“Instead of parboiling you with a _soirée_ or a dinner,” said a sensible
and kind friend, who called on us at Ryde, “I shall make a pic-nic to
Netley.” And on a bright, breezy morning of June, a merry party of some
twenty of the inhabitants of the green Isle of Wight shot away from the
long pier, in one of the swift boats of those waters, with a fair wind
for Southampton.
Ryde is the most American-looking town I have seen abroad; a cluster of
white houses and summery villas on the side of a hill, leaning up from
the sea. Geneva, on the Seneca lake, resembles it. It is a place of
baths, boarding-houses, and people of damaged constitutions, with very
select society, and quiet and rather primitive habits. The climate is
deliciously soft, and the sun seems always to shine there.
As we got out into the open channel, I was assisting the skipper to
tighten his bowline, when a beautiful ship, in the distance, putting
about on a fresh tack, caught the sun full on her snowy sails, and
seemed to start like an apparition from the sea.
“She’s a _liner_, sir!” said the bronzed boatman, suspending his haul to
give her a look of involuntary admiration.
“An American packet, you mean?”
“They’re the prettiest ships afloat, sir,” he continued, “and the
smartest handled. They’re out to New York, and back again, before you
can look round, a’most. Ah, I see her flag now—stars and stripes. Can
you see it, sir?”
“Are the captains Englishmen, principally?” I asked.
“No, sir! all ‘cal_ky_lators,’ sharp as a needle!”
“Thank you,” said I; “I am a _calculator_ too!”
The conversation ceased, and I thought from the boatman’s look, that he
had more respect than love for us. The cloud of snowy sail traversed the
breadth of the channel with the speed of a bird, wheeled again upon her
opposite tack, and soon disappeared from view, taking with her the dove
of my imagination to return with an olive-branch from home. It must be a
cold American heart whose strings are not swept by that bright flag in a
foreign land, like a harp with the impassioned prelude of the master.
Cowes was soon upon our lee, with her fairy fleet of yachts lying at
anchor—Lord Yarborough’s frigate-looking craft asleep amid its
dependent brood, with all its fine tracery of rigging drawn on a
cloudless sky, the picture of what it is, and what all vessels seem to
me, a thing for pleasure only. Darting about like a swallow on the wing,
a small, gayly-painted sloop-yacht, as graceful and slender as the first
bow of the new moon, played off the roadstead for the sole pleasure of
motion, careless whither; and meantime the low-fringed shores of the
Southampton side grew more and more distinct, and before we had well
settled upon our cushions, the old tower of the Abbey lay sharp over the
bow.
We enjoyed the first ramble through the ruins the better, that to see
them was a secondary object. The first was to select a grassy spot for
our table. Threading the old unroofed vaults with this errand, the pause
of involuntary homage exacted by a sudden burst upon an arch or a
fretted window, was natural and true; and for those who are disturbed by
the formal and trite enthusiasm of companions who admire by a prompter,
this stalking-horse of another pursuit was not an indifferent advantage.
The great roof over the principal nave of the Abbey has fallen in, and
lies in rugged and picturesque masses within the Gothic shell—windows,
arches, secret staircases, and gray walls, all breaking up the blue sky
around, but leaving above, for a smooth and eternal roof, an oblong and
ivy-fringed segment of the blue plane of heaven. It seems to rest on
those crumbling corners as you stand within.
We selected a rising bank under the shoulder of a rock, grown over with
moss and ivy, and following the suggestion of a pretty lover of the
picturesque, the shawls and cloaks, with their bright colors, were
thrown over the nearest fragments of the roof, and every body unbonneted
and assisted in the arrangements. An old woman who sold apples outside
the walls was employed to built a fire for our teakettle in a niche
where, doubtless, in its holier days, had stood the effigy of a saint;
and at the pedestals of a cluster of slender columns our attendants
displayed upon a table a show of pasties and bright wines, that, if
there be monkish spirits who walk at Netley, we have added a poignant
regret to their purgatories, that their airy stomachs can be no more
_vino ciboque gravati_.
We were doing justice to a pretty shoulder of lamb, with mint sauce,
when a slender youth, who had been wandering around with a portfolio,
took up an artist’s position in the farther corner of the ruins, and
began to sketch the scene. I mentally felicitated him on the accident
that had brought him to Netley at that particular moment, for a prettier
picture than that before him an artist could scarce have thrown
together. The inequalities of the floor of the Abbey provided a mossy
table for every two or three of the gayly-dressed ladies, and there they
reclined in small and graceful groups, their white dresses relieved on
the luxuriant grass, and between them, half-buried in moss, the
sparkling glasses full of bright wines, and an air of ease and grace
over all, which could belong only to the two extremes of Arcadian
simplicity, or its high bred imitation. We amused ourselves with the
idea of appearing, some six months after, in the middle ground of a
landscape, in a picturesque annual; and I am afraid that I detected, on
the first suggestion of the idea, a little unconscious attitudinizing in
some of the younger members of the party. It was proposed that the
artist should be invited to take wine with us; but as a rosy-cheeked
page donned his gold hat to carry our compliments, the busy draughtsman
was joined by one or two ladies not quite so attractive-looking as
himself, but evidently of his own party, and our messenger was recalled.
