"Get thee back, Sorrow, get thee back!
My brow is smooth, mine eyes are bright,
My limbs are full of health and strength,
My cheeks are fresh, my heart is light."
MACKAY.
"Why, which way are we going?" I exclaimed, as we turned off, on an
opposite road, about quarter of a mile before reaching the
well-remembered depot and gloomy suburbs which had been, I supposed, our
destination.
"To tell you the truth," said my _compagnon de voyage_, "I have begun to
look upon railroads as an invention of the enemy, and to prefer any
other mode of travel. So that, considering we are both invalids (a fact
you are constantly overlooking), and cannot bear fatigue or excitement,
I have arranged our route after this manner: we drive, to-day, by easy
stages as far as W.; then a night's rest there; and to-morrow morning go
on to C., where we part with the carriage, and take the day-boat down
the river, which will bring us to the haven of our desires to-morrow
evening about seven o'clock. This seemed a more agreeable plan than
going by cars, and I thought would be less fatiguing."
"_A la bonne heure!_" I cried, remembering it was three times as long as
the railroad route.
It proved a most delightful journey; the further we went, the thinner
the snow-clouds grew, and as the day wore on, they disappeared
altogether, and the sun came out, faint and pale, and the air grew soft
and mild. The carriage was the easiest imaginable, the roads were in
good condition, the horses disdained their burden, and the occasional
respites which their master decreed, the scenery was as varied and
charming as inland scenery at that season of the year could possibly be;
every change and amusement that the limits of the carriage admitted of,
Mr. Rutledge's care had provided; and we were two companions who had at
least the charm of freshness for each other, and were not as yet bored
with one another's society, whatever we might be in the course of time.
We tried to read, but the pages of my new novel did not turn very fast;
I gave it up before the heroine (the records of whose nursery
reminiscences occupied two thirds of the volume) had entered her tenth
year. Mr. Rutledge's review had, I afterward found, but two of the
leaves cut, though he read it assiduously for an hour and a half.
So we tacitly agreed to resign literature, and devote our attention to
the scenery, which, as we approached the Hudson, certainly did grow
worthy of attention. The purple-headed mountains already were
discernible against the pale sky; the hills grew steeper, the roads
wilder. There was an anecdote or a legend attached to every dark wood or
antiquated farmhouse we passed. Mr. Rutledge seemed to know every inch
of the way, and to be familiar with its history since its settlement by
the pale-faced gentry; though it is my belief, that where he did not
know of any entertaining tradition "to cheat the toil, and cheer the
way," he waived all conscientious regard to veracity, and improvised one
on the spot. Very engrossing they were, however, whether manufactured
from "whole cloth" or founded on fact, and it was quite three o'clock
before any of the party (inside passengers at least) began to revolve
seriously the question of dinner. Then, however, it appeared that Mrs.
Roberts' care had provided us with the most delicate and tempting of
collations, and we stopped to enjoy it at the outskirts of a little
village, by the side of a fresh, clear brook that was on its way, I
suppose, "to join the brimming river," that was our destination also. We
went by different routes, however, and I never have seen the pretty
little eddying streamlet since that pleasant lunch upon its banks, when
Mr. Rutledge filled my cup from its clear waters, and Thomas cooled the
wine in its bosom. Rather a superfluous service, I couldn't help
thinking, in consideration of the season and state of the thermometer;
but it brought out in strong relief the methodic precision of Thomas'
mind. He was an invaluable machine; once wound up correctly, he ran for
any given time, but as to any exercise of his reasoning faculties in the
discharge of his duties, that was as totally wanting as in other
machines. Any display of it from him, would have been as startling to
his master, as it would have been, had the watch in his pocket suddenly
addressed him in good English. Thomas, however, was just the servant for
Mr. Rutledge; he would have been worse than useless to a lazy man who
wanted a valet to take care of him; but Mr. Rutledge chose to do his own
thinking in most cases, and only wanted his orders promptly executed,
which Thomas certainly was capable of doing, and did to admiration.
A very nice lunch Mrs. Roberts had prepared for us, and we drank her
health gratefully in some very superior Burgundy. We did not hurry
ourselves at all; and as I treated Tigre to some of the remaining
delicacies, and Thomas packed up the baskets again, Mr. Rutledge lazily
sketched the group from the carriage window, on a blank leaf in my book;
making rather a spirited drawing of it, only caricaturing grotesquely
the length of Thomas' legs, and my eyelashes. Then we got _en route_
again, and with occasional stoppings to sketch, which I insisted on, and
occasional pauses at village inns to water the horses, or rather to wash
their faces, the afternoon wore on.
"Tired?" Of course not, never fresher in my life. What a nuisance
railcars are, with their distracting racket and bustle and jar. Why do
not people always travel in carriages?
Mr. Rutledge agreed with me that it was very pleasant; indeed, he seemed
to enjoy it, just as he did that ride I had such good cause to remember.
