Newmans, who sent their girls to a French school in Philadelphia, and
had them taught music, both guitar and piano. And the Newman girls mix
up their talk with all sorts of French words that sound very ugly to me.
Instead of 'good night' they say _bone swear_;[77] and a 'trifle' they
call a _bagtau_;[78] and they are always talking about having a
_Gennessee Squaw_;[79] though what they mean by that I cannot imagine;
for, I am sure I never saw any such thing in this part of the country.
And the tunes they play on the piano seem to me like no tunes at all,
but just a sort of scrambling up and down, that nobody can make either
head or tail of. And when they sing to the guitar, it sounds to me just
like moaning one minute, and screaming the next, with a little tinkling
between whiles."
[Footnote 77: Bonsoir.]
[Footnote 78: Bagatelle.]
[Footnote 79: Je ne sais quoi.]
"Wife--wife," interrupted Abraham, "you are too severe on the poor
girls."
"Well--well," proceeded Mrs. Hilliard, "I'll say nothing more, only
this: that the airs they take on themselves make them the talk of the
whole country--And then they've given up all sorts of work. The mother
spends most of her time in taking naps, to make up, I suppose, for
having had to rise early all the former part of her life. The girls sit
about all day in stiff silk frocks, squeezed so tight in them that they
can hardly move. Or they go round paying morning visits, interrupting
people in the busy part of the day. And they invite company to their
house, and give them no tea; and say they're having a _swearey_.[80] To
be sure it's a shame for me to say so, but it's well known that they
never have a good thing on their table now, but pretend it's genteel to
live on bits and morsels that have neither taste nor substance. And no
doubt that's the reason the whole family have grown so thin and yellow,
and are always complaining of something they call dyspepsy."
[Footnote 80: Soirée.]
"_They_ have certainly changed for the worse," remarked Lindsay. "I
remember the Newmans very well--a happy, homely family living in a long,
low, red frame house, and having everything about them plain and
plentiful."
"So had we in our former dwelling," said Mr. Hilliard, "yet I think we
are living still better now."
"I have many pleasant recollections of the old house," said Lindsay.
"For you," observed the farmer, "our old house and the manner in which
we then lived, owed most of their charms to novelty, and to the
circumstance that children are seldom fastidious. I doubt much, if you
had found everything in _statu quo_, and the old house and its
inhabitants just as you left them, whether you could have been induced
to make us as long a visit as I hope you will now."
"My husband," said Mrs. Hilliard, "is different from most men of his
age. Instead of dwelling all the while upon old times, he stands up for
the times we live in, and says everything now is better than it used to
be. And he's brought me to agree with him pretty much--I never was an
idle woman, and I keep myself busy enough still, but I do think it is
pleasanter to keep hired people for the hard work than to have to help
with it myself, as you know I used to. Though I never complained about
it, still I cannot say, now I look back, that there was any great
pleasure in helping on washing-days and ironing-days, or in making soft
soap, and baking great batches of bread and pies--to be sure, my soft
soap was admired all over the country, and my bread was always light,
and my pie-crust never tough. Neither was there much delight in seeing
my two eldest girls paddling to the barn-yard every morning and evening,
through all weathers, to milk the cows; or setting them at heavy
churnings, and other hard work. And then at harvest-time, and at
killing-time, and when we were getting the marketing ready for husband
to take to town in the wagon, we were on our feet the whole blessed day.
To be sure, they were used to it, but I often felt sorry for Abraham and
the boys, when they came home from the field in a warm evening, so tired
with work they could hardly speak, and were glad to wash themselves, and
get their supper, and go to bed at dark. And the girls and I were always
glad enough, too, to get our rest as soon as we had put away the milk
and washed the supper things; knowing we should have to be up before the
stars were gone, to sweep the house and do the milking, and get the
breakfast, that the men might be off early to work."
"I remember all this very well," said Lindsay.
