Chapter XI: Part 11

Mr. ---- came round to the stage door to bid us good-night; and as we drove off, a whole parcel of folk, who had gathered round the door to see us depart, set up a universal hurrah! How strange a thing it is, that popular shout. After all, Pitt or Canning could get no more for the finest oratory that human lips ever uttered, or the wisest policy that human brain ever devised. Sometimes they got the reverse; but then the _hereafter_--there's the rub! Praise is so sweet to me that I would have it lasting: above all, I would wish to feel that I deserved it. I must do so if I am to value it a straw; and acting, even the best that ever was seen, is, to my mind, but a poor claim to approbation. I think the applause of an audience in a play-house should be reckoned with the friendly and favourable opinions of a good-natured tipsy man,--'tis given under excitement. Oh Lord! how unsatisfactory all things are!

_Wednesday, 13th, New York._

After dinner, ---- came in. He sat himself down, and presently was over-head in reminiscences. His account of Tom Paine's escape from the Conciergerie, on the eve of being guillotined, was extremely interesting. His own introduction to, and subsequent acquaintance with, that worthy, was equally so, and his summing up was highly characteristic. "I tell ye, madam, the saving of that man's life was an especial providence, that he might come over to this country, where his works have done so much harm, and might have done so much more, and just exemplify the result of his own principles put into practice in his own person, and show that the glorious light of reason, and the noble natural gifts of man, of which he preached so much, would neither prevent a man's becoming a drunkard and a spendthrift, nor a debased degraded being. If Paine had been guillotined, madam, he would have been a martyr, and his works would have had ten times the power of evil they had before. But he lived to be a miserable low unthrift, and sot, and died neglected and despised by all reputable and respectable individuals, and, I say again, it was a manifest providence that he did so." We left the gentlemen to their wine for a short time, but were presently summoned back. ---- had gone to the theatre. ---- began his history to me, and it was, word for word, a repetition of Galt's book, except that occasionally it was more touching. The pity of all this is, the man's own consciousness that he is a lion. His vanity is almost as amusing as his recollections are curious and interesting; and though the tears were in my eye several times while he described the blessed time he lived with his sweet Phoebe, yet, at others, I could scarce help exclaiming, in the words of his own countryman, "Heigh, cretur, cretur! thou hast unco plause o' thysel'!" He ended his narrative with a eulogy of women that would have warmed the heart of a stone; and to my utter surprise addressed Mr. ---- with, "Out upon ye, bachelors, all! ye throw away your lives, and your life's happiness!" This last attack of ----'s seemed too much for Mr. ----; and, as I turned to him with the tears in my eyes, to desire he would not laugh, which he was doing very heartily, he said he couldn't stand it any longer, and went away, apparently more amused than edified by ----'s appeal.

_Thursday, 14th._

St. Valentine's day! I wish all these pretty golden days, which, like the flowers in the sundial of Linnæus, were wont so gaily to mark the flight of time, were not becoming so dim in our calendars; I wish St. Valentine's day, and May morning, and Christmas day, and New-Year's day, were not putting off their holiday suits to wear the work-day russet of their drudging fellows; I wish we were not making all things, of all sorts, so completely of a neutral tint.

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I wouldn't be in the Reform Parliament of England for ten thousand pounds! ----, and ----, the bruiser, and the bankrupt! Oh, shame, England, shame!--Poor England!

A RHAPSODY.

White lady, sitting on the sea,
Tell to me, oh, tell to me,
How long shall thy reigning be,
White lady, sitting on the sea?

Long as the oak with which I'm crown'd
Shall bear one leaf above the ground,
Round which the crawling ivy's grasp
Its cursed tendrils does not clasp;
Long as one foot remains to stand
Firm on its own ancestral land;
Or one true man be left to claim
The burden of a noble name;
Long as one Gothic shrine shall rise
With 'scutcheon'd tomb, and banner'd stall,
Or the blest glances of the skies,
Through storied casements dimly fall;
Long as one heart shall beat to hear
Legends of the old valiant time;
Long as the Sabbath wind shall bear
The music of one haunting chime.

White lady, sitting on the sea,
Tell to me, oh, tell to me,
When shall thy downfalling be,
White lady, sitting on the sea?

When the vile kennel mud is thrown
Upon the ermine of the king,
And the old worships are cast down
Before a rabble's triumphing;
When toothless ---- is young again,
To do the mischief he but dreams,
And little ---- shall make more plain
The good that glitters through his schemes;
When the steam-engine of the north
Leaves making essays and wry faces;
And patriot Whigs forget the worth
Of pensions, power, pride, and places;
When on the spot where Burke and Pitt
Earn'd their high immortality,
Boxers and bankrupts boldly sit,
Then, then shall my downfalling be.