He left all care and sadness behind at Rutledge, and gave himself up to
the present. In that little travelling-cap, too, I was sure he didn't
look a day over thirty.
"Mr. Rutledge, you look to-day so like that crayon sketch of your young
relative, that you gave me. It is really wonderful."
Mr. Rutledge laughed, and asked me if I continued to admire it.
"Oh, as much as ever," I answered, laughing, and blushing, too, under
cover of the twilight, for the short November day had faded. He
evidently thought I was still deceived about the picture, and I did not
enlighten him.
"I mean to hang it in the very best light in my room in New York, where
I can look at it from 'morn to dewy eve,' if I choose."
"I advise you not; Josephine will ferret out the mystery, and expose
your romantic devotion. She isn't given that way herself, and will not
spare you. Your ideas of hero-worship and hers might not agree."
"Well, if they do not, it may prove fortunate in the end. We shall not
be so likely to interfere with each other."
"If you do, 'may I be there to see!'"
"Which would you bet on?"
Mr. Rutledge, after a protest against such language from such lips,
deliberated somewhat upon my question, and then favored me with his
opinion. We were, he thought, in point of will, about equally matched;
but my French-bred cousin, he was afraid, had a little the advantage of
me in coolness, and had enjoyed the benefit of a training and experience
which might tell heavily against me. And much more to the same effect,
which I only laughed at then, but remembered afterward with less
amusement.
All this while it was growing darker and darker, and we did not arrive
at W----, as it was proper we should have done some time since. This
seemed at length to strike Mr. Rutledge, and he called to Michael to
know if he was sure of the road. Michael was sure, and again we went on.
At the end of another half hour, however, Mr. Rutledge again stopped
him, and as it was too dark to see anything of the road, he directed him
to drive toward the only light we could discover, which proved to
emanate from the dingy window of a low farmhouse about a quarter of a
mile off. At Thomas' thundering knock, appeared a bony rustic in his
shirt-sleeves, who came wonderingly to the carriage, shading a candle
with his hand, which threw fantastic shadows on his rough, open-mouthed
visage, followed by an untidy-looking woman, and a whole troop of
shaggy, uncombed children, evidently just roused from their first nap.
Mr. Rutledge, after long perseverance, elicited the information that he
sought, which proved anything but agreeable, being a confirmation of his
fears. We had come five miles out of our way, W---- lying just ten miles
to the south, while we had been, under Michael's guidance, pursuing a
course due north.
Michael was a miserable and a scared man, when the thunders of his
master's wrath fell upon him. Mr. Rutledge was not very demonstrative or
vehement, but he conveyed the idea of an angry man as alarmingly as I
should care to see it represented. No wonder Michael was scared; even I
felt a little awe-struck till after he had shut the carriage door, and
we had turned to retrace our course.
"Are you very tired?" he said. "I would not have had this happen upon
any consideration. You will be utterly worn out, and unable to travel
to-morrow. I thought I had arranged it admirably for you, but this
Hibernian numbskull has upset it all."
I assured him that, on my account, he need not anathematize the
luckless Michael further, for I was not in the least tired, and did not
mind the detention at all. Owing to this little contretemps, it was ten
o'clock when we arrived at W----, and halted at the door of its most
promising hotel, which was at best but a shabby affair. I would not have
acknowledged it on any account, but I was dreadfully tired and sleepy,
and could hardly conceal these humiliating frailties, while the landlord
and a drowsy waiter or two bustled about to get us some "tea;" which
meal, arranged upon a remote end of a dreary, long table, in a dingy,
long room, was utterly unpalatable, and I was but too grateful to Mr.
Rutledge for excusing me when a chambermaid appeared to say my room was
ready, and conduct me to it.
It seemed direfully early next morning when the same functionary
appeared to awake me, with the intelligence that breakfast would shortly
be on the table, and the gentleman had sent her to call me, and to see
if there was any way in which she could help me. "The gentleman" had
evidently backed his suggestion with some specimens of the United States
currency, for she was overwhelmingly attentive, and helped me to dress
in "no time." Breakfast, arranged again as a little colony, at the end
of the long table, was considerably more inviting than last night's
meal, Thomas having had orders to beat up the town for spring chickens
and fresh butter, and, being a veteran in the recruiting service, had of
course succeeded. Mr. Rutledge looked a little anxiously at me, and said
I was wretchedly pale, and he did not know about going on. I laughed at
the idea, and we were soon _en route_ again, driving briskly along in
the eye of a strong wind, and with the bluest of skies overhead.
Arrived at C----, we had an hour to spare, before the arrival of the
boat, which I spent in the parlor of the very pretending steamboat
hotel, in writing a few lines of adieu and apology to Mrs. Arnold,
accounting, as satisfactorily as I could, for my unceremonious and
abrupt departure, and desiring a renewal of my acknowledgments to Mr.
Shenstone. Of this, Mr. Rutledge approved, and wrote a few lines to Mr.