"To be sure you do," pursued Mrs. Hilliard. "Then don't you think it's
pleasant for us now not to be overworked during the day, so that in the
evening, instead of going to bed, we can sit round the table in a nice
parlour, and sew and knit; or read, for them that likes it. Husband and
the girls always did take pleasure in reading--and, for my part, now
I've time, I'm beginning to like a book myself. Last winter, I read a
good deal in the second volume of the Spectator. In short, I have not
the least notion of grieving after our way of living at the old house."
"Nor I neither," added Abraham; "and I really find it much more
agreeable to superintend my farm, than to be obliged to labour on it
myself."
"And now let us proceed with our tea," said Mrs. Hilliard; "and, Neddy,
if you do not eat hearty of what you see before you, I shall think you
are fretting after the mush and milk, and sowins, and pie and cheese,
that we use to have on our old supper table, and which I do not believe
you could eat now if they were before you. Come, you must not mind my
speaking out so plainly. You know I always was a right-down sort of
woman, and am so still."
Edward smiled, and pressed her hand kindly, acknowledging that all she
had said was justified by truth and reason.
The carriage--they kept a very plain but a very capacious one--brought
home the girls shortly after candle-light. Lindsay ran out to assist
them in alighting, and was glad to find that on hearing his name they
retained a perfect recollection of him, though they were in their
earliest childhood at the time of his departure for Europe. When they
came into the light, he found them both very pretty. Their skins had not
been tanned by exposure to the sun and wind, nor their shoulders
stooped, nor their hands reddened by hard work; as had been the case
with their two elder sisters. They were dressed in white frocks, blue
shawls, and straw bonnets with blue ribbons; neatly, and in good taste.
The evening passed pleasantly, and Lindsay soon discovered that the
daughters of his host were very charming girls. Ellen, perhaps, had a
little tinge of vanity, but Lucy was entirely free from it. Diffidence
prevented her from talking much, but she listened understandingly, and
when she did speak, it was with animation and intelligence. Lindsay felt
that he should not have liked her so well had she looked, and dressed,
and talked as he remembered her elder sisters.
When he retired for the night, his bed and room were so well furnished,
and looked so inviting, that he could not regret the little low
apartment with no chimney and only one window, that he had occupied in
the old farm-house; and he slept quite as soundly under a white
counterpane as he had formerly done under a patch-work quilt.
We have no space to enter more minutely into the details of our hero's
visit, nor to relate by what process he speedily became a convert to the
fact that even among country-people the march of improvement adds
greatly to their comfort and happiness; provided always, that they do
not mistake the road, and diverge into the path of folly and pretension.
Suffice it to say, that he protracted his stay to a week, during which
he broke the girls of the habit of saying "pappy," substituting the more
sensible and affectionate epithet of "father." When Pharaoh announced
the proper time, he made a visit to the refectory of old Binkey, whom he
afterwards desired the Candyville storekeeper to supply at his charge,
with materials for her cakes and beer, _ad libitum_, during the
remainder of her life.
The visit of Edward Lindsay to Oakland was in the course of the summer
so frequently repeated, that no one was much surprised when, early in
October, he conducted Lucy Hilliard to Philadelphia as his bride:
acknowledging to himself that he could never have made her so, had she
and her family continued exactly as he had known them at the OLD
FARM-HOUSE.
THAT GENTLEMAN:
OR,
PENCILLINGS ON SHIP-BOARD.
"Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight."--BYRON.
"And now, dear Caroline, tell us some particulars of your passage home,"
said Mrs. Esdale to her sister, as they quitted the tea-table on the
evening of Mr. and Mrs. Fenton's arrival from a visit to Europe.
"Our passage home," replied Mrs. Fenton, "was moderately short, and
generally pleasant. We had a good ship, a good captain, splendid
accommodations, and an excellent table, and were not crowded with too
many passengers."
"Yet, let us hear something more circumstantial," said Mrs. Esdale.
"Dear Henrietta," replied her sister, "have I not often told you how
difficult it is to relate anything amusingly or interestingly when you
are expressly called upon to do so; when you are expected to sit up in
form, and furnish a regular narrative, with a beginning, a middle, and
an end."
