GERMANY AND BELGIUM.
Martin sed he shouldn’t think of travellin’ in Germany, as he had made
a very exhaustive study of the country on a visit he’d paid it some
years before. I knew Alice had been there two years, a-stayin’ with a
Miss Ponsione, a music-teacher, as nigh as I could make out, a kind of
foreign creeter, I guess.
Sez he, “I gave more exhaustive attention to Germany than to any other
country in Europe, and I would not wish to make a needless expenditure
of time there.”
Sez I, “Martin, how long a time did you stay in Germany?”
“Over a week,” sez he.
Wall, thinkses I, accordin’ to his idees that is considerable of a
time. Alice, of course, didn’t care to stay there long, as she had
stayed there all durin’ her vacations, and took excursions all over the
country with that Miss Ponsione and her folks; there seemed to be a
hull lot of ’em, all girls, as nigh as I could make out.
And it wuz from her that I learnt that her Pa had fell and sprained
his ankle and hurt his head, and wuz bed-sick all the time he wuz in
Germany; he wuzn’t able to lift his head from the piller, and so I
guess it wuz ruther exhaustin’ study he gin to it. But I wanted to see
the Rhine--I wanted to see “Fair Bingen on the Rhine,” I wanted to like
a dog, and I told Alice so.
But she said Bingen looked jest about like any other city. And come to
think on’t, I spoze it wuz the homesick longin’ for his own country
that made the “Soldier of the Legion” want to see it so bad, and made
its seenery seem fairer and lovelier, and made its moonlight fairer
and brighter than that which looked down on that fur-off battle-field,
where his body lay, and his homesick sperit a-wanderin’ off to “Fair
Bingen on the Rhine.”
I eppisoded this to Josiah, and he sez with a sad look on his face--he
wuz awful beat out, and his corns ached fearful--“Yes, that is it, I
feel jest so; I could talk jest as melogious and affectin’ this minute
about ‘Fair Jonesville on the Lyme.’”
Sez I, “You may feel jest as bad, Josiah, but you can’t write sech
poetry as that.”
“Whattle you bet?” sez he, a-settin’ the bottle of liniment on the
stand; he’d been tryin’ to irrigate them corns of hisen and quell ’em
down some. “Whattle you bet I can’t?”
Sez I mildly, “That Soldier of the Legion wuz dyin’ in Algiers.”
“Wall,” sez he, “I’m a-dyin’ in France; what’s the difference?”
Sez I, “His talk about his distant home is enough to make anybody weep.”
“Home!” sez he. “Can’t I talk about home? Why,” sez he, “if I should
swing right out into poetry and describe my feelin’s, nobody would look
at that soldier’s verses agin, if I should let myself out and tell the
beauties of Jonesville, and what we’ve been through sence we left its
blessed presinks; why that soldier didn’t begin to know what trouble
wuz. He wuz a single man,” sez he.
[Illustration: “No attention paid to rumatiz, or meal times, or corns.”]
I looked coldly at him, and he hastened to add with a deep groan, “Oh,
what hain’t we been through, in verse or out on’t--what hain’t we been
through! two old folks snaked through Europe by a Martin and Fashion;
no attention paid to rumatiz, or meal times, or corns, or anything, and
one of them dum old fools,” sez he impressively, and in a kind of a
rhymin’ axent, “wuz born in Jonesville--‘fair Jonesville on the Lyme.’”
I wuz born myself pretty nigh the town of Lyme, jest over the line, but
I wouldn’t contend.
Sez he, “I could make up hull books of poetry on our tower better than
hisen, enough sight.”
“No you can’t, Josiah,” sez I; “jest think of them beautiful messages
he sent back to them distant friends of hisen; it hain’t in you to
write like that.”
“Wall, it _is_ in me, mom; and messages! Gracious Peter! couldn’t I
send messages back? Couldn’t I send heart-breakin’ messages to the
children, and Ury, and Philury, and Deacon Henzy, and Uncle Sime
Bentley, and the rest of the meetin’-house bretheren--couldn’t I send
word to ’em--
“When they meet and crowd around
The horse-block by the meetin’-house, that dear old talkin’ ground?
