clean!”
From the Old Brewery, and its horrible figures, we went to the Mission-house in the square directly opposite, and had a long conversation with the missionary, Mr. N., a man with a dark, resolute eye, and that faith in God which can remove mountains, and with somewhat of that faith also in himself which may tend to self-deception, and to the belief that more is done than is actually the case. Certain it is, however, that hasty conversions of sinners, long accustomed to the indulgence of besetting vices, are rare and not to be too much relied upon. Hypocrisy is also a scheme of the old serpent's.
In the middle of the square of the Five Points there is, as in many squares of New York, a little green inclosure of trees and bushes. It looks, however, dry and withered; no careful hands water the trees which attempt to put forth foliage; and on the fencing around it, hang rags to dry.
It has often struck me how chance or a mysterious foreknowledge which, without human consciousness, concerns itself with human affairs, gives symbolic, or, as it were, prophetic appellations to things, places, or persons who afterwards accomplish that which their appellations seem to have predestined them to. This I found to be the case with regard to the Five Points, the Old Brewery, and the prison which nearly abuts upon this region. The ​great prison of the city of New York is called the Tombs, from the massive, monumental style of building employed in it. The prison itself is of granite, and in the Egyptian style, heavy but magnificent. A massive lofty granite wall, like the wall of a fortress, surrounds the court, in which stands the prison-house like a vast regular, massive block of hewn granite. When one stands within the magnificent portals of this wall, one seems to stand within a gigantic tomb. And so it is. It gives admittance to the offscouring of the criminals of the great city. One portion condemned and executed here, another portion conveyed hence to Blackwell's Island, where is situated the house of correction proper for New York. Few are they who leave this place free, who do not return hither to be more severely punished, or to die. The Old Brewery furnishes unceasing food for the Tombs.
Before the door of the prison, in the interior court, sat a fine gentleman in a comfortable arm-chair, as keeper or orderly of the prison, with diamond rings on his fingers and a diamond breast-pin in his shirt. Whether they were genuine I cannot say, they looked, however, as though they were; but that the man himself was not of genuine human worth was not difficult to see, neither that he was out of his place here. He was in a high degree haughty and self-sufficient, and did not even raise his hat to the noble, beautiful lady who addressed him; much less raise himself. She showed her card of introduction, and we were allowed to pass in, first into a room in which many of the officials of the prison were assembled. The person who was evidently the principal here, a fat man with a large face, sat with his hat on his head and one of his feet placed high against the wall, and one newspaper hanging over his leg, whilst he was busy reading another which he held in his hands. On Mrs. G. mildly and politely addressing him, he turned his head towards us slightly, but neither raised his hat nor removed his upraised ​foot from the wall, and then putting some question with as surly a mien as if he had been addressing some person in custody, let us wait a moment, after which we were allowed to enter, which probably would not have been the case had he dared to have hindered it. We could not avoid remarking that many of these jailors looked as if they ought to have been among the prisoners, nay, even looked much worse than many of them.
I could not but be greatly surprised at the disorder which prevailed in the great prison of the men, which is built of an elliptical form, with a gallery running in front of the cells. The prisoners were walking about talking, smoking cigars, while dealers in cigars and other wares were strolling about freely among them. Many of the cells were occupied by two prisoners. There were several condemned prisoners, two condemned to death. I asked one of these, who was a man of some little education, how he felt himself in prison? “Oh,” replied he, with bitter irony, “as well as any one can do who has, every moment of the twenty-four hours, his sentence of death before his eyes;” and he showed me a paper pasted on the wall, on which might be read, badly written, the day and hour when he was to be hanged. The prisoners were much more polite and agreeable to us than the gentlemen on duty had been. Some of them seemed pleased by our visit, and thanked us, and talked in a cordial manner.
Whilst we were there a drunken old man was brought into the lower part of the prison. The manner in which he was carried in and thrown into the cell exhibited a high degree of coarseness. I was the whole time in one continued state of amazement that a prison in the United States—the prisons of which country have been so highly praised in Europe—should present such scenes and be in such a condition. But the city of New York, like the prisons of New York, is not the specimen by which ​American cities and prisons should be judged. The prison of Philadelphia was very unlike this.
We found the condition of the female portion of the Tombs very unlike that of the males. Here a woman had sway, and she was one of those genial, powerful characters which can create around them a new state of order, governed by wholesome influences. Her form, which indicated great cordiality and considerable physical power, seemed made, as it were, to sustain the children of the prison, to elevate, not to depress them. She was cheerful, and hearty, and good-tempered, yet nevertheless so resolute with the prisoners, that none of them ventured to oppose her. Many seemed to look upon her as a mother, and she seemed to regard many of them as diseased children rather than as criminals; this was the case in particular with those who were imprisoned for drunkenness.
“Oh, Miss Foster! oh, Miss Foster!” lamented one scarcely half conscious woman, who was waking up in one cell from a fit of drunkenness, “I am now here again!”
“Yes, that you are, you poor thing!” said Miss Foster, and went compassionately to lift her head from the extremely uneasy position into which it had fallen in her drunken sleep.
When she entered the cells, the prisoners talked to her as to a guardian and a friend. One woman, who had been imprisoned many times, and brought hither for drunkenness, but who always during the time of her imprisonment behaved in the most exemplary manner, had become so attached to Miss Foster that she begged to be allowed always to remain in prison, where she might assist Miss Foster. This had been permitted to her, and she was very useful to Miss Foster in the prison.
One room in the prison is called “The Five Days' Room,” or “The Incurable's Room;” here women are taken who have been repeatedly found in a state of drunkenness. After five days' confinement they are ​dismissed. From the prisoners' room we went into the court where the five-days' prisoners sit during the day after they have slept out their debauch. Here between forty and fifty women were assembled, many of whom were quite young, and some handsome. Among these women were also female vagrants, or such as had been taken up for quarrelling and making disturbances in the streets during the night. One of these, a very young and pretty woman, wept bitterly. Mrs. G. spoke kindly to her, and asked her whether she would not come into the home (meaning the home in New York for fallen women), and there be well cared for, and receive instruction, and afterwards be placed in service with some respectable family. She gratefully accepted the offer, and the whole thing was at once arranged. As soon as her five days of imprisonment had expired she was to be received into the home. Thus is the lost sheep sought for among the tombs, and brought again under the care of the good shepherd and his faithful servants.