_Monday, 18th._

After breakfast, went to rehearsal; came home and stitched at my _Françoise de Foix_ head-dress. My father is extremely unwell; I scarce think he will be able to get through his part to-night. After dinner, practised, and read a canto in Dante. It pleases me, when I refer to Biagioli's notes, to find that the very lines Alfieri has noted are those under which I have drawn my emphatic pencil marks. At half-past five, went to the theatre. The play was Macbeth, for my benefit: the house was very full, and I played very ill. My father was dreadfully exhausted by his work. I had an interesting discussion with Mr. ---- about the costume and acting of the witches in this awful play. I should like to see them acted and dressed a little more like what they should be, than they generally are. It has been always customary,--Heaven only knows why,--to make low comedians act the witches, and to dress them like old fish-women. Instead of the wild unearthly appearance which Banquo describes, and which belongs to their most terrible and grotesquely poetical existence and surroundings, we have three jolly-faced fellows,--whom we are accustomed to laugh at, night after night, in every farce on the stage,--with as due a proportion of petticoats as any woman, letting alone witch, might desire, jocose red faces, peaked hats, and broomsticks, which last addition alone makes their costume different from that of Moll Flagon. If I had the casting of Macbeth, I would give the witches to the first melo-dramatic actors on the stage,--such men as T. P. Cooke, and O. Smith, who understand all that belongs to picturesque devilry to perfection,--and give them such dresses as, without ceasing to be grotesque, should be a little more fanciful, and less ridiculous than the established livery; something that would accord a little better with the blasted heath, the dark fungus-grown wood, the desolate misty hill-side, and the flickering light of the caldron cave.[90]

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_Wednesday, 20th._

After breakfast, ---- and Mr. ---- came. ---- gave me the words and tune of a bewitching old English ballad. Mr. ---- called and sat some time with me: I like him mainly,--he's very pleasant and clever. That handsome creature, Mme. ----, called with her daughter and her son-in-law. Mr. ---- and ---- dined with us. After dinner, came to my own room, sang over ----'s ballad, and amused myself with writing one of my own. At half-past five, took coffee, and off to the theatre. The house was very full; play, the Stranger: I didn't play well: I'd a gown on that did not fit me, to which species of accident our _art_ is marvellously subservient, for a tight arm-hole shall mar the grandest passage in Queen Constance, and too long or too short a skirt keep one's heart cold in the balcony scene in Juliet. Came home; supped; finished marking the Winter's Tale. What a dense fool that fat old Johnson must have been in matters of poetry! his notes upon Shakspeare make one swear, and his summing up of the Winter's Tale is worthy of a newspaper critic of the present day,--in spirit, I mean, not language; Dr. Johnson always wrote good English.--What dry, and sapless, and dusty earth his soul must have been made of, poor fat man! After all, 'tis even a greater misfortune than fault to be so incapable of beauty.

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BALLAD.

The Lord's son stood at the clear spring head,
The May on the other side,
"And stretch me your lily hand," he said,
"For I must mount and ride.

"And waft me a kiss across the brook,
And a curl of your yellow hair;
Come summer or winter, I ne'er shall look
Again on your eyes so fair.

"Bring me my coal-black steed, my squire,
Bring Fleetfoot forth!" he cried;
"For three-score miles he must not tire,
To bear me to my bride.

"His foot must be swift, though my heart be slow;
He carries me towards my sorrow;
To the Earl's proud daughter I made my vow,
And I must wed her to-morrow."

The Lord's son stood at the altar stone,--
The Earl's proud daughter near:
"And what is that ring you have gotten on,
That you kiss so oft and so dear?

"Is it a ring of the yellow gold,
Or something more precious and bright?
Give me that ring in my hand to hold,
Or I plight ye no troth to-night."

"It is not a ring of the yellow gold,
But something more precious and bright;
But never shall hand, save my hand, hold
This ring by day or night."

"And now I am your wedded wife,
Give me the ring, I pray."--
"You may take my lands, you may take my life,
But never this ring away."

They sat at the board; and the lady bride
Red wine in a goblet pour'd;
"And pledge me a health, sweet sir," she cried,
"My husband and my lord."

The cup to his lips he had scarcely press'd,
When he gasping drew his breath,
His head sank down on his heaving breast,
And he said, "It is death! it is death!--

"Oh bury me under the gay green shaw
By the brook, 'neath the heathery sod,
Where last her blessed eyes I saw,
Where her blessed feet last trod!"

_Saturday, 23d._

We came home at two. ---- and the horses were waiting for me: we mounted and rode down to the Hoboken ferry, where we crossed. The day was like an early day in spring in England; a day when the almond trees would all have been in flower, the hawthorn hedges putting forth their tender green and brown shoots, and the primroses gemming the mossy roots of the trees by the water-courses. The spring is backwarder here a good deal than with us: to be sure, it is sudden compared with ours,--as my poetising friend hath it,--

"Not with slow steps, in smiles, in tears advancing,
But with a bound, like Indian girls in dancing."