“Couldn’t I warn the hull caboodle on ’em to stay where they be, in
that beautiful, beautiful place; to never traipse a million milds
from home on a tower? Let ’em hear my dyin’ words to stay where they
be. Oh, what volumes I could say to them companions and friends if
I could git holt of their ears once! I wouldn’t want ’em to think I
wuz rambelous and back slid--no, I would want ’em to know I felt like
sayin’ in these last hours that--
“‘I am a married man and not afraid to die.’”
I looked dretful cold at him; I hain’t no idee what he meant, if he
meant anything, and he hastened to add--
“If they hain’t dum loonaticks and crazy as loons they’ll stay where
they be,” sez he, in that same rhymin’ axent--
“They’ll stay right there in Jonesville, fair Jonesville on the Lyme.”
Sez I, “That hain’t poetry, Josiah.”
“Wall, it’s good solid horse sense, the hull of it, and the last line
is poetry.”
Sez I, “One line don’t make poetry.” I wuz sorry I said it, for he
turned his eyes up towards the ceilin’ in deep thought a minute, and
then he kinder recited out in blank verse, or considerable blank,
though it rhymed some--
“A leadin’ man of Jonesville lay dyin’ in--”
He hesitated for a minute, and seemed to be lookin’ round the room for
a word, and finally his eye fell onto his feet--he had jest drawed his
boot on agin, and I spoze the pain wuz fearful, but it seemed to gin
him an idee--and he begun agin--
“A leadin’ man of Jonesville lay dyin’ in his boots,
There wuz dearth of rest and intment, or food, or healin’ roots;
But his pardner sot beside him--”
Here he gin me a witherin’ look; I spoze I wuz a-smilin’ some. He can’t
write poetry, that man can’t, and mebby I showed my knowledge of the
fact in my mean.
“His pardner sot beside him, a-jeerin’ at his woe,
And unto her he faintly sed, in axents wan and low,
‘I’ve a message and a groan or two, to send most any time,
To distant friends in Jonesville, fair Jonesville on the Lyme.’”
Yes, I wuz sorry enough I mentioned that poem, for before night that
man had a hull string of verses writ off, and he recited ’em to me
anon, or oftener. They went on a-recountin’ all the peace and beauty
of Jonesville, and the delights of stayin’ there and takin’ solid
comfort and happiness, and the tribulations two old folks went through
away from that blissful spot, with their bodies moved round from place
to place on a tower, and the verses most all on ’em ended with these
lines, some like the melancholy accompaniment of a trombone--
“And one old fool wuz born in Jonesville,
Fair Jonesville on the Lyme.”
And some on ’em wuz stronger--
“And one dum old fool wuz born in Jonesville,
Fair Jonesville on the Lyme.”
His axents on these last words wuz affectin’ in the extreme, and he
seemed to think I ort to shed tears when he said ’em, and I didn’t know
but I _had_ ort to, but I wuz in sunthin’ of a hurry a new bindin’ a
petticoat, and I thought I wouldn’t.
One verse wuz as follers, and I presoom his feelin’s about the delights
of our home wuz powerful as he writ it:
“Tell Ury and Philury to joyous wash the pan,
To worship all the barn chores, adore the milky can,
The Jerseys, oh, in happier hours I driv ’em through the crick,
Oh, angel calves, oh, did I e’er hit one on ’em with a stick?
The lovely, sweet young critters might kick me time and time,
If I wuz back in Jonesville, fair Jonesville on the Lyme.”
And there wuz one to Thomas J., and one to Tirzah--
“Tell Tirzah Ann that other Pars must comfort her young age,”
etc., etc., etc., all put down jest as if he wuz in a dyin’ state; no
regularity or symetry in the lines, but powerful in feelin’s. There wuz
more’n twenty-one on ’em. I didn’t hear all on ’em--I wouldn’t, and we
had some words.
Wall, Martin wuz sot on not goin’ to Germany, till Adrian sed he would
love to see the Rhine. That settled it--the Rhine wuz seen. That man
would go through fire and water if his little pardner jest motioned him
that way.
And that very fact, I felt, shed a perfect halo round Martin Smith. It
showed that deep down in the nater of the man, all covered up by layers
of pride, worldiness, fashion, ambition, etc., there wuz a fount of
pure water a-springin’; but few indeed could pierce down to it. Alice
can, and Adrian can, but nobody else, so fur as I know; but that love
permeates everything he sez and duz.