The same question was put by Mrs. G. to another young woman, a handsome but wild Irish girl. She replied scornfully; “no! she would not go to such a place!” “Why not?” inquired Mrs. G., smiling kindly, “is it not a good place?” “Oh yes, ma'am, a very good place, very good, but —— yet I won't go there.”
That wild spirit evidently required a long trial yet before it would yield.
There also were two young negro-women; I asked one if she were a Christian?
“No, ma'am,” replied she.
“Have you not heard of Christ?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Don't you love him?”
“Yes, oh yes, him, but —— I have seen many things, I cannot become a Christian.”
“But why not, if you love Christ?”
​“I have been servant with many Christians; I have seen many things: I cannot turn to a Christian.”
She would give no other reason.
During our conversation with these women, I could not but observe that they were attentive, and as it were, struck by every rational word which was spoken to them in a calm and kind manner. Opposition and boldness of expression in all instances gave way, and a better, more thoughtful expression took its place. These souls were evidently not hardened, and would open themselves to receive the again and again recurring rays of light.
We found a great number of the prisoners out in the large court which surrounded the interior of the prison, and among them a boy of about ten years of age.
“What had he done, to be a prisoner here?”
“Nothing,” was the reply, but he had been found at night in the streets, lying now here, now there, and could not give any account of a residence, and as they did not know what to do with him, they had brought him in hither, where he had been for a long time. Whilst we talked with the little boy, many of the prisoners collected round us, all speaking kind words to the boy, and praising him greatly. I saw tears flow from the eyes of the motherly lady over the neglected motherless boy, and I heard her softly promise to take charge of him, and come and take him out.
Whilst we were thus standing here, we perceived a movement in the court. The gates were heard to open, and the words “The black Maria, the black Maria!” passed through the crowd. And in came, through the gates of the prison court, a large sort of wooden chest, or caravan, painted red, and drawn by two horses. This was the vehicle which each day fetched from the various stations in the city such persons as having been found by the police out in the streets during the night, had been conveyed to station-houses. They were carried to the Tombs to undergo ​examination and receive sentence. This red vehicle has received the name of the Black Maria, from its having first driven a black woman of that name to the Tombs.
The red omnibus drew up before a gate of the prison the door was opened, as in any other omnibus, and out came boys, and women, and men, many of them resembling the personages of the Old Brewery. They disappeared within the prison, and the vehicle was then immediately refilled with a new load, which was now to be conveyed from the Tombs to the house of correction on Blackwell Island.
We were shown within the court, the place when criminals are executed.
Before I leave the Tombs, I must give a parting glance at Miss Foster—that living, genial, bright form among the Tombs; for her face, her cordiality, her patience, and good humour, the vigorous strength and perseverance with which she has lived for many years among the population of the Tombs, was a heart-strengthening sight. She had had within the court of the female prison a little flower-garden laid out, and planted with flowers; and mignonette diffused its fragrance around, geraniums were in blossom, and Provence roses in bud; to such prisoners as behaved well, or were very much dejected, she gave some of these flowers. I received from her hand a Provence rosebud, which I have kept in memory of her, and the hope of the Tombs; for within these Tombs I had beheld the work of resurrection.
Yet still I received a gloomy impression from them. And I heard that in the great prison of Sing-sing, dark scenes and abuse in the wardship of the prisoners have lately occurred. The society for the visiting of prisoners, of which Isaac Hopper is a member, has within a short period revealed several such facts. This society exercises a salutary control over the wardens of prisons, and their conduct and government; and it performs its work without hostility or opposition.
​The following day, in company with Mrs. G., I visited the institution for poor or orphan children, on Randall's Island, a salubrious and excellent locale for the purpose. Here were large houses for the children, and a large hospital for the sick among them, and all was in the highest degree orderly, neat, and in good condition as regarded outward management; not so with regard to the inward. Among these ten or twelve hundred children, there lacked mothers or motherly women. The children were well kept, but like machines in a manufactory. They produced on my mind a sorrowful impression, although their spirit of life was not destroyed; they could be unruly enough sometimes. The superintendent, whom I saw sitting among brightly-scoured copper kettles, produced upon me herself, the effect of a copper vessel, so hard and dismal did she look, not in the least like Miss Foster. And a Miss Foster, and many such as her, are so necessary for the mother warders and educators of such poor children as these! Here, it is true, there is one warm-hearted and benevolent woman; but age and increasing ill-health have disabled her for activity. The copper-madam was also old and dried-up enough to have taken her leave, but she was retained, it was said, for “considerations' sake.”
But a still sadder impression was produced upon me by the hospital for sick children, well kept and well managed as it seemed to be, with regard to cleanliness and general convenience. A number of children, for instance, who are here for diseases of the eyes, were sitting in formal circles on the floor without having anything to do, or anything to play with. They sat silent and inanimate.
“Have these little ones no playthings?” asked I.
“They had had playthings given them by the ladies, but they only broke them;” was the reply.
“But are they not allowed to employ themselves with anything?”
​“They must do nothing on account of their eyes.”
Any one who knows how easily children will create for themselves a whole little world of living objects merely with small stones, pieces of wood, fir-cones, and such like trifles, and how happy they will be with them, must wonder to see these little creatures so devoid of all means of enjoyment and pastime, because “they break their playthings.” And if they do, what is that in comparison with the blankness and deadness of life which they are now reduced to, and which must convert them into idiots if it be long continued thus?
There were at the Deaconess' institution at Kaisersworth children also with diseases of the eye, but how cheerful and animated they were, each and all occupied with games or little playthings which did not require eyesight. All could sing cheerful and beautiful songs, and gentle sisters, the deaconesses, took motherly charge of them.
These institutions on Randall's Island as little corresponded with that which one has a right to expect from the Christian mind and power of the New World, as the prison of New York. The mismanagement of the prisoners is chargeable upon the men, that of the children upon the women.
The Houses of Correction on Blackwell's Island are celebrated for being well managed, and for fully accomplishing their intention, and it was my intention to have visited them; but Marcus S. and H. W. Channing had invited me to a meeting of the North American Phalanstery, and this was what I could not by any means neglect. On the 29th, therefore, I left New York company with Channing.
It was an indescribably beautiful day. The softest breezes wafted us from New York to the shore of New Jersey. Here we were met by the wagon of the Phalanstery, and joined by various persons from other places who were all bound on a visit to the Phalanstery.
​Very different scenes, and very different faces to those I had just seen in New York met us here.