I do not like this: I like to linger over the sweet hourly and daily fufilment of hope, which the slow progress of vegetation in my own dear country allows one full enjoyment of; to watch the leaf from the bark, the blossom from the bud; the delicate, pale-white, peeping heads of the hawthorn, to the fragrant, snowy, delicious flush of flowering; the downy green clusters of small round buds on the apple trees, to the exquisite rosy-tinted clouds of soft blossoms waving against an evening sky. The melted snow had made the roads all but impassable; however, the day was delightfully mild and sunny, and therefore we did not get chilled by the very temperate rate at which we were obliged to proceed. We turned off to look at the Turtle Pavilion, and, pursuing the water's edge, got up upon a species of high dyke between some marshes that open into the river. Our path, however, was presently intercepted by a stile, and as the horses were not quite of the sort one could have risked a leap with, ---- got off and endeavoured to lead his charger round the edge of the steep bank, but the brute refused that road, and we were forced to turn back; and, after floundering about over some of the roughest worst ground imaginable, we e'en went out of the Hoboken domain at the gate where we entered, and pursued that beautiful road overlooking the Hudson, under that fine range of cliffs which are the first idea, as it were, of the Palisadoes. We took the lower road down into the glen below Weehawk. The sun shone gloriously: the little fairy stream that owns this narrow glade was singing and dancing along its beautiful domain with a sweet gleesome voice, and a succession of little sparkling breaks and eddies that looked like laughter. We left the muddy road, and turned our horses into the stream; but its bed was very stony and uneven, and we were obliged to turn out of it again. We rode like very impudent persons up to the house on the height. The house itself is too unsheltered for comfort either in summer or winter, but the view from its site is beautiful, and we had it in perfection to-day. Standing at an elevation of more than a hundred feet from the river, we looked down its magnificent, broad, silvery avenue, to the Narrows--that rocky gate that opens towards my home. New York lay bright and distinct on the opposite shore, glittering like a heap of toys in the sunny distance: the water towards Sandy Hook was studded with sails; and far up on the other side the river rolled away among shores that, even in this wintry time of bare trees and barren earth, looked gay and lovely in the sunshine. We turned down again; but after crossing the bridge over the pretty brook, we took an upper path to the right, and riding through some leafless, warm, sunny woodlands, joined the road that leads to the Weehawken height, and so returned to New York. On our way, discussing the difference between religion as felt by men and women, ---- agreed with me, that hardly one man out of five thousand held any distinct entire and definite religious belief. He said that religion was a sentiment, and that, as regarded all creeds, there was no midway with them; that faith or utter disbelief were the only alternatives; for that displacing one jot of any of them made the whole totter,--which last is, in some measure, true, but I do not think it is true that religion is _only_ a sentiment. There are many reasons why women are more religious than men. Our minds are not generally naturally analytical--our education tends to render them still less so: 'tis seldom in a woman's desire (because seldom in her capacity) to investigate the abstract bearings of any metaphysical subject. Our imaginations are exceedingly sensitive, our subservience to early impressions, and exterior forms, proportionate; and our habits of thought, little enlarged by experience, observation, or proper culture, render us utterly incapable of almost any logical train of reasonings. With us, I think, therefore, faith is the only secure hold; for disbelief, acting upon mental constructions so faulty and weak, would probably engender insanity, or a thousand species of vague, wild, and mischievous enthusiasms.[91] I believe, too, that women are more religious than men, because they have warmer and deeper affections. There is nothing surely on earth that can satisfy and utterly fulfil the capacity for loving which exists in every woman's nature. Even when her situation in life is such as to call forth and constantly keep in exercise the best affections of her heart, as a wife, and a mother, it still seems to me as if more would be wanting to fill the measure of yearning tenderness, which, like an eternal fountain, gushes up in every woman's heart; therefore I think it is that we turn, in the plenitude of our affections, to that belief which is a religion of love, and where the broadest channel is open to receive the devotedness, the clinging, the confiding trustfulness, which are idolatry when spent upon creatures like ourselves, but become a holy worship when offered to Heaven.[92] Nor is it only from the abundance and overflowing of our affections that we are devout; 'tis not only from our capacity of loving, but also from our capacity of suffering, that our piety springs. Woman's physical existence, compared with that of man, is one of incessant endurance. This in itself begets a necessity for patience, a seeking after strength, a holding forth of the hands for support; thus, the fragile frame, the loving heart, and the ignorant mind, are in us sources of religious faith. But it often happens that those affections, so strong, so deep, so making up the sum and substance of female existence, instead of being happily employed, as I have supposed above, are converted into springs of acute suffering. These wells of feeling hidden in the soul, upon whose surface the slightest smile of affection falls like sunlight, but whose very depths are stirred by the breath of unkindness, are too often un-visited by the kindly influence of kindred sympathies, and go wearing their own channels deeper, in silence and in secrecy, and in infinite bitterness,--undermining health, happiness, the joy of life, and making existence one succession of burden-bearing days, and toilsome, aching, heavy hours. It is in this species of blight, which falls upon many women, that any religious faith becomes a refuge and a consolation, more especially that merciful and compassionate faith whose words are, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." To that rest betakes itself the wearied spirit, the wounded heart; and it becomes a blessing beyond all other blessings; a source of patience, of fortitude, of hope, of strength, of endurance; a shelter in the scorching land,--a spring of water in the wilderness.