As wuz nateral on French sile, we got to talkin’ about poor young
Prince Louis, the pride of the third Napoleon--the very heart and soul
of his beautiful Ma. His sad fate seemed to impress Adrian dretfully.
He wuz dretful sorry for him, and sed he wuz. Good little creeter!
Any tale of sadness and sorrer found a ready sympathy in his tender,
generous young breast. But Martin seemed to draw a different moral from
it, and sez he, when I wuz a-tellin’ how sorry I wuz for his poor Ma,
sez he--
“She ought to have looked ahead, she never ought to have allowed him to
go into such danger, she ought to do as I do. I always surround my boy
with safeguards to keep him out of danger’s way entirely, and therefore
he is safe.”
But I sez, “Martin, in this world it is hard to tell always where
danger is, and who is really safe.”
“But I know,” sez he, “because I am right with him. If he was a child
of poor parentage, now, one of the masses, why, then, I grant you I
could not surround him with such safeguards, but as it is Adrian is
perfectly safe.”
I felt that here it wuz a good place to gin a little hint. Sez I,
“Speakin’ of safeguards, Martin, have you ever put them fenders on that
line of cars of yourn that they wanted you to?”
“No!” sez he, speakin’ up pretty sharp.
Sez I, “Don’t you feel that you ort to, for the sake of children whose
Mas and Pas love them jest as well as you do Adrian?”
But he waived off that idee, sayin’, as usual, that it wuzn’t expected
that he wuz a-goin to spend his life and fortune for the sake of the
children of the masses, who, two thirds on ’em, wuz better off dead
than alive.
I _hate_ sech talk.
But he went on to prove by statisticks how they grew up to be
criminals, and paupers, and Coxeyites, and the world wuz well rid on
’em if they died in childhood.
I _hate_ sech talk. He see my feelin’s, and he went on jest as if
nothin’ had been sed, and repeated that Adrian wuz perfectly safe, and
that his futer wuz assured.
“Wall,” sez I, “I hope so, for he is a dretful good little boy, and
smart, and I hope he will make a useful man.”
“There is no other child in the world like him,” sez Martin, “and he
will have a great and successful future. I shall attend to that.”
“Wall,” I sez agin, “I hope so,” and I truly did. But I felt dubersome
about thinkin’ that Martin had it all in his own hands--this is sech a
queer world, and so kinder surprisin’ and changeable.
Wall, Martin wuz as good as his word, we didn’t stay long in Germany,
but seein’ that Adrian wanted to see the Rhine, we sot out for it. We
went through Valenciennes on the night train, which Josiah sed wuz
indeed a blessin’, and he sed that Martin, in some things, did show
great tax.
Sez I, “What do you mean?”
“Why, you’d been a-wantin’ to git some of that lace of theirn for a
nightcap, or sunthin’, if you hadn’t been sound asleep and a-snorin’.”
I never snore, and he knows it. He is the one. I may sometimes breathe
a little hard, that’s all. And I sez, willin’ to give him a woond for
the onmerited snore eppisode, sez I--
“I can git some in Brussels; their lace wears like iron.”
He wuz earnest in a minute, deeply earnest. Sez he--
“If you knew, Samantha, how becomin’ your nightcaps are, and how
perfectly sweet you look with the plain muslin ruffles round your dear
face, you wouldn’t speak of lace.”
That “dear” touched my heart. He hadn’t used the adjective in some
time. But I wouldn’t promise not to git any. I think he worried all
the time we wuz in Brussels, but he needn’t. I am a good economizer, I
didn’t lay out to git any--I had above a yard of good Torchon to home.
I didn’t need any lace.
Godfrey D. Bouillon stood up in plain sight jest as he has been
a-standin’ for a number of years, a-holdin’ up the banner of the Cross.
Good, determined creeter he wuz.
Wall, we went to see public buildin’s and towers, from them one to
three or four hundred feet high to more megum ones, and galleries of
paintin’s, and parks and statutes; and one little statute rigged up
as a kind of a fountain, I won’t say nothin’ about--the least sed the
soonest mended. But it wuz a shame and a disgrace, and if I’d had my
way the poor little creeter would have had at least a shirt put onto
him, or I would know the reason why.
A perfect shame to behold!
In the Museum of Paintings Josiah got real skairt. He wuz kinder
prowlin’ round, and he happened to see a door partly open, and it wuz
nateral, so he sez, to kinder look in. But he shrunk back in extreme
perterbation, and sez he--
“By Jehoshaphat, what have I done?”