When we arrived at the little dark wooded gorge which serves as a sort of portal to the territory of the Harmonious association, we were surprised by the sight of Marcus S., who came driving along in his “buggy” drawn by Dolly; buggy, Dolly, and Marcus himself, all garlanded with the blossoming wild clematis. I alighted from the wagon and seated myself beside Marcus, and thus we advanced slowly towards the Phalanstery, seated in a flowery, fragrant arbour. We were met in the park by the children and young people, and even by some elderly ones all wearing green garlands and flowers. It was the most beautiful and the gayest procession which can be conceived. As we passed along we saw a group of agricultural labourers standing in the shade of a tree, busied in eating an immense water-melon. It was just now dinner-time.
Marcus S. had, during last year, built himself a lovely little house at the Phalanstery, in order to enjoy there, with his family, the good air and sea-bathing during the summer. The family lived by themselves, but took their meals at the Phalanstery. I had here, as formerly at Rose Cottage, my own room in the house of my friends; and I now accompanied them to dinner at the Phalanstery.
Dinner was spread on small, separate tables, twelve or fourteen in number, in a very large, oblong hall, with windows in two sides; the freshest air was admitted by these lofty windows. At the bottom of the hall was placed a well-executed but somewhat fantastic painting of the Phalansterian Association in its perfected state on earth. And above this were the words, “The Great Joy,” formed in evergreen leaves.
The tables, which would each conveniently accommodate from ten to twelve guests, were brilliant with white linen and porcelain. The group of waiters consisted of ​handsome youths and young girls, all with artistically formed wreaths of leaves around their heads. To these the good Marcus, also, now associated himself. A more beautiful group, or a more gay dinner scene it would not be easy to find. The dishes were simple, but remarkably excellent, and well-served. There was neither wine, nor the drinking of toasts, nor yet songs, but a cheerful, soft murmur of kindly conversing voices was heard uninterruptedly during the whole meal, and mingled itself with the pleasantly fanning breezes, with the sight of all those cheerful healthy countenances, and those lovely young people who floated round the tables like beautiful, beneficent, ministering spirits, all united to make this meal-time more festal than any could have been with sparkling champagne and music.
A great improvement had taken place in the Phalanstery, since I had been there two years before. A new house had been built, and besides the large hall which they then had, another had been erected called “the Little Joy.” The kitchen had been furnished with steam apparatus for cooking, which was a great saving not only of time and labour, but of expense, both in cooking and washing. Mr. Arnold, formerly the minister and farmer, was now the President of the Phalanstery, and his constructive brain had made itself useful as regarded the introduction of many excellent practical arrangements. The members of the association had now increased to one hundred persons, and many families had erected small dwellings around the principal buildings, where they lived, probably in the same relationship to the Phalanstery as the family of my friends, watching with great interest the development of the institution.
After dinner, a portion of the company assembled in the Park, beneath some large shadowy trees. Large baskets of melons had been carried out, with which people were splendidly regaled. I have never seen anywhere such an ​abundance of melons; they were here by hundreds, nor have I ever tasted any so good, sweet, juicy, and fine-flavoured. The Canteloup-melons were especially remarkable. The soil in this part of the country, especially in New Jersey, is celebrated for the production of fine fruit.
I spent three days at the Phalanstery, amid a variety of scenes, many of which greatly interested me. Foremost amongst these I place a meeting, which was brought about by Channing, for the consideration of the social position of woman, and its present requirements; her sufferings, their causes, and the means for averting them. The assembly consisted of about twenty women, and of such men as they invited. It was an assembly of thoughtful, gentle countenances. The office of spokesman was unanimously assigned to Channing. He opened, therefore, the meeting with a representation of those sufferings which may befall a woman through the noblest and the best part of her nature, under the existing state of society. I listened to him with feelings which I have difficulty in describing.
“Is it possible,” thought I, “is it really true, that I hear a man thus aware of, thus understand the sighs, the agony, the yearnings which I myself, during a greater portion of my life, experienced almost to despair, which many experience as I did, and under which many also sink? Is it a man whom I hear speaking for the captive, and demanding liberation? And do I hear through him really that a better time is approaching, a more just, more enlightened, more holy? Is it not a dream? Shall really the time of silent sighs cease upon earth? Shall there be light, and a path, and freedom, and a heaven opened to all?”
I looked around on the assembly. There were some beautiful women with thoughtful brows, whose remarkable destinies spoke powerfully for the reform which the speaker demanded; there were gentle, motherly women, such as Marcus's sister, Mrs. A. and Rebecca, who amid their ​own domestic happiness had not lost the feeling of citizen-life, had not ceased to sympathise with their less fortunate sisters; there was Channing with his noble and pure countenance glowing with inspiration; there was the earnest President of the Association, the good Marcus, and many others, in whom I recognised the representatives of the highest conscience of humanity.
As I cast my eyes around they fell upon a picture, the only one in the room; it was a beautiful engraving representing the Dance of the Hours around the flower-strewn car of Time. I thought of Geijer; of the prophetic visions and dreams in which this true seer beheld the advance of the new time and hailed it with rejoicing shortly before he quitted this earthly scene. Oh! that he had been here; that he had heard and seen the time here arrived of which he had dreamed and spoken so rapturously, unintelligibly to many, yet not so to me, in his last moments. The memory of him; of the past, the impression of the present, of the future; took hold upon me with almost overwhelming power.
Excepting the speech of Channing the meeting did not produce anything which remained in my memory. The subjects which were here touched upon will be still further pursued and developed at the great Woman's Convention which will be held in the beginning of October, at Worcester, in Massachusetts, and which will be attended by many of the members now here present, my friends, Marcus and Rebecca, among the rest. They wish me also to be there, and I would very gladly, but on the 13th instant, I must leave America for Europe. I must see England in my return, and I should, in that case, be too long detained from home.
Whilst I am on the subject of Woman's position in society, and Women's Rights' Conventions, I will say a few words about them. I am very glad of the latter, because they cause many facts and many good thoughts ​to become public. I rejoice at the nobility and prudence with which many female speakers stand forth; at the profound truths, worthy of all consideration, which many of them utter; at the depth of woman's experience of life, her sufferings, and yearnings, which through them come to light; I rejoice and am amazed to see so many distinguished men sympathise in this movement, and support the women in their public appearance, often presenting the subject in language still stronger than they themselves use. I rejoice also that the society, with that decision peculiar to the Anglo-American spirit of association, has so rapidly advanced from talking to action, and has divided into separate committees, for the development of the separate branches of the subject, preparatory to new social arrangements.
But I do not rejoice at some lesser, well-intentioned measures and steps, which have been proposed; do not rejoice at the tone of accusation and bravado which has now and then been assumed in the convention, and at several expressions less noble and beautiful.