"But indeed," rejoined Mrs. Esdale, "we have anticipated much pleasure
from hearing your account of the voyage. Come,--let us take our seats in
the front parlour, and leave your husband and mine to their discussion
of the political prospects of both hemispheres. The girls and myself
would much rather listen to your last impressions of life on
ship-board."
"Do, dear aunt," said both the daughters of Mrs. Esdale, two fine girls
of seventeen and fifteen--and taking their seats at the sofa-table, they
urged Mrs Fenton to commence.
"Well, then," said Mrs. Fenton, "to begin in the manner of the fairy
tales--once upon a time there lived in the city of New York, a merchant
whose name was Edward Fenton--and he had a wife named Caroline Fenton.
And notwithstanding that they had a town-house and a country-house, and
a coach to ride in, and fine clothes, and fine furniture, and plenty of
good things to eat and to drink, they grew tired of staying at home and
being comfortable. So they sailed away in a ship, and never stopped till
they got to England. And there they saw the king and queen, with gold
crowns on their heads, and sceptres in their hands--(by-the-bye it was
lucky that we arrived in time for the coronation)--and they heard the
king cough, and the queen sneeze: and they saw lords with ribands and
stars, and ladies with plumes and diamonds. They travelled and
travelled, and often came to great castles that looked like giants'
houses: and they went all over England and Wales, and Ireland and
Scotland. Then they returned to London, and saw more sights; and then
they were satisfied to come back to America, where they expect to live
happily all the rest of their lives."
"Now, aunt, you are laughing at us," said Juliet Esdale--"your letters
from Europe have somewhat taken off the edge of our curiosity as to your
adventures there: and it is just now our especial desire to hear
something of your voyage home."
"In truth," replied Mrs. Fenton, "I must explain, that on this, the
first evening of my return, I feel too happy, and too much excited, to
talk systematically on any subject whatever; much less to arrange my
ideas into the form of a history. To-morrow I shall be engaged all day
at my own house: for I must preside at the awakening of numerous
articles of furniture that have been indulged during our absence with a
long slumber; some being covered up in cases, and some shut up in
closets, or disrespectfully imprisoned in the attics. But I will come
over in the evening; and, if we are not interrupted by visiters, I will
read you some memorandums that I made on the passage. I kept no regular
journal, but I wrote a little now and then, chiefly for my amusement,
and to diversify my usual occupations of reading, sewing, and walking
the deck. Therefore excuse me to-night, and let me have my humour, for
I feel exactly in the vein to talk 'an infinite deal of nothing.'"
"Aunt Caroline," said Clara, "you know that, talk as you will, we always
like to hear you. But we shall long for to-morrow evening."
"Do not, however, expect a finished picture of a sea-voyage," said Mrs.
Fenton, "I can only promise you a few slight outlines, filled up with a
half tint, and without lights or shadows; like the things that the
Chinese sometimes paint on their tea-chests."
On the following evening, the gentlemen having gone to a public meeting,
and measures being taken for the exclusion of visitors, Mrs. Esdale and
her daughters seated themselves at the table with their work, and Mrs.
Fenton produced her manuscript book, and read as follows: having first
reminded her auditors that her husband and herself, instead of embarking
at London, had gone by land to Portsmouth, and from thence crossed over
to the Isle of Wight, where they took apartments at the principal hotel
in the little town of Cowes, at which place the ship was to touch on her
way down the British channel.
* * * * *
Having amply availed ourselves of the opportunity (afforded by a three
days' sojourn) of exploring the beauties of the Isle of Wight, we felt
some impatience to find ourselves fairly afloat, and actually on our
passage "o'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea." On the fourth
afternoon, we walked down to the beach, and strolled amid shells and
sea-weed, along the level sands at the foot of a range of those chalky
cliffs that characterize the southern coast of England. It was a lovely
day. A breeze from the west was ruffling the crests of the green
transparent waves, and wafting a few light clouds across the effulgence
of the declining sun, whose beams danced radiantly on the surface of the
water, gilding the black and red sails of the fishing-boats, and then
withdrawing, at intervals, and leaving the sea in shade.