Sez I, “What is it, Josiah?”
Sez he, his face as red as anything, “A woman jest dressin’
herself--she seems all broke up.”
[Illustration: “A woman jest dressin’ herself--she seems all broke up.”]
“Wall,” sez I, “you keep out of there; you stay right by me.”
“Wall, I lay out to!” he snapped out.
Wall, I looked in myself. I had no curosity, but I felt that I had
better see if my pardner had done any harm. And I see a young woman all
kinder crouched together a-holdin’ her clothes round her, and I sez--
“Mom, you needn’t be afraid, my pardner wouldn’t hurt a hair of your
head.”
She didn’t move a mite, but jest held her clothes, what she had on,
round her, and looked at me kinder skairt. And I spoke up some louder,
thinkin’ mebby she wuz deef; sez I--
“He is a deacon in the Jonesville meetin’-house, mom, and though
fraxious a good deal of the time, a likely man.”
But jest at this junkter Martin come up behind me, and told me that it
wuz a picter. I wuz dumbfoundered, but so it wuz. The artist, Wiertz
by name, made quite a number considerable like it; dretful curous and
surprisin’, but it is a sight to see ’em.
The meetin’-house of St. Gudale, with its stained glass winders, wuz
extremely interestin’ to see; it is most a thousand years old, but no
one would mistrust it. It looks fur better than our meetin’-house, that
hain’t over fourteen years old, if it is that. But, then, it cost more.
Martin and Josiah and Al Faizi driv out to see the battlefield of
Waterloo, only about six milds away. They went in a English coach with
a half a dozen horses, and a bugle a-caracolin’ high and clear. I never
see Josiah in better sperits.
I would have gone, too, but Alice wuzn’t well, nor Adrian nuther, and I
stayed with ’em; and I wuz glad of a chance to rest my lower legs.
I spoze they had a number of emotions as they stood on that field
where the Star of Austerlitz sot. I did, where I wuz a-layin’ down or
a-settin’ to home. Truly to a feelin’ heart, who contemplates what
high ambitions tottled over that day, and what powerful interests
wuz involved, they may say truly that they carry the battlefield of
Waterloo in their hearts.
I thought on’t a sight. I had read what Victor Hugo said about that
battle, and Alfred Tennyson and others had said about the Duke of
Wellington, a-praisin’ him up, and I had numerous feelin’s and
emotions, very powerful ones, indeed, very; but I took good care of the
children all the same.
There wuz one place in Brussels that I wanted to see as much as
any other place I could look on offen my tower, and that wuz where
Charlotte Brontë had spent those years, those quiet but dretful tragic
years of her life.
So one day, when we wuz on our way home from some big palace or
monument--Martin wanted to show off before us--I persuaded him to
go a little out of our way to that quiet street, to the kinder
old-fashioned house where the Professor ust to teach school, and some
of his folks live now and keep a small school. They let us in when they
found out that we wuz Americans; truly that name opens all sorts of
foreign doors.
It wuz a half holiday, and they let us walk through the room where she
ust to set and study, and the old-fashioned garden where she ust to
walk and dream them strange dreams of hern, that afterwards charmed the
world.
Though the folks here didn’t seem to think of her as I did--no, indeed!
They seemed to kinder blame her for reflectin’ on ’em in her books.
Still they must respect to a certain degree the memory of one that
leads so many from distant lands to their out-of-the-way home, jest to
stand on the floor she trod on; jest to look on the walls that rared up
around that great soul.
What emotions Charlotte did have here! She had more to bear than most
folks knew of--yes, indeed!
What wuz that hantin’ grief that rung her soul so that year in
Brussels, that drove her, a devout Protestant, into a Catholic church,
to pour out her agony in confession? Longin’ to give vent to the sorrer
that without that relief wuz mebby a-urgin’ her to forgit it all in the
long quiet.
Why, a pint bottle full of sweet turned bitter, must have vent gin to
it or else bust.
Poor creeter! poor, little, lonesome creeter! with her intense power of
lovin’, and her intenser tenderness of conscience.
Gray old city, never did one tread your streets with more need of heart
pity than she who wuz swept along by her emotions that day into an
alien temple, a strange altar, and a strange worship, seekin’ for rest,
for help to live, which is so much harder than to die.