It must, however, be confessed that these clouds on the heaven of the new morning are few and fleeting in comparison with the vast and pure portions of light. Conventions are good, because they give emphasis to the great, new moment of life in the community; they are good as a sifting wind separating the chaff from the wheat. They will, if rightly conducted, hasten on the approaching day; if otherwise, they will retard it. There are signs enough both in Europe and in this country which predict the approach of a time of which Moses already prophesied in the words:—
“The daughters enter into the council.”
And if you should say, as you once said, when we spoke on this subject—
“Then all the wrong-headed will rule, and the whole corps will be disgraced!”
​To which I will reply, “I am not afraid of that, and less so now than ever. Look at the Society of Friends, and at the small socialist community at this place. All the women in these have the right to speak in the public assemblies, but none avail themselves of the right but they who have talent for it, or who have something very good to say. All participate in the government, but it is done quietly, and evidently for the best interests of the community. Neither does one ever hear of quarrels between the men and women, or of disunion and separation between married couples. With affectionately conceded privileges, the spirit of opposition and disquiet is generally appeased. The power of reason and affection obtain greater power. Thoughtfulness and gentleness are the distinguishing features of these free women.”
A case of decision by general vote in the Phalanstery, has just proved in a striking manner, the good influence of the pure spirit and morals of home on the affairs of the community, through its direct influence from the heart and centre of the home.
“The Gauls,” Tacitus tells us, “on important occasions summoned a select assembly of women into their councils, and their voice gave the final decision.”
When the female consciousness of life becomes that which it may be in our time, its influence must be most beneficial in the councils of the community. As it is, this is now deprived of that fructifying life which belongs to the sphere of the mother, and the home does not now educate citizens and citizenesses.
Not that I imagine a new and better state of things would bring forth perfection. Ah! no one can have arrived at fifty without, both from their own shortcomings and those of others, being too well acquainted with human imperfection to believe that everything is to become good upon earth; but somewhat better they will be nevertheless, when they who are the mothers and foster-mothers of the ​human race, become as good and as wise as the light of an extended sphere of life can make them; when that fountain of light with which the Creator has endowed their nature, can flow forth unimpeded and diffuse its living waters within the home and social life.
I cannot see it otherwise. I believe that this development of liberty is the profoundest and the most vital principle upon which the regeneration of society depends, and upon which the greatness and the happiness of the New World depends.
“The darkness of the mother casts its shadow over the child; the clearness of the mother casts its light over the child from generation to generation.”
It is in this conviction that I will unite myself to the Convention, and say with it,—
“Sing unto the Lord a new song ; sing unto the Lord all the earth.”
And now again to the Phalanstery.
In the evening of the second day after our arrival, there was a little play and a ball. A lively little piece, but without any very profound meaning, was acted very well by a number of the young people. Many of the young ladies made their appearance at the ball in the so-called Bloomer costume, that is to say, short dresses made to the throat and trowsers. This costume, which is in reality much more modest than that of the ordinary ball-room, and which looks extremely well on young ladies in their everyday occupations, is not advantageous for a ball-room, and is not at all becoming in the waltz, unless the skirts are very short, which was the case with two, otherwise remarkably well-dressed and very pretty young girls. Some of them had really in their Bloomer costume a certain fantastic grace, but when I compared this with the true feminine grace, which exhibited itself in some young girls with long dresses, and who in other respects were equally modestly attired with the Bloomer ladies, I could ​not but give the palm to the long dresses. Among the most graceful of the dancers among these, was the lovely Abbie A., the daughter of the President of the Phalanstery.
The ball was in other respects far more beautiful (even if the toilettes of the ladies were not so elegant) and the dancing in much better taste than that which I saw at Saratoga.
When I was making a sketch in my room of the beautiful groups of waiters at the first day's dinner, I asked them, one after the other, if they were happy in their life at this place? They replied unanimously that they could not imagine themselves happy under other circumstances. Life appeared to them rich and beautiful. How many young people in the homes of the Old World could give the same reply?
Among the ladies now members of the association was one still young, without beauty, but with a lofty intellectual forehead. The mind had pondered within this forehead upon the unjust distribution of human lots; upon the disproportion between the longings which she felt within herself and that portion in life which was hers, as a young woman of weak health and small means; she dwelt on these thoughts and this state of life until she became also insane. Rigid, evangelical relations counselled her “to bear her cross!” She came hither. Here she was received by love and freedom; the most invigorating atmosphere both for soul and body. Her being expanded and unfolded itself like a drooping flower. That life of social love, and that taste for fellow-citizenship which lay fettered within her, liberated itself, and she soon became one of the most active members of the little community, devoting herself to the cultivation of the garden, and to the care of its fruits and flowers. She is now a universal favourite in the little community, and is there only addressed by some appellation of ​endearment, expressive of the general love for her, and her affectionate activity for all.
I sat one evening in her little room, listening to the simple and affecting history of her former inward struggle and her present happiness. That little room was not larger than an ordinary prison cell, it had bare, white-washed walls, but a large window which afforded light and air; we sat upon a very comfortable sofa, and the cornice and angles of the room were covered from floor to ceiling with rich sheaves of beautiful grasses, grouped with the most exquisite taste. The inmate of the room did not know their names; she had never had an opportunity of becoming acquainted with nature and its productions, but every one of these grasses had been gathered by her with love, had been contemplated with admiration, and so bound up together, so that the peculiar beauty of each was made availing to the whole. That fantastic moulding of yellow grasses was richer than one of gilding.
My conversation in this little room was interrupted before I wished it by my being called away to see one of the sweetest young girls dance the Scottish hornpipe.
On Sunday, Channing gave a public discourse on the relationship of religion and social life, on the relationship between the inward and the outward laws; a discourse rich in Christian consciousness, and in which nothing was wanting but that prominence should have been given to the constant point of this consciousness, the need of mercy, and of the communication of the Divine Spirit, and of prayer, that wonderful speaking tube between earth and heaven.
In the evening, which was beautiful, I ascended with Marcus and Eddie a green hill at some distance from the Phalanstery, which is called from its shape the Sugar-Loaf Hill. We had an extensive prospect from the summit, and saw in the golden light of the setting sun ​the whole fertile cultivated region, full of small rural abodes embowered in their wooded parks, and among these the pale yellow-coloured house of the Phalanstery looked like a large mansion. I gazed upon it with cheerful feelings, although I cannot divest my mind of fears as to its stability, more especially as some of its wisest members are not without anxieties regarding its pecuniary difficulties.