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_Saturday, April 13th._

At a quarter after four, drove down to the boat. ---- was waiting to see us off, and ---- presently made his appearance to see us on. Owing to the yesterday's boat not having sailed, it was crowded to-day, and freighted most heavily, so as to draw an unusual quantity of water, and proceed at a much slower rate than common. At a few minutes after five, the huge brazen bell on deck began to toll; the mingled crowd jostled, and pushed, and rolled about; the loiterers on shore rushed on board; the bidders-farewell on board rushed on shore; D---- and I took a quiet sunny stand, away from all the confusion, and watched from our floating palace New York glide away like a glittering dream from before us. A floating palace indeed it was, in size and in magnificence: I never saw any thing to compare with the beauty, and comfort, and largeness of all its accommodations. Our Scotch steam-boat, the United Kingdom, is a cockboat to it, and even the splendid Hudson boat, the North America, is far inferior to it in every respect, except, I believe, swiftness,--but then these Boston boats have sometimes very heavy sea to go through.[93] Besides the ladies' cabin, this boat is furnished with half a dozen state rooms, taken from the upper deck,--an inexpressible luxury. Into one of these our night-bags were conveyed, and we returned to the deck to watch the sun down. A strong and piercing wind blew over the waters, and almost cut me in half as I stood watching the shores, which I did not wish to lose by going in. However, I might have done so, and lost but little; for after passing Hell-gate, where the rocks in the river and the banks have rather a picturesque appearance, there was neither form nor comeliness in the flat wearisome land to either side; and the only objects which detained me on deck were the bright blue waters themselves, all shining in the sunset, and those lovely little boats, with one mast and two glittering sails, scudding past us like fairy craft upon the burnished waves. At about eight, we were summoned down to tea, which was a compound meal of tea and supper. The company were so numerous that they were obliged to lay the table twice. We waited till the crowd had devoured their feed, and had ours in comparative peace and quiet. An excellent man, by name ----, an officer in the American army, made himself known to me, considering, as he afterwards told me, his commission to be a sufficient right of introduction to any body. He was a native of Boston, and was returning to it, after an absence of _fourteen years_.

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_Sunday, 14th._

The morning was beautifully bright and clear. While dressing, heard the breakfast-bell, and received sundry intimations to descend and eat; however, I declined leaving my cabin until I had done dressing, which I achieved very comfortably at leisure, during which time the ship weathered Point Judith, where the Atlantic comes in to the shore between the termination of Long Island and the southern extremity of Rhode Island. The water is generally rough here, and I had been prophesied an agreeable little fit of sea-sickness; but no such matter,--we passed it very smoothly, and presently stopped at Newport, on Rhode Island, to leave and take up passengers. The wind was keen and bracing; the morning beautifully bright and sunny; the blue waters, all curled and crisped under the arrow-like wind, broke into a thousand sapphire ridges tipped with silver foam, that drove away in sparkling showers before the bitter breath of the north. We entered Providence river in a few moments, and steamed along between Rhode Island and the main land, until we reached Providence, a town on the shore of Rhode Island, where we were to leave the boat, and pursue our route by coach to Boston. I walked on deck with Captain ---- for an hour after breakfast, breasting the wind, which almost drove us back each time we turned up the deck towards the prow. After my walk, went in, righted my hair, which the wind had dressed _à la frantic_, and came and sat in the sun with Brewster's book,--which I like mainly,--till we reached Providence. The boat was so heavily laden that she drew an enormous quantity of water, and was fairly aground once, as we were nearing the pier. When the crowd of passengers had ebbed away, and we had seen them pack themselves into their stages and drive off, we adjourned to our exclusive extra, which, to our great sorrow, could not take all our luggage after all. The distance from Providence to Boston is forty miles; but we were six hours and a half doing it over an excellent road. The weather was beautiful, but the country still sad and wintry-looking. The spring is backwarder here than in New York by full three weeks: the trees were all bare and leafless, except the withered foliage of the black oaks; and the face of the country, with its monotonous rises, and brooks flowing through flat fields, reminded me of parts of Cumberland. Every now and then, however, we came to a little lakelet, or, as they call them here, pond, of the holiest deepest dark-blue water, sparkling like a magic sapphire, against smooth, bright, golden, sandy shores, and screened by vivid thickets of cedar bushes. They were like little bits of fairy-land, and relieved the wearisomeness of the road. As we approached Boston, the country assumed a more cultivated aspect,--the houses in the road-side villages were remarkably neat, and pretty, and cottage-like,--the land was well farmed; and the careful cultivation, and stone walls, which perform the part of hedges here, together with the bleak look of the distances on each side, made me think of Scotland. We entered Boston through a long road with houses on each side, making one fancy one's self in the town long before one reaches it. We did not arrive until half-past six. Went to my own room and dressed for dinner. When I came to the drawing-room, found the ----s: dear ---- was half crazy at seeing us again. After dinner, came to my room with her, and righted all my clothes, and established myself; after tea, returned to the same work, and, at about half-past ten, came to bed. Here we are in a new place!--How desolate and cheerless this constant changing of homes is! the Scripture saith, "There is no rest to the wicked;" and truly I never felt so convinced of my own wickedness as I have done since I have been in this country.