_Sequitur_—they who would find adventure should travel alone.
The monastic ruins of England derive a very peculiar and touching beauty
from the bright veil of ivy which almost buries them from the sun. This
constant and affectionate mourner draws from the moisture of the climate
a vividness and luxuriance which is found in no other land. Hence the
remarkable _loveliness_ of Netley—a quality which impresses the
visiters to this spot, far more than the melancholy usually inspired by
decay.
Our gayety shocked some of the sentimental people rambling about the
ruins, for it is difficult for those who have not dined to sympathize
with the mirth of those who have. How often we mistake for sadness the
depression of an empty stomach! How differently authors and travellers
would write, if they commenced the day, instead of ending it, with meats
and wine! I was led to these reflections by coming suddenly upon a young
lady and her companion (possibly her lover,) in climbing a ruined
staircase sheathed within the wall of the Abbey. They were standing at
one of the windows, quite unconscious of my neighborhood, and looking
down upon the gay party of ladies below, who were still amid the
_débris_ of the feast arranging their bonnets for a walk.
“What a want of soul,” said the lady, “to be eating and drinking in such
a place!”
“_Some_ people have _no_ souls,” responded the gentleman.
After this verdict, I thought the best thing I could do was to take care
of my _body_, and I very carefully backed down the old staircase, which
is probably more hazardous now than in the days when it was used to
admit damsels and haunches of venison to the reverend fathers.
I reached the bottom in safety, and informed my friends that they had no
souls, but they manifested the usual unconcern on the subject, and
strolled away through the echoing arches, in search of new points of
view and fresh wild-flowers. “Commend me at least,” I thought, as I
followed on, “to those whose pulses can be quickened even by a cold pie
and a glass of champagne. Sadness and envy are sown thickly enough by
the wayside.”
We were embarked once more by the middle of the afternoon, and with a
head wind, but smooth water and cool temperature, beat back to Ryde. If
the young lady and her lover have forgiven or forgotten us, and the
ghosts of Netley, frocked or petticoated, have taken no umbrage, I have
not done amiss in marking the day with a stone of the purest white. How
much more sensible is a party like this in the open air, and at healthy
hours, than the untimely and ceremonious civilities usually paid to
strangers. If the world would mend by moralising, however, we should
have had a Utopia long ago.
COMPARISON OF THE CLIMATE OF
EUROPE AND AMERICA.
One of Hazlitt’s nail-driving remarks is to the effect that _he should
like very well to pass the whole of his life in travelling, if he could
anywhere borrow another life to spend afterward at home_. How far action
is necessary to happiness, and how far repose—how far the appetite for
novelty and adventure will drive, and how far the attractions of home
and domestic comfort will recall us—in short, what are the precise
exactions of the antagonist principles in our bosoms of curiosity and
sloth, energy and sufferance, hope and memory—are questions which each
one must settle for himself, and which none can settle but he who has
passed his life in the eternal and fruitless search after the happiest
place, climate, and station.
Contentment depends upon many things within our own control, but, with a
certain education it depends partly upon things beyond it. To persons
delicately constituted or delicately brought up, and to all idle
persons, the principal ingredient of the cup of enjoyment is _climate_;
and Providence, that consults “the greatest happiness of the greatest
number,” has made the poor and the roughly-nurtured independent of the
changes of the wind. Those who have the misfortune to be delicate as
well as poor—those, particularly, for whom there is no hope but in a
change of clime, but whom pitiless poverty compels to languish in vain
after the reviving south, are happily few; but they have thus much more
than their share of human calamity.
In throwing together my recollections of the climates with which I have
become acquainted in other lands, I am aware that there is a greater
difference of opinion on this subject than on most others. A man who has
agreeable society about him in Montreal, but who was without friends in
Florence, would be very likely to bring the climate in for its share of
the difference, and prefer Canada to Italy; and health and circumstances
of all kinds affect, in no slight degree, our susceptibility to skies
and atmosphere. But it is sometimes interesting to know the impressions
of others, even though they agree not with our own; and I will only say
of mine on this subject, that they are so far likely to be fair, as I
have been blessed with the same perfect health in all countries, and
have been happy alike in every latitude and season.
It is almost a matter of course to decry the climate of England. The
English writers themselves talk of _suicidal months_; and it is the only
country where part of the livery of a mounted groom is his master’s
great-coat strapped about his waist. It is certainly a damp climate, and
the sun shines less in England than in most other countries. But to
persons of full habit this moisture in the air is extremely agreeable;
and the high condition of all animals in England, from man downward,
proves its healthfulness. A stranger who has been accustomed to a
brighter sky, will, at first, find a gloom in the gray light so
characteristic of an English atmosphere; but this soon wears off, and he
finds a compensation, as far as the eye is concerned, in the exquisite
softness of the verdure, and the deep and enduring brightness of the
foliage. The effect of this moisture on the skin is singularly grateful.