This community, and those which resemble it in this country, aim at producing the model community on earth, a perfect state of social life. They call this community the Harmonious, and place it above the old one, which was called the Civilised. The “Civilians” graduate merely in artificial culture; the “Harmonians” in the spiritual, the natural, which in its full state of culture will lead to a perfect, and in all respects harmoniously developed social state.
Nevertheless it seems to me that all the various talents and natural gifts, upon the development of which the perfect development of the community principally depends, cannot here attain to the depth and fulness which is necessary for this purpose. A small community can scarcely furnish scope sufficient for the many dissimilar powers, and these—but I will not say more on this subject. I feel that I am not fully possessed of it, and that the objections which I might make could be met by the answer of the extended sphere of the nursery, which I have here seen. I will rather adhere to that portion of the subject which I understand with my whole heart, which makes the institution dear to me, and which, I am certain, forms a transition point in its life and activity, as regards the life of humanity.
It is a work of Christian human love. It aims at preparing every man and every woman for a harmonious development conformably to their innermost being, by means of a harmonious social life, in which all shall enjoy ​the fruits of the labour of all, and all enjoy the fruits of God's rich and beautiful earth. It enforces that object in individual activity at which it aims publicly in the great community. It is a forerunner and a prophet. The prophets of old were stoned, and are dead. They were, however, found to be right at last. And their voices sound even now upon earth. The community of the Phalanstery, as I beheld it here, with its sound kernel of pious and earnestly working members, with its surrounding garland of intellectual devoted lookers-on, is a product of Christ's doctrine of love, and it aims at making this a vital principle of social life. It is an upright and a noble endeavour.
And the kingdom of God is extended by such endeavours. May one and all be faithful in their part. And should the Phalanstery, even in this its contracted form, become one of the earth's “enfans perdus,” yet it will not be so in the history of the new community, neither in that of the house of God.
For my part, I feel convinced that these small socialist communities will not sustain themselves longer than they are sustained by the noble spirits who infuse into them their energetic life of love. Then probably their work will fall to pieces. But if they, during a short successful period, exhibit that which social humanity may become when all shall be influenced by a noble and beneficent spirit, and when possessed of all those material advantages which associated life affords,—then they will not have flourished, will not have lived in vain.
And it cannot be denied that the moral element which they adopt as the principle of association, and which constitutes their characteristic and recognisable feature, is also beginning to be current in the great commercial, industrial, and scientific associations of North America. People are acknowledging more and more that man is more than meat, and “levelling upwards,” is the universal watchword in all associated life. Associations in all professions, and for ​all purposes, spring up as the natural products of this soil, but only the more to make it evident, that the strongest bond of union is a—supernatural one, and depends principally upon that which is highest and best in man. Associations become fraternities.
The last evening of my stay at the Phalanstery, I conducted all its members through a grand Swedish Nigare-polska, which made a furore. Seldom indeed had “the Great Joy” resounded with a more universal or hearty rejoicing.
The following morning Channing was to leave. After breakfast, therefore, we walked into the park for quiet conversation; we met several people who would gladly have exchanged a word with the beloved teacher, yet none interrupted us, none disturbed us. I saw a lady sitting reading under a shady tree; she sat as quietly there as in her own room; so much is the private circle respected by the members of the Phalanstery.
Among the varied scenes of these last few days was one of a somnambule of that kind which is called a medium, i. e., a person who, in the magnetic state is, or believes himself to be, en rapport with a deceased friend or connection and delivers communications from him. This medium was a pretty young girl (not a member of the Phalanstery), and the spirit that was said to converse with her was that of her father.
About twenty persons, myself being one of the number, sat round a table all forming a chain by the contact of the hands; hymns were sung to cheerful tunes. Within a very short time the young girl became suddenly pale, her head sank, and her features grew livid and rigid almost as in death. This lasted for a few minutes, during which the singing was continued. The young girl then awoke with convulsive movements, and immediately afterwards began with convulsive rapidity to pass her fingers over the letters of a large alphabet which lay before her, ​and in which she pointed out letters, these were written down by other persons, and thus words and sentences were put together. Questions which were put to the somnambule were answered in the same manner, and I am convinced that there was no deception; nevertheless the answers which she gave showed evidently that the spirit with which she stood en rapport was not very much wiser than we poor inquiring mortals. She had been extremely attached to her deceased father, and it was not until after his death that she fell into this singular condition. The answers showed indeed a pure spiritual life, but not any thing supernaturally so. The whole scene interested me, but produced a painful impression on Channing, whose pure, spiritual nature is displeased by these juggling or abnormal spiritual dealings.
There is in the United States at this time, especially in the north, a great number of clairvoyants of all grades; and mediums, “spiritual knockings,” and many other dark spiritual phenomena belong to the order of the day. They are totally rejected by many, but earnestly accepted by others. I myself have seen sufficient of clairvoyant exhibitions to be convinced that they are by no means deficient of a light which exceeds that of the ordinary natural condition, at the same time that they are by no means infallible. The clairvoyant sees many things with wonderful clearness, but is mistaken in others. The clairvoyant is not a guide to be relied upon. Nevertheless the certain result of the phenomenon of clairvoyance is infinitely precious, that is to say, the certainty it gives that the soul possesses organs and senses within the corporeal, and independent of them; that the spiritual body is superior to the natural; that the latter is merely the natural medium of the former.
After these cheerful, festal days at the Phalanstery I returned to New York, where I am now, once more in my good Quaker-home, occupied in visiting the public ​institutions and making preparations for my journey. I am accompanied and assisted in all this by the eldest son of the family, an amiable youth of nineteen, beautiful in body and soul, one of those who make one think of the new human being of whom the song of Vala speaks, “fed with morning dew.”
During my rambles hither and thither in New York, I have often met with large parties of military, and yesterday a large body of cavalry passed along the streets, both horses and men having a very martial and magnificent appearance. I have never seen in any of the capitals of Europe so much military movement as in New York. But the soldiers here are voluntary troops and exercise themselves in military manœuvres for their own pleasure. Many times during the day, gay military music may be heard on Broadway, and small detachments are seen marching along in splendid uniforms, and with a fine military bearing, frequently with flowers stuck in their gun-barrels. These volunteer-corps of young citizens have been exercising themselves beyond the city in firing and military exercises, and are now returning thence with bands of music, which are always good, and which play lively marches or “quick steps.” This peace-promulgating people is warlike by nature, and its spirit of conquest is double-faced like the god Janus.