_Monday, 15th._

Went over to the theatre to rehearse Fazio. Mr. ----, however, met us at the door, and assured me there was no necessity for my doing so till to-morrow. ---- came early to see me, and stayed all the morning. Mr. ---- called this morning,--I was quite glad to see him,--and Mrs. ----, whom I thought beautiful. Tried to finish letter to ----, but was interrupted about a dozen times. At about half-past four, the horses came to the door. The afternoon was lovely, and the roads remarkably good: I had a fine handsome spirited horse, who pulled my hands to pieces for want of being properly curbed. We rode out to _Cambridge_, the University of Massachusetts, about three miles distant from Boston. The village round it, with its white cottages, and meeting roads, and the green lawns and trees round the college, reminded me of England. We rode on to a place called Mount Auburn, a burial-ground which the Bostonians take great pride in, and which is one of the lions of the place. The entrance is a fine solid granite gateway, in a species of _Egyptian_ style, with this inscription engraved over it: "Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was, and the spirit shall return unto God, who gave it."[94] The whole place is at present in an unfinished state, but its capabilities are very great, and, as far as it has progressed, they have been taken every advantage of. The enclosure is of considerable extent,--about one hundred acres,--and contains several high hills and deep ravines, in the bottom of which are dark, still, melancholy-looking meres. The whole is cut, with much skill and good taste, by roads for carriages, and small narrow footpaths. The various avenues are distinguished by the names of trees, as, Linden walk, Pine walk, Beech walk; and already two or three white monuments are seen glimmering palely through the woods, reminding one of the solemn use to which this ground is consecrated, which, for its beauty, might seem a pleasure-garden instead of a place of graves. Mr. ---- delighted me very much: he told me he was looking for a plot of earth in this cemetery which he intended to dedicate to poor English people, who might come out here, and die without the means of being decently laid to rest. We looked, with this view, at a patch of ground on the slope of a high hill, well shadowed over with trees, and descending to a great depth to a dark pond, shining in the hollow like an emerald. 'Twas sad and touching to gaze at that earth, with the thought that amidst strangers, and in a strange land, the pity of a fellow-countryman should here allot to his brethren a grave in the quiet and solemn beauty of this hallowed ground. Our time was limited; so, after lingering for a short space along the narrow pathways that wind among dwellings of the dead, we rode home. We reached Boston at a quarter to seven. My father and D---- were already gone to the theatre. I dressed, and went over myself immediately. The play was begun: the house was not very full. The managers have committed the greatest piece of mismanagement imaginable,--they advertise my father alone in Hamlet to-night, and instead of making me play alone to-morrow night, and so securing our attraction singly before we act together, we are _both_ to act to-morrow in Fazio, which circumstance, of course, kept the house thin to-night. My father's Hamlet is very beautiful. 'Tis curious, that when I see him act I have none of the absolute feeling of contempt for the profession that I have while acting myself. What he does appears, indeed, like the work of an artist; and though I always lament that he loves it as he does, and has devoted so much care and labour to it as he has, yet I certainly respect acting more while I am seeing him act than at any other time.[95] Yet surely, after all, acting is nonsense, and as I sit here opposite the churchyard, it seems to me strange to think, that when I come down into that darkness, I shall have eaten bread, during my life, earned by such means. The Ophelia was perfectly beautiful: I think I scarcely ever saw a more faultless piece of mortality in point of outward loveliness. The eyes and brow of an angel, serene and calm, yet bright and piercing; a mouth chiselled like a Grecian piece of sculpture, with an expression of infinite refinement; fair round arms and hands, a beautifully-moulded foot, and a figure that seemed to me perfectly proportioned. It did not perhaps convey to me the idea of such absolute loveliness as ----'s figure did; but altogether I think I never saw a fairer woman--it was delightful lo look at her.[96] The audience are, upon the whole, cold;--very still and attentive, however, and when they do warm, it is certainly very effectually, for they shout and hurrah like mad.

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_Wednesday, 27th._

Somebody very civilly has sent me that beautiful book, Rogers's Italy: it set me wild again with my old frenzy for the south of Europe. Wrote to ----; after dinner, practised for an hour; at half-past five, off to the theatre. The house was crammed: the play, the Stranger. It is quite comical to see the people in the morning at the box-office: our window is opposite to it, and 'tis a matter of the greatest amusement to me to watch them. They collect in crowds for upwards of an hour before the doors open, and when the bolts are withdrawn, there is a yelling and shouting as though the town were on fire. In they rush, thumping and pummelling one another, and not one comes out without rubbing his head, or his back, or showing a piteous rent in his clothes. I was surprised to see men of a very low order pressing foremost to obtain boxes, but I find that they sell them again at an enormous increase to others who have not been able to obtain any; and, the better to carry on their traffic, these worthies smear their clothes with molasses, and sugar, etc., in order to prevent any person of more decent appearance, or whose clothes are worth a cent, from coming near the box-office: this is ingenious, and deserves a reward. Our other window looks out upon a large churchyard, in the midst of which stands a cenotaph, erected by Franklin in honour of his father. Between the view of the play-house, and the view of the burial-ground, my contemplations are curiously tinged. This house (the Tremont) is admirably quiet and comfortable.