The pores become accustomed to a healthy action, which is unknown in
other countries; and the bloom by which an English complexion is known
all over the world is the index of an activity in this important part of
the system, which, when first experienced, is almost like a new
sensation. The transition to a dry climate, such as ours, deteriorates
the condition and quality of the skin, and produces a feeling, if I may
so express it, like that of being _glazed_. It is a common remark in
England that an officer’s wife and daughters follow his regiment to
Canada at the expense of their complexions; and it is a well-known fact
that the bloom of female beauty is, in our country, painfully
evanescent.
The climate of America is, in many points, very different from that of
France and Great Britain. In the middle and northern states, it is a
dry, invigorating, and bracing climate, in which a strong man may do
more work than in almost any other, and which makes continual exercise,
or occupation of some sort, absolutely necessary. With the exception of
the “Indian summer,” and here and there a day scattered through the
spring and the hot months, there is no weather tempered so finely, that
one would think of passing the day in merely enjoying it, and life is
passed, by those who have the misfortune to be idle, in continual and
active dread of the elements. The cold is so acrid, and the heat so
sultry, and the changes from one to the other are so violent, that no
enjoyment can be depended upon out-of-doors, and no system of clothing
or protection is good for a day together. He who has full occupation for
head and hand (as by far the greatest majority of our countrymen have)
may live as long in America as in any portion of the globe—_vide_ the
bills of mortality. He whose spirits lean upon the temperature of the
wind, or whose nerves require a genial and constant atmosphere, may find
more favorable climes; and the habits and delicate constitutions of
scholars and people of sedentary pursuits generally, in the United
States, prove the truth of the observation.
The habit of regular exercise in the open air, which is found to be so
salutary in England, is scarcely possible in America. It is said, and
said truly, of the first, that there is no day in the year when a lady
may not ride comfortably on horseback—but with us, the extremes of heat
and cold, and the tempestuous character of our snows and rains, totally
forbid, to a delicate person, anything like regularity in exercise. The
consequence is, that the habit rarely exists, and the high and glowing
health so common in England, and consequent, no doubt, upon the equable
character of the climate in some measure, is with us sufficiently rare
to excite remark. “Very English-looking,” is a common phrase, and means
very healthy-looking. Still our people _last_—and though I should
define the English climate as the one in which the human frame is in the
highest condition, I should say of America, that it is the one in which
you could get the most work out of it.
Atmosphere, in England and America, is the first of the _necessaries_ of
life. In Italy, it is the first of its _luxuries_. We breathe in
America, and walk abroad, without thinking of these common acts but as a
means of arriving at happiness. In Italy, to breathe and to walk abroad
are themselves happiness. Day after day—week after week—month after
month—you wake with the breath of flowers coming in at your open
window, and a sky of serene and unfathomable blue, and mornings and
evenings of tranquil, assured, heavenly purity and beauty. The few weeks
of the rainy season are forgotten in these long halcyon months of
sunshine. No one can have lived in Italy a year, who remembers anything
but the sapphire sky and the kindling and ever-seen stars. You grow
insensibly to associate the sunshine and the moonlight only with the
fountain you have lived near, or the columns of the temple you have seen
from your window, for on no objects in other lands have you seen their
light so constant.
I scarce know how to convey, in language, the effect of the climate of
Italy on mind and body. Sitting here, indeed, in the latitude of
thirty-nine, in the middle of April, by a warm fire, and with a cold
wind whistling at the window, it is difficult to recall it, even to the
fancy. I do not know whether life is prolonged, but it is infinitely
enriched and brightened, by the delicious atmosphere of Italy. You rise
in the morning, thanking Heaven for life and liberty to go abroad. There
is a sort of opiate in the air, which makes idleness, that would be the
vulture of Prometheus in America, the dove of promise in Italy. It is
delicious to do nothing—delicious to stand an hour looking at a
Savoyard and his monkey—delicious to sit away the long, silent noon, in
the shade of a column, or on the grass of a fountain—delicious to be
with a friend without the interchange of an idea—to dabble in a book or
look into the cup of a flower. You do not read, for you wish to enjoy
the weather. You do not visit, for you hate to enter a door while the
weather is so fine. You lie down unwillingly for your siesta in the hot
noon, for you fear you may oversleep the first coolness of the long
shadows of sunset. The fancy, meantime, is free, and seems liberated by
the same languor that enervates the severer faculties; and nothing seems
fed by the air but thoughts, which minister to enjoyment.
The climate of Greece is very much that of Italy. The Mediterranean is
all beloved of the sun. Life has a value there, of which the rheumatic,
shivering, snow breasting, blue-devilled idler of northern regions has
no shadow, even in a dream. No wonder Dante mourned and languished for
it. No wonder at the sentiment I once heard from distinguished
lips—_Fuori d’Italia tutto e esilio._
This appears like describing a Utopia; but it is what Italy seemed to
me. I have expressed myself much more to my mind, however, in rhyme, for
a prose essay is, at best, but a cold medium.