I have heard the military academy at West Point—the only establishment of this kind in the United States—praised by Europeans who are authority on such subjects, as being very excellent, and that the officers who have been brought up there are as remarkable for their knowledge as for their bravery. During the Mexican war the number of killed and wounded of the officers greatly exceeded, in proportion, that of the common soldiers, and proved the courage with which they had led on their troops.
I have to day engaged a cabin on board the large ​American steamer, The Atlantic, which leaves New York for Liverpool on the 13th instant. The vessel and the captain, Mr. West, are both of the first class, and with him I shall be quite safe.
I return this afternoon to my friends at Rose Cottage, and in the morning I shall be joined there by Mr. Downing, who is on his way from Washington, and who will take me with him to his beautiful home on the Hudson. There will be my last visit in America, where also was my first. Some other visits I shall be unable to pay, however much I desire it. But this is required from me both by duty and by—love.
I spent last evening—my last evening at New York—with my amiable, kind hostess Mrs. G., at the house of her father, the celebrated old Isaac Hopper. This magnificent old man, now eighty-five, is still almost as vigorous and ardent as a youth. In his strongly marked, handsome countenance may be seen the fervour of the warlike spirit, combined with the stedfastness and wisdom of the peace-principle, relieved by a great deal of humour and shrewdness. His figure, in his Quaker costume, is not without a degree of chivalric stateliness. It is evident that Father Hopper, as he is commonly called, belongs to the church militant, and all his life has borne testimony to this. He has, during his active life in the service of the oppressed, been the means of delivering more than a thousand fugitive slaves out of the hands of their pursuers, and in so doing has perilled his own life; has been maltreated; has been hurled into the street, thrown out of windows, once out of the third story of a house—and always returned resolute, firm, cheerful, full of courage and resources to accomplish that which he had begun, with a good-humoured obstinacy which finally conquered the malevolence of his adversaries. At the request of his daughter and myself he related some of the occurrences of his life during his efforts to save fugitive slaves; I ​have seldom heard narratives more instructive, and seldom have I spent so rich and racy an evening.
Father Hopper has twelve children, and his handsome second wife sate at the table in her fine, white Quaker costume. A young, unmarried daughter still beautified her old father's home.
Long life to Father Hopper and his family!
September 5th—10th.—Days on the Hudson! The last days in my first beautiful home on its banks: beautiful days, but still sad. It is continually borne in upon my mind, with a painful feeling which I cannot describe, as of rending asunder, that the time draws near for separation; that I actually and for ever am leaving this grand, glorious country, in which I have lived so richly, which received me with such unexampled hospitality; these noble, amiable people, who are my friends, to whom I am so deeply attached, with whom I would fain always live and associate. Nowhere have I found such friends. Do not imagine, my own Agatha, that I am less willing to return home; believe me I could not live and work anywhere but in Sweden; but yet—it is bitter for me to tear myself away, and I sometimes believe that I cannot, that it is not really possible! It seems to me so unreasonable!
What a pleasure it was to me to see once more Mr. Downing, Andrew Downing, my first friend on the soil of America, my young American brother, as I love to call him!
The good Marcus had driven me down to the steamer, and sate with me in the saloon, waiting till Downing, according to appointment, should come. He came from Washington, and Marcus left me in his charge. It was now more than a year and half since I had last seen him, He seemed to me handsomer, more manly; it seemed to me as if he had grown, had developed himself; and so it was. He had spiritually developed himself and his world. His beautiful eyes beamed with a self-conscious power.
​We advanced up the Hudson, as we had done nearly two years before; he sate beside me, silent as usual, after we had exchanged the first natural communications between friends; neither did I feel it necessary to talk, for we understood one another. It was the most beautiful afternoon and evening. The wind was fresh and full of animation, although warm; the waves were agitated more than usual, and danced and sung around us; nature was full of cheerful and delicious life. No night-frosts as yet had breathed upon the verdant heights; the enchanting veil of the autumnal summer began to be unfolded over them. The moon arose, and mingled her waves of light with those of the wind and water. I sate silent, listening, and melancholy. I knew that the hour of parting drew nigh.
Caroline Downing met us, as on the former occasion. I found her also looking younger and more lovely. But I felt that I myself had become older, both body and soul. But then I had in these two years passed through more than in ten ordinary years; but much of this, which appertains to my innermost being, can only be imparted to you by word of mouth.
I rejoice to see the development of life and activity which has taken place in Downing. His outward sphere of activity is now very wide and effective. President Fillmore has it in contemplation to lay out extensive grounds around the Capitol at Washington; and there are here two young architects from England who, under Downing's direction, are preparing plans for houses which he is commissioned to erect for private persons, who in their villas and cottages desire to combine the beautiful with the useful. Downing's engagements and correspondence are at this time incredibly great, and extend over the whole Union; but then he does all so easily, so con amore, he works as Jenny Lind seems to sing. That, however, which pleases me in particular is the direction which his ​literary activity seems now to take. I have sometimes, half in earnest and half in jest, reproached Downing with being more exclusive and aristocratic in his beautifying activity than became an honest, downright republican, and we have had, in consequence, various friendly little quarrels. It is very easy to see from Downing' s naturally refined manner, that it must be difficult for him to reconcile himself to a certain rudeness and unmannerliness which must exist among a people, where all possess equal rights, and regard themselves as equally good, even before all have attained to that outward and inward degree of cultivation which can make equality natural, and the life of equality agreeable. He seemed to me as if, in his feelings towards this class of people, he stood at too great a distance, was too indifferent. But so he ought not to be, it appeared to me, as a Christian republican. It is, therefore, with heartfelt joy that I have now read a leading article from his pen on the New York Park, in the last number of his monthly journal, “the Horticulturist,” in which he takes a far higher stand than that which he was formerly accustomed to do.
You my Agatha must also read with me a few words of this, because they deserve to be read, and they will be the last which I shall quote from the New World.
I will let Downing speak.