_Thursday, 18th._

After breakfast, went to rehearsal,--the School for Scandal,--however, half the people were not there, so the rehearsal was nought. Came home, and at half-past eleven rode out; the day was beautifully bright: we rode to a beautiful little mere, called Jamaica Pond, through some country very like Scotland. We turned from the road into a gentleman's estate, and rode up a green rise into an enclosed field, which commanded an extensive view of the country below. But the spring tarries still, and though her smile is in the sky, the trees are leafless, and blossomless, and wintry-looking still. We came in by a pretty village called Roxbury, about two miles and a half distant from Boston: here we stopped to get a nosegay for my Lady Teazle, at a very pretty green-house, kept by a mechanic, who has devoted his leisure hours to the pleasurable and profitable pursuits of gardening. We returned to town at about half-past two. I ran into the drawing-room, and found ---- sitting with my father.

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_Saturday, 20th._

Walked up to the State House. The day was any thing but agreeable; a tremendous high wind (easterly of course,--'tis the only wind they have in Boston), and a burning sun tempered only by clouds of dust, in which, every two minutes, the whole world,--at least, as much as we could see of it,--was shrouded. On entering the hall of the State House, we confronted Chantry's statue of Washington, which stands in a recess immediately opposite the entrance. I saw that, how many years ago, in his study at Pimlico! We proceeded to mount into the cupola, whence a very extensive view is obtained of the city and its surroundings,--and a cruel height it was! I began it at full speed, like a wise woman, but before I got to the top was so out of breath, that I could hardly breathe at all: defend me from such altitudes!--and, after all, the day was hazy and not favourable for our purpose; the wind came in through the windows of the lantern like a tornado; and, as my father observed, after the exertion of ascending, 'twas the very best place in the world for catching one's death of cold. We came down as quickly as we could. At about twelve, we rode to Mount Auburn. The few days of sunshine since we were last there have clothed the whole earth with delicate purple and white blossoms, a little resembling the wood anemone, but growing close to the soil, and making one think of violets with their pale purple colour: they have no fragrance whatever. We afterwards rode on to a beautiful little lake called Fresh Pond, along whose margin we followed a pretty woody path: a high bank covered with black-looking pines rose immediately on our right, and on our left the clear waters of the rippling lake came dancing to and fro along the pebbly shore, which shone bright and golden under their crystal folds. We stood with our hats off to receive the soft wind upon our brows, and to listen to the chiming of the water upon the beach, the most delicious sound in all nature's orchestra. We then turned back and rode home. By the by, on our way out to Mount Auburn we took the Charleston road, and rode over Bunker Hill. They have begun a monument upon the spot where General Warren was killed, to commemorate the event. I felt strangely as I rode over that ground. Mr. ---- was the only American of our party, but, though in the minority, he had rather the best of it. And this is where so much English blood was shed, thought I; for, after all, 'twas all English blood,--do as they can, they can never get rid of their stock; and deeply as oppression and resistance have dug the grave in which all kindred feeling seems for a time to have been buried,--'tis only, I believe and trust, for a time,--buried in blood and fierce warfare, to spring up again in peace and mutual respect. England and America ought not to be enemies, 'tis unnatural while the same language is spoken in both lands. Until Americans have found a tongue for themselves, they must still be the children of old England, for they speak the words her children speak by the fireside of her homes. Oh, England! noble, noble land! They may be proud of many things, these inheritors of a new world, but of nothing more than that they are descended from Englishmen; that their fathers once trod the soil whereon has grown more goodness, more greatness, more beauty, and more truth, than on any other earth under God's sun.

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At half-past four, we went to dine with the ----s. Their house is very pretty and comfortable. When first we went in, we were shown into a couple of drawing-rooms, in which there were beautiful marble copies of one or two of the famous statues. One of Canova's dancing girls, the glorious Diana, a reclining figure of Cleopatra, an exquisite thing,--the crouching Venus, and the lovely antique Cupid and Psyche.

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'Tis strange that feelings should pass from our hearts and minds as clouds pass from the face of heaven, as though they had never been there;--yet not so, after all; they do not pass so tracklessly,--they do leave faint shadows behind; they leave a darker colour upon the face of all existence: sometimes they leave a sad conviction of wasted capabilities, and time, precious time, expended in vain. Yet not in vain: even though our feelings change,--pass, perhaps, to our own consciousness--cease altogether,--'tis not in vain--life is going on--experience and solemn wisdom may come with the coming time; and existence is, after all, but a series of experiments upon our spiritual nature. Our trials vary with our years; and though we deem (too often rightly) that suffering and disappointment are but barren thorns, whereon grows neither fruit nor flower, 'tis our sin that they are so, for they are designed to bear an excellent harvest. "Sweet are the uses of adversity;" so he has said who knew all things, and so indeed to the wise they are.