I know what the matter wuz--it come to me straight, but I sha’n’t tell
it, it has got to be kep’.
Wall, I had a large white handkerchief with me, I took it a purpose,
for I thought more’n as likely as not I should be melted into tears
a-meditatin’ on her life and all she had done to delight the world, and
how after her life-long struggles and her brief wedded happiness she
passed away.
[Illustration: I thought more’n likely I should be melted into tears.]
But no, this last thought kinder boyed me up--I wuz glad to know that
she lay asleep by the lonely moors of Haworth. Its long purple wastes
hanted by her shade forever, a sleep never to be distracted agin by
her brother Patrick’s actin’ and behavin’, or her pa’s morbid idees and
ways, or her own private heartache.
Little, small-boneded, great-minded creeter! how often I’ve pictered
her lonesome life in that little village, shet up in oncongenial
surroundin’s, her noble sperit beatin’ agin the bars of her
environment; a-settin’ on lonesome evenin’s in a bare, silent room,
a-pinin’ mebby for a word of sympathy, and the clasp of a comprehendin’
hand, and the great world a-praisin’ her fur off--_too fur_.
Or else a-walkin’ up and down in the twilight with her sisters
a-plannin’ them strange stories of theirn.
And then I come back to the bare walls of the school-room at Brussels,
and I presoomed that on these very bare walls we wuz a-lookin’ on
Charlotte had seen stand out vivid the strong, dark face of Rochester,
and the elfin figger of Jane, Shirley, Caroline, Louis and Robert
Moore, the Professor--yes, indeed, she see _him_, I hain’t a doubt
on’t--and all these wonderful characters of hern, who seemed more real
friends and neighbors to me than them who live under the chimblys I can
see from my own winders to home.
Good, little, bashful creeter! sech genius as you had the world will
seek a good while for before it finds agin.
While these thoughts wuz a-goin’ on under my best bunnet, Martin looked
round sort o’ indifferent, and sez he--
“Who wuz she, anyway--some kind of a writer?”
And I sez, “Yes.”
“Historical or poetical?” sez he.
And I sez, “Both.”
I couldn’t bring my emotions down in that place to explain, and I
told the truth, anyway. Historys she wrote that always will be true
as long as hearts beat and suffer. Poetry wuz in ’em, whose great
rythm hants the hearts of ’em whose ears are tuned to understand the
strange melodies. For no two people can ever find the same things in a
book--what inspires you, and thrills your heart almost to bustin’, will
slip over the head and heart of somebody else, and make no impression.
Curous, hain’t it?
[Illustration: A-leadin’ Adrian and a-plannin’ sunthin’ with him
relatin’ to a whistle.]
Wall, we looked round for a long time--Josiah not enjoyin’ himself
a bit, so fur as I could see, but a-leadin’ Adrian and a-plannin’
sunthin’ with him relatin’ to a whistle he could make out of a stick.
Alice’s soft eyes held sweetness and compassion, but she owned that
she’d never read the books.
Al Faizi, too, wuz a stranger to ’em. But he would have enjoyed ’em if
he had--he’s made in jest the right way.
Wall, Martin wuz in haste, and we left the sacred spot, leavin’ a
little gift, too, in the hands of the old servant who showed us round.
Antwerp, Düsseldorf, Cologne, how they kinder swim along in my mind
as I think of ’em--picters, picters, church towers, bells, gardens,
steeples, music, stained-glass winders, quiet seenery, grand,
impressive ditto, big carriages, dorgs harnessed up as horses.
As we noticed the number of these latter, my companion begun to lay on
plans agin. Sez he--
“Take our brindle, and she that wuz Submit Tewksbury’s yeller dorg--and
she’d lend her in a minute--and what a team I could rig up with a
little of Ury’s help. I could take you to meetin’ to Jonesville as
easy as nothin’, and how uneek we would look drawed along by a brindle
and yeller dorg-team. It will, perchance, inaugerate a new era in
navigation in Jonesville, and dorg-teams will be in voge.
“What a sensation we will create amongst the Jonesvillians: you in your
parasol and I in my dressin’-gown, mebby. What a uneek spectacle!”
“Yes,” sez I, coldly, “when you ketch me a-ridin’ in that way, Josiah
Allen, it will indeed create a sensation, for I shall be no more. It
will be when my corse is senseless and cold.”
