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.
* * * * *
* * * * *
_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_.
* * * * *
* * * * *
_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.
* * * * *
_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.
* * * * *
* * * * *
_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.
* * * * *
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
* * * * *
'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.
* * * * *
* * * * *
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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