Part 24

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._