“We have said nothing of the social influence of such a great park in New York. But this is really the most interesting phase of the whole matter. It is a fact, not a little remarkable, that ultra-democratic as are the political tendencies of America, its most intelligent social tendencies are almost wholly in a contrary direction. And among the topics discussed by the advocates and opponents of the new park, none seem so poorly understood as the social aspect of the thing. It is, indeed, both curious and ​amusing to see the stand taken on the one hand, by the million, that the park is made for the ‘upper ten,’ who ride in fine carriages, and on the other hand by the wealthy and refined, that a park in this country will be ‘usurped by rowdies and low people.’ Shame upon our republican compatriots who so little understand the elevating influences of the beautiful in nature and art, when enjoyed in common by thousands and hundreds of thousands of all classes, without distinction! They can never have seen, how all over France and Germany, the whole population of the cities pass their afternoons and evenings together in the beautiful public parks and gardens. How they enjoy together the same music, breathe the same atmosphere of art, enjoy the same scenery, and grow into social freedom by the very influences of easy intercourse, of the space and beauty that surround them. In Germany, especially, they have never seen how the highest and the lowest partake alike of the common enjoyment—the prince seated beneath the trees on a rush-bottomed chair, before a little wooden table, sipping his coffee or his ice, with the same freedom from state and pretension as the simplest subject. Drawing-room conventionalities are too narrow for a mile or two of spacious garden landscape, and one can be happy with ten thousand in the social freedom of a community of genial influences, without the unutterable pang of not having been introduced to the company present.
“These social doubters who thus intrench themselves in the sole citadel of exclusiveness, in republican America, mistake our people and their destiny. If we would have listened to them, our magnificent river and lake steamers, those real palaces of the million, would have had no velvet couches, no splendid mirrors, no luxurious carpets. Such costly and rare appliances of civilisation, they would have told us, could only be rightly used by the privileged families of wealth, and would be trampled upon and ​utterly ruined by the democracy of the country, who travel one hundred miles for half a dollar. And yet these, our floating palaces and our monster hotels, with their purple and fine linen, are they not respected by the majority who use them, as truly as other palaces by their rightful sovereigns? Alas, for the faithlessness of the few, who possess, regarding the capacity for culture of the many, who are wanting. Even upon the lower platform of liberty and education that the masses stand in Europe, we see the elevating influences of a wide popular enjoyment of galleries of art, public libraries, parks and gardens, which have raised the people in social civilisation and social culture to a far higher level, than we have yet attained in republican America. And yet this broad ground of popular refinement must be taken in republican America, for it belongs of right more truly here than elsewhere. It is republican in its very idea and tendency. It takes up popular education where the common school and ballot-box leave it, and raises up the working man to the same level of enjoyment with the man of leisure and accomplishment. The higher social and artistic elements of every man's nature lie dormant within him, and every labourer is a possible gentleman, not by the possession of money and fine clothes—but through the refining influence of intellectual and moral culture. Open wide, therefore, the doors of your libraries and picture galleries, all ye true republicans! Build halls, where knowledge shall be freely diffused among men, and not shut up within the narrow walls of narrow institutions. Place spacious parks in your cities, and unloose their gates as wide as the gates of the morning to the whole people. As there are no dark places at noon-day, so education and culture, the true sunshine of the soul—will banish the plague-spots of democracy; and the dread of the ignorant exclusive, who has no faith in the refinement of a republic, will stand abashed in the next century before a whole people, whose ​system of voluntary education embraces—combined with perfect individual freedom, not only common schools of rudimentary knowledge, but common enjoyments for all classes in the higher realms of art, letters, science, social recreations, and enjoyments. Were our legislators but wise enough to understand to-day the destinies of the New World, the gentility of Sir Philip Sidney, made universal, would not be half so much a miracle fifty years hence in America, as the idea of a whole nation of labouring men reading and writing, was in his day, in England.”
Thus my friend Downing, who has in this declared from his sphere, the mission of the New World, and who has taken a position which is worthy a son of the new creation, that of Christian artist.
He has gone forth among the people to elevate them to his point of view; he has united himself with that great, true republican party in the country, all of whose endeavours tend to “levelling upwards” and whose watch-word is “all things for all.”
It is an especial source of joy to me to see how near Downing now approaches to that point of view taken by my friends the S.'s. Probably they will hereafter come into closer personal contact. Downing may visit the Phalanstery, and may perhaps give it the benefit of his knowledge and artistic genius in those building schemes which are under contemplation. Thus are fraternal chains formed, the first link of which rests in his hand who first declared on earth that all men are brethren. His power will permeate it to the very extremest link. Praise be unto him!
Evening.—I cannot write much more from this place; time fails me, my heart fails me. The writing of many letters, and the duties of the present moment occupy the hours, and the thought of leaving this country, these friends, this people, is like a thorn in my heart. The weather also depresses me; the heat oppressive; not a breath of wind is stirring; the atmosphere is hot as is ​boiling. It is only beautiful in the evening, when the moon has risen, and pours her gushes of silver light among the shadows of the river and the shore.
Last evening I took a stroll through the park alone, and with an unspeakable melancholy in my soul.
“It is all past and gone, this beautiful time,” thought I; “these bonds of friendship, these beautiful sights of a New World; these beautiful, animating circumstances; all past! past and gone!” And I wept bitterly.
But when I looked up, the full moon was looking down upon me, large and splendid, and shone into my soul as she seemed to say:—
“No, it is not all past and gone! Strengthen thy heart with the light which increases for ever! That which the human being has thus found, thus acquired, is his for ever, and cannot die. It is an imperishable seed, which will renovate itself in new and abundant harvests in the kingdom of light! These friends, these memories, will not cease to live in thee. To each wane succeeds a new increase and a new fulness.”
This was what the moon, my friend, seemed to say to me, and comforted I returned to the house, was silent and thankful.
In the morning I go to New York, whither my friends accompany me.
My silent friend has let fall words full of important meaning to me during these last few days. He says but little, as formerly, but in that little—so much. He wishes me clearly to understand both good and evil in this country, and to express it without reserve, but he leaves it to my own mind to find out the way and the truth.
“That will all come clear to you,” he says sometimes, “when you get home and are quiet.”
His manner and his perfect confidence enchant me.
The interest he takes in the intellectual development of woman in America is one circumstance which particularly ​attaches me to him. This acute-minded observer sees clearly that which is still wanting in general. He has mentioned with great pleasure to me a work just published, entitled “Rural Hours,” by Miss Cooper, the daughter of the novelist; a diary, in which she simply and faithfully chronicled, during a quiet residence in the country, all that occurred in the life of nature around her, so that the whole progress of the year is displayed; the grasses, the birds, the flowers, come out and disappear, and beautiful drawings of the latter adorn the work.
Downing has spoken in high commendation of this work in his own journal, “The Horticulturist,” both on account of its scientific worth, and for the example which it gives to the female mind, directing its attention to the daily marvels of nature, and to that which is great even in the quiet every-day life of the country.