“Oh, shaw! What comfort could I take then, Samantha? It wouldn’t look
very well for me to be a-enjoyin’ myself a-swingin’ out in fashion
then, and I couldn’t wear the dressin’-gown or the tossels, anyway.
It beats all how you love to break up all my plans for astonishin’
the Jonesvillians. You know well enough that folks when they git back
from European towers always act different--more riz up like, and
reminescent, and astonishin’, and everything. And you frown down all
my plans, every one on ’em”; and he sithed bitterly. But I wouldn’t gin
in to him, for I felt that Samantha and a dorg-team wuz not synonomous
terms; no, fur from it.
Wall, in Cologne I’d been glad to bought a hull bottle of cologne, but
Josiah said to his mind there wuz nothin’ on earth so sweet as the
smell of caraway.
I most always do up a little sprig on’t in my handkerchief when I go
to meetin’, to kinder chirk me up in my head some as the minister and
my mind are a-wanderin’ up from the 12thlies to the “Finally, my dear
hearers.”
“But,” sez I, attacktin’ the weakest jint in his armor, “cologne is so
stylish.”
“But,” sez he, and I couldn’t scold him for sayin’ it--sez he, “don’t
you remember how the caraway grew amongst the roses in the old front
yard to Mother Smith’s?” Sez he, “You had a sprig of caraway in your
hand the very minute I asked you to be my bride--I had a little snip
on’t in my pocket when I led you to the altar, and a big vase of the
white blows kinder riz up above the June roses like a halo, right there
on the altar.”
He meant the cherry stand that we stood by, with curly maple draws.
Sez he, “Oh, them beautiful, holy memories! And then,” sez he, with a
look of deep content, “to think of the cookies you’ve garnished with
it durin’ the beautiful years of our union.” Sez he, “Nothin’ like the
scent of caraway to me.”
I wuz deeply moved by the sweet and tender memories he invoked.
Oh, summer hours! oh, old front garden, lit by the settin’ sun
a-shinin’ through the maples! I see it agin, I almost feel the shadders
of the tall lilock bushes; I see the June roses a-shinin’ like rosy
stars above the deep lush grass, and the delicate white tracery of the
caraway a-hoverin’ over ’em like a snowy mist.
Oh, summer garden! oh, summer hours of life! oh, beauty and bloom,
divine sadness and rapter, and rich promise of the glowin’ futer
a-layin’ fur off in the distance, like the sun in the glowin’ west.
My Josiah had brung ’em all back to me. What wuz cologne or bergamot in
them rapt hours?
Men are deep.
The cathedral is a sight to see. It is called one of the most beautiful
cathedrals in Europe, and they don’t lie about it when they say it
is. It wuz begun eight or nine hundred years ago, and two hundred men
wuz to work at it. I wonder if they are slack. Anyway, I don’t have
any idee when they lay out to finish it. I guess they are to work by
the day. I know jest how they acted when they wuz to work at Josiah’s
horse-barn. I believe it is better to let barns, or cathedrals, or
anything else out by the job.
Wall, if I should describe jest that one enormous old meetin’-house,
and what we see in it and about it, it would take a book bigger than
Foxe’s “Book of Martyrs.”
I won’t try, but it wuz a sight, a sight to see--carvin’s, statutes,
picters, towers, canopies, arches, altars, relicks, etc., etc., etc.
Among the most interestin’ of the relicks wuz the skulls of the three
Wise Men who came to worship the infant Christ. Here their old skulls
wuz shown--they sed they wuz theirn. I d’no, nor Josiah don’t, whether
they wuz the Wise Men or not, and of course it wuz eighteen hundred
years too late to ask ’em. No, wise as they wuz, their bones wuz on a
par with the bones of the ’leven thousand virgins that we see there in
another meetin’-house.
I d’no as they wuz virgins or not, or wuz massacreed, as they sed.
Martin sed it wuz a perfect fraud. But I d’no either way. Anyway, there
the bones wuz, a real lot of ’em.
Wall, I guess the hull on us wuz glad to git onto the little steamer
that wuz to take us up the beautiful Rhine. And we found that it wuz
indeed beautiful, though after bein’ on sech intimate terms as I had
been with the St. Lawrence and the Hudson, I wuzn’t a-goin’ to say I
had never seen any river so grand--no, indeed!