_Tuesday, 30th._

We rode down to the "Chelsea Ferry," and crossed over the Charles river, where the shore opposite Boston bears the name of that refuge for damaged marine stores. The breath of the sea was delicious, as we crossed the water in one of the steam-boats constantly plying to and fro; and on the other side, as we rode towards the beach, it came greeting us delightfully from the wide waters. When we started from Boston, the weather was intensely hot, and the day promised to be like the day before yesterday, a small specimen of the dog-days. We had about a five miles' ride through some country that reminded me of Scotland: now and then the dreary landscape was relieved by the golden branches of a willow tree, and the delicate pale peach blossoms, and tiny white buds in the apple orchards, peeping over some stone dyke, like a glance over the wall from the merry laughing spring. So we reached Chelsea beach, a curving, flat, sandy shore, forming one side of a small bay which runs up between this land and a rocky peninsula that stretches far out into the ocean, called Nahant. At the extremity of the basin lay glimmering a while sunny town, by name _Lynn_;--'tis quite absurd the starts and stares which the familiar names cause one for ever to make here. This small bay is beautifully smooth and peaceful; the shore is a shelving reach of hard fine sand, nearly two miles long, and the wild waves are warded off in their violence from it by the rocky barrier of Nahant. How happy I was to see the beautiful sea once more,--to be once more galloping over the golden sands,--to be once more wondering at and worshipping the grandeur and loveliness of this greatest of God's marvellous works. How I do love the sea!--my very soul seems to gather energy, and life, and light, from its power, its vastness, its bold bright beauty, its fresh invigorating airs, its glorious, triumphant, rushing sound. The thin, thin rippling waves came like silver leaves spreading themselves over the glittering sand, with just a little, sparkling, pearly edge, like the cream of a bright glass of champagne. Close along the shore the water was of that pale transparent green colour, that blends so delicately with the horizon, sometimes at sunset; but out beyond, towards the great deep, it wore that serene and holiest blue that surrounds one in mid-ocean, when the earth is nearly as far below as the heaven seems high above us. For a short time my spirits seemed like uncaged birds; I rejoiced with all my might,--I could have shouted aloud for delight; I galloped far along the sand, as close into the water's restless edge as my horse would bear to go. But the excitement died away, and then came vividly back the time when last I stood upon the sea beach at Cramond, and lost myself in listening to that delicious sound of the chiming waters--I was many years younger then.

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The end of my ride was sadder than the beginning, for at first my senses alone took cognizance of what surrounded me, and afterwards my soul looked on it, and it grew dark. We rode two miles along the beach, and stopped at a little wooden hut, where, Mr. ---- told me, sportsmen, who come to shoot plover along the flats by the shore, resort to dress their dinners and refresh themselves. Here we dismounted: lay in the sun on the roof with the fresh, sweet, blessed breath of heaven fanning us. My horse thought proper to break his bridle and walk himself off through the fields: they followed him with corn, and various inducements; ---- and I, meantime, ran down to the water, collecting interesting relics, muscle shells, quartz, pebbles, and sea-weed; finally, we remounted and returned home. The weather had changed completely, and become quite bleak and cold: the variations of the climate in this place are terrible. As we rode down a pleasant lane towards the Salem road, we met a large crowd of country-people busily employed in raising the framework of a house. In this part of the country, the poorer class of people build their houses, or rather, the wooden frames of their houses, entirely before they set them up. When the skeleton is entirely finished, they call together all their neighbours to assist in the raising, which is an event of much importance, and generally ends in a merry-making. The filling up the outline of the habitation, which they do with boards here, is an after work: the frame seems to be the material part of the building, and slight enough too, I thought, for protection against these bitter east winds. We reached home at about half-past two. The play was Much Ado about Nothing: the house was spoilt by the fair which the ladies have been getting up for the blind here, and which was lighted and open for inspection previous to to-morrow, when the sale is to take place.

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LINES.

* * * and I
Am reading, too, my book of memory:
With eyelids closed, over the crested foam,
And the blue marbled sea, I seek my home.
All present things forgotten, on the shore
Of the romantic Forth I stand once more;
Once more I hear the waves' harmonious strife;
Once more, upon the mountain coast of Fife,
I see the checker'd lights and shadows fall.
Upon the sand crumbles the ruin'd wall
That guards no more the desolate demesne,
And the deserted mansion. High between
The summer clouds the Ochil hills arise;
And far, far, like a shadow in the skies,
Ben Lomond towers aloft in sovereign height.
O, Cramond beach! are thy sands still as bright--
Thy waters still as sunny,--thy wild shore
As lonely and as lovely as of yore?--
Haunts of my happy time! as wandering back
Along my life, on memory's faithful track,
How fair ye seem,--how fair, how dear ye are!
Ye need not to be gazed at from afar;
Deceptive distance lends no brighter hue;
Your beauty and your peacefulness were true.
Not yours the charms from which we wearied stray,
And own them only when they're far away.
O, be ye blest for all the happiness
Which I have known in your wild loneliness.
Old sea, whose voice yet chimes upon my ear,--
Old paths, whose every winding step was dear,--
Dark rocky promontories,--echoing caves,
Worn hollow by the white feet of the waves,--
Blue lake-like waters,--legend-haunted isle,
Over ye all, bright be the summer's smile;
And gently fall the winter on your breast,
Haunts of my youth, my memory's place of rest.