“Flowers, insects, and the biographies of birds, ought especially to be sketched and studied by female students of Natural History.”
Downing is a great admirer of the peculiar gifts and powers of woman. “Woman must be our social regenerator,” is an expression frequently in his mouth. Of course he is also a great favourite with women of refinement, and has many friends among them.
Oh! that it is necessary to part from this friend; one of the best, and the most suitable for my character and turn of mind which can be imagined, or rather, which the goodness of God has given me.
Rose Cottage, September 12th.
Yet a few more words, but merely a few, for I am overwhelmed by letters and objects which demand my attention and besides that I am suffering from headache caused by over-excitement of mind and body.
Before I left the Downings we spent one day together, ​at West Point. The view was glorious, but the day oppressively hot and without any air. The vessels glided along the mirror-like Hudson, I know not by what power, for wind there was none.
At the table d'hôte, at dinner, there sate before us two meagre, sallow-complexioned, sickly-looking little girls, quite by themselves, who drank wine and ate all sorts of delicacies like grown-up people. This did not escape Downing's grave and disapproving glance. He said to me:—
“This is one of the circumstances upon which I wish you to turn the general attention! There is so much done for children in this country; people look upon them as almost sacred beings, and yet children are spoiled by regular neglect!”
“You must take this as a present from me to your sister Agatha,” said Downing giving me a large, beautiful copper-plate engraving of the view from West Point.
His last gift to me was Bartlett's valuable work “American Scenery,” and Miss Cooper's “Rural Hours;” that was at New York. At the Astor-House we parted, where we had first met; I felt that we parted for ever on earth.
Marcus S., pale with the heat, always kind and attentive, came with his carriage to take me to his home.
It is now late in the evening, my last evening in the New World. The heat is horrible; the nights bring with them no refreshment. People look as if their faces were floured. All things seem to suffer and to pant.
I cannot conceive how it is possible for me to be ready by morning. Good-night!
I shall soon behold Sweden once more! Ah, if then, when I come from Denmark, I could only see your sweet face on the shore—your blue eyes!
My dear heart, I have longed greatly to receive yet one letter more from you before I left America, which would tell me that you had become warm again; the two ​last were so very cold! But no warm-summer letter has come, and I must leave in faith and in hope. And in love I heartily embrace mama and you!
P.S.
On the Sea, September, 1851.
It is over. I have left them for ever, that great country, those dear, precious friends! It was inevitable, and it is done; but I feel still stupified, as it were, by it. Thank God, however, the severest moment is past.
And the morning on which I left—it was a strange morning! I was almost bewildered by the multitude of small duties which I yet had to perform, and by a lingering headache; but all at once it went, and everything brightened up. The good Marcus sat in my room, and sealed my letters as I wrote them, and received my commissions, saying calmly between whiles, “plenty of time.” “We are in good time.” And it really seemed to me almost miraculous how the hours and the time spun themselves out; everything disentangled itself; everything became light and easy, so wonderfully calm and even pleasant;—it was the influence of the gentle spirit that was near me.
In good time I was ready; everything was ready. And I embraced my beloved Rebecca, kissed Jenny and the baby, and set off accompanied by Marcus and Eddie.
On board the “Atlantic” I found myself all at once, in a regular whirlpool of old and new acquaintance; gentlemen who shook hands, and presented me with pamphlets which they had written; ladies who presented me with lovely gifts; acquaintance who introduced acquaintance; dear friends from the north, from the south, who astonished me here to say farewell; and which ever way I turned my head I was kissed by somebody. Ah! I was almost glad when the bell summoned my friends on shore, and I could hide myself in my berth.
​The last faces I saw were those of the angelic Eddie and the good, brotherly Marcus.
After that I sate silent and immovable for hours. But Marcus had placed in my room a bouquet of evergreens and yellow and red everlastings from the garden at Rose Cottage, and hung to it a card on which were written a few words in pencil; and upon this bouquet I sat gazing immovably, until its rich green leaves were woven around my heart, and all my agitated feelings had subsided into calm.
It was at noon when we left the land. Toward evening I went on deck to cast one more glance upon that great New World. There it lay on the western horizon, dark-green upon the blue waters in a grand half-circle, like an open embrace, a calm and inviting harbour. Clouds of tender peach-colour, and from the darkest violet to the clearest gold and the softest crimson, lay in picturesque masses above it, rain-showers and sun-beams were flung athwart it. The sun freed himself from the cloud, and shone all the brighter the lower he sank towards the horizon where the great land lay. And that was the last view I had of it; and thus shall I always behold it in the depth of my soul.
I now see it no longer with my eye, see only heaven and the ocean. I am now again passing through a pause between two periods of life, between two worlds. But my heart is full. And when people ask me what the people of the New World possess preferably to the Old, I reply, with the impression of that which I have seen and passed through in America fresh in my soul;—a warmer heart's pulse; a more energetic, a more vigorous youthful life.
Among the letters which I received shortly before coming on board, is one which I shall always retain. It is not signed by any name, but I would that its writer (the style is that of a man) only knew how much joy it gave me! I have sometimes complained bitterly of the want of a nice ​sense of delicacy; but I have not mentioned the many proofs I have received of the most charming delicate kindness, which approached merely to give me pleasure, and then withdrew to avoid thanks. This letter belongs to that class.
The weather is now stormy and the sea runs high. I keep quiet in my cabin. I look at the little bouquet of green leaves and splendid everlastings. They speak to me of America and the memories I carry thence. I shall not behold any dear object until I once more see the Swedish coast—and you.
She to whom these words were addressed was never more to meet my gaze. On the threshold of my home I found her grave.
Had she lived, these letters certainly would have remained unpublished. Their contents would have undergone a change before they had been presented to the public, probably for the better. For then I should have had a friend at my side, in whose pure soul I should have seen my faults as in a mirror. As it is, I have been alone, although I have sometimes believed that an angel was near me.
The letter to the distinguished Danish theologian Professor H. Martensen, which now follows, was thought over in America, but was written in Europe. I required quietness and the power of making a general review before writing it. I could not, while in the country, perfectly see the wood for trees, and from the great number of churches could not see the church.
Now, when the forests of the New World murmur in the distance, and the great picture of the New World's cultivation is seen in perspective beyond the agitated sea, am I able, for the first time, to trace the main features with greater clearness and precision. Some of these I have already presented. One of the most essential I have ​here endeavoured to present to the noble and profound thinker, whom I am still so happy as to call my teacher, my friend.