Shenstone to accompany it. Then came the parting from Tigre, and the
sending back of the carriage, which seemed like severing the last tie to
Rutledge. Tigre was much affected, poor beast, and looked wistfully
back, out of the carriage window, as far as we could see.
A bell rings, a rush occurs, Thomas devotes himself to the baggage, Mr.
Rutledge gives his arm to me, we thread the crowded wharf, the blue
Hudson dances in the sunlight, the fine steamer holds her breath, and
tries to lie still while we get on board.
"O Tiber! Father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a
Roman's arms, take thou in charge this day."
I am luxuriously established in the saloon, with every imaginable wish
attended to, and easy-chairs, books, papers, and cushions enough to
satisfy five invalids, but they do not satisfy me. I am bored with the
heat, and the whimpering of the pale children, whom a lean,
sallow-looking mother feeds unremittingly with "bolivars" and "taffy;" I
am tired with the swinging of those lamps overhead, and the everlasting
rocking of a stout lady in a red plush rocking-chair, and with looking
at the gaudy colors in the carpet, and I rush out for a brisk walk on
the deck with Mr. Rutledge. What a day it is! How impossible to be
otherwise than happy and hopeful; how inevitably the dark phantoms of
doubt and dread take themselves off in the light of such a sun as this,
and in the sight of such a scene! The waves dance bright and gay in the
sunshine; the mountains rise, on either hand, into the blue and
cloudless sky; in a word, the loveliest river in all this lovely
river-braided New World lays before me, the heart of seventeen beats in
my bosom, the glow of health and exercise tingles in my veins; what
wonder that I forget the tears of yesterday, the separation, the
homesickness, the loneliness that I so dreaded.
Neither can my companion altogether resist the influences of the hour.
If the sharp air and the quick walk have, as he says, made the tardy
roses bloom again on my cheeks, they have also brought a glow to his
face, and a sparkle to his eye, and untamed wit and sarcasm to his lips.
He quizzes our fellow voyagers, tells me odd stories of former travel,
droll sketches of western journeyings, and California "experiences."
Then the laugh dies, as some winding of the river brings suddenly before
us a picture too grand to be looked at with trifling words and laughter
on our lips. And Mr. Rutledge has the "right thing" to say then, in his
rich manly voice, and the right words to embody the voiceless thoughts
that crowd to my own lips--words that do not jar or desecrate, but make
the beauty tangible and the grandeur more ennobling.
By and by, most of our fellow travellers give up to the cold and go
below; and at last we are left with only a persevering artist, who holds
his hat on with one hand, and sketches with the other, and a couple of
ladies, whose ruddy cheeks, thick shoes, grey dresses, plaid shawls,
"boas" and big bonnets, proclaim indisputably to be H.B.M.'s loyal and
unalienated subjects. It has always been a question with me, as yet
unanswered, whether by any act of Parliament these "proud islanders,"
out on their travels, are prohibited from appearing in anything but the
invariable grey dress, plaid shawl, boa, and big bonnet, in which they
invariably do appear. After a while, even they go down, and a solitary
cadaverous-looking man, in the dress of a Romish priest, is our only
companion. He paces up and down one corner of the deck, never raising
his heavy eyes, but reading prayers diligently out of a little book, his
thin lips moving rapidly. It is no doubt a good and pious thing to read
prayers out of a little book; but it seems to me, that with that grand
and glorious lesson spread upon the mountains there before us, it would
be a very pardonable thing to look up at it, and to give God thanks.
It is rather a bore to go down to dinner, and after that, to be
sentenced to a term of imprisonment in the saloon, because, forsooth, it
is too cold outside, and I must rest. But late in the afternoon, I plead
that the wind has fallen, that there is no possible chance of my taking
cold, and I must see the sun set among the Highlands, and I gain
reluctant permission; and now for another walk!
The sunset is beyond my hopes; the twilight steals down after it, soft
and dusky, and broods about the rocky Palisades, and dulls to dimness
the dancing waves, and settles, grey and thick, around the pretty villas
and white cottages that dot the banks, and deepens slowly, till all is
one sombre hue in earth and sky, and one fair star comes out to
establish the reign of night.
We are late this evening in arriving at New York; we should have been
there some time ago; in less than half an hour we shall be at the wharf,
Mr. Rutledge says. All my gaiety and spirits have fled; I wonder that I
could have forgotten. Still we pace the deck; there is no talk of cold
or fatigue now; indeed, not much talk of any kind.
"We are in sight of your new home now," says my companion, pointing
"Where the lamps quiver So far in the river."
And I cannot reply, to save my life. A mist of tears dim the glare of
those lights, at first sight. We near the wharf; the bell rings; the
busy hum of the city reaches our ears less and less faintly; the dim
figures that crowd the wharf grow more distinct.
"We had better go below," I say, with a shiver, "I have to find my books
and shawls, and it is growing so cold."
Perhaps if I had known more about that "untold, untried to-morrow,"
which I so vaguely dreaded, I should have shrunk more even than I did,
from ending this short hour before its dawning. But,
"It is well we cannot see
What the end will be."