_Wednesday, May 1st._

Mr. ---- came in the morning, and I settled to call down at eleven for Mrs. ---- to go to the fair. We drove to Faneuil Hall, a building opposite the market, which was appropriated to the uses of the fair; but the crowd was so dense round the steps, that we found it impossible to approach them, and wisely gave up the attempt, determining to take our drive, and then come back and try our later fortune. We drove down to the Chelsea beach. The day was bleak and cold, though bright, with a cutting east wind. After taking a good race along the bright creaming edge, we returned to the carriage, and drove into town again to the fair, which we managed at last to enter. The whole thing was crowd, crush, and confusion, to my bewildered eyes. We got upon a platform behind the stalls, and squeezed our way to Mrs. ----'s shop, where my father had desired me to buy him a card-case, which I did. I found ---- installed in her stall. ---- joined us, and Mr. ----, who drew me away to his wife's table, where I bought one or two things, and, having emptied my purse, came away. After dinner, Mr. ---- came in: he showed us some things he had bought at the fair. I thought the prices enormous, but the money is well spent in itself, or rather, on its ultimate object, and the immediate return is of no import.

_Thursday, 2d._

After breakfast, went over to rehearsal; at half-past eleven, went out to ride: the day was heavenly, bright, and mild, with a full, soft, sweet spring breeze blowing life and health over one. The golden willow-trees were all in flower, and the air, as we rode by them, was rich with their fragrance. The sky was as glorious as the sky of Paradise: the whole world was full of loveliness; and my spirits were in most harmonious tune with all its beauty. We rode along the chiming beach, talking gravely of many matters, temporal and spiritual; and when we reached the pines, I dismounted, entreated for a scrap of paper, and, in the miserable little parlour of this miserable little mansion, sat down and scribbled some miserable doggrel to ease my heart. How beautiful the scene around me was! the bright boundless sea, smooth as a sapphire, except at the restless rippling edge; the serene holy sky looking down so earnestly and gently on the flowering earth; the reviving breeze, dipping like a bird its fresh wings into the water,--how beautiful all things did seem to me,--how full of witnesses of the great power and goodness that created them. Why is it that clouds ever come between us and God when there are seasons like this, when we seem to sit at his very feet,--when his glory and his mercy seem the atmosphere we are breathing, and our whole existence is lifted, for a time, into the reality of all we hope and pray for? Yet these are but passing emotions: they are not, indeed, the very spirit of God,--they are but reflections of his image, caught from the glorious mirror of nature. The sky becomes cloudy,--the sea stormy; the blossoming and the bearing seasons pass away, and winter comes apace, with withered aspect, and bitter biting breath; the face of the universe becomes dark, and the trust, and faith, and joy of our souls, fade into doubt, disbelief, and sorrow. Infirmity and imperfection pluck us back from our heavenward flight, and the weight of our mortality drags us down fast, fast again towards the earth. These fair outward creatures, and the blessed emotions they excite, will pass away,--must--do pass away,--and where is the abiding revelation of God to which we shall turn? It lives for ever, in the still burning light of a strong and steadfast soul; in the resolute will and high unshaken purpose of good; in the quiet, calm, collected might of reason; in the undying warmth and brightness of a pure and holy heart.

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My ride did me ten thousand goods. As we were riding through Mrs. ----'s farm, a little boy came running to meet me with his hand full of beautiful flowers, which he stood upon tiptoe to thrust into my hand, and, without waiting to be thanked, rushed back into the house. I was delighted: the flowers were exquisite, and the manner of the gift very enchanting. Altogether, I do not know when I have been so completely filled with pleasurable emotions as during this ride.

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LINES.

To the smooth beach, the silver sea
Comes rippling in a thousand smiles,
And back again runs murmuringly,
To break around yon distant isles.
The sunshine, through a floating veil
Of golden clouds, looks o'er the wave,
And gilds, far off, the outline pale,
Of many a rocky cape and cave,
The breath of spring comes balmily
Over the newly-blossom'd earth;
The smile of spring, on sea, and sky,
Is shedding light, and love, and mirth.
I would that thou wert by my side,
As underneath the rosy bloom
Of flowering orchard trees I ride,
And drink their fragrant fresh perfume;
I would that thou wert by my side,
To feel this soft air on thy brow,
And listen to the chiming tide
Along that smooth shore breaking now;
I would that thou wert here to bless,
As I do now, the love and care,
That, with such wealth of loveliness,
Have made life's journeying-land so fair.

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