"Should this wind continue," said Mr. Fenton, "we may be detained here a
week, and have full leisure to clamber again among the ruins of
Carisbrook Castle, and to gaze at the cloven chalk-rocks of Shankline
Chine, and the other wonders of this pleasant little island."
We then approached an old disabled sailor, who was smoking his pipe,
seated on a dismantled cannon that lay prostrate on the sands, its iron
mouth choked up with the sea-weed that the tide had washed into it; and
on entering into conversation with him, we found that he was an
out-pensioner of Greenwich hospital, and that for the last ten years he
had passed most of his time about Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight.
"Have you ever known a ship come down from London with such a wind as
this?" inquired Mr. Fenton.
"No," replied the sailor.--"After she doubles Beachy Head, this wind
would be right in her teeth."
"Then," said Mr. Fenton, turning to me--"till it changes, we may give up
all hope of seeing our gallant vessel."
"What ship are you looking for?" asked the sailor.
"The Washington."
"Oh! an American ship--ay, _she'll_ come down. _They_ can make their way
with any sort of wind."[81]
[Footnote 81: This implied compliment to our vessels and seamen was
really made by a British sailor, in a similar conversation with an
American gentleman.]
He had scarcely spoken, when the flag of our country appeared beyond the
point, its bright stars half obscured by the ample folds of the white
and crimson stripes that, blown backward by the adverse breeze, were
waving across them. In a moment the snowy sails of the Washington came
full into view, shaded with purple by the setting sun.
"There she is!" exclaimed my husband. "There she comes--is not an
American ship one of the most beautiful objects created by the hand of
man? Well, indeed, do they merit the admiration that is so frankly
accorded to them by every nation of the earth."
My husband, in his enthusiasm, shook the hand of the old sailor, and
slipped some money into it. We remained on the beach looking at the ship
till
"----o'er her bow the rustling cable rung,
The sails were furl'd; and anchoring round she swung."
A boat was then lowered from her stern, and the captain came off in it.
He walked with us to the hotel, and informed us that he should leave
Cowes early the following day. We soon completed the preparations for
our final departure, and before eight o'clock next morning we had taken
our last step on British ground, and were installed in our new abode on
the world of waters. Several of the passengers had come down in the
ship from London; others, like ourselves, had preferred commencing their
voyage from the Isle of Wight; and some, as we understood, were to join
us at Plymouth.
We sailed immediately. The breeze freshened, and that night and the next
day, there was much general discomfort from sea-sickness; but,
fortunately for us both, I was very slightly affected by that
distressing malady, and Mr. Fenton not at all.
On the third day, we were enabled to lay our course with a fair wind and
a clear sky: the coast of Cornwall looking like a succession of low
white clouds ranged along the edge of the northern horizon. Towards
evening we passed the Lizard, to see land no more till we should descry
it on the other side of the Atlantic. As Mr. Fenton and myself leaned
over the taffrail, and saw the last point of England fade dimly from our
view, we thought with regret of the shore we were leaving behind us, and
of much that we had seen, and known, and enjoyed in that country of
which all that remained to our lingering gaze was a dark spot so distant
and so small as to be scarcely perceptible. Soon we could discern it no
longer: and nothing of Europe was now left to us but the indelible
recollections that it has impressed upon our minds. We turned towards
the region of the descending sun--
"To where his setting splendours burn
Upon the western sea-maid's urn,"
and we vainly endeavoured to direct all our thoughts and feelings
towards our home beyond the ocean--our beloved American home.
On that night, as on many others, when our ship was careering through
the sea, with her yards squared, and her sails all trimmed to a fresh
and favouring breeze, while we sat on a sofa in the lesser cabin, and
looked up through the open skylight at the stars that seemed flying over
our heads, we talked of the land we had so recently quitted. We talked
of her people, who though differing from ours in a thousand minute
particulars, are still essentially the same. Our laws, our institutions,
our manners, and our customs are derived from theirs: we are benefited
by the same arts, we are enlightened by the same sciences. Their noble
and copious language is fortunately ours--their Shakspeare also belongs
to us; and we rejoice that we can possess ourselves of his "thoughts
that breathe, and words that burn," in all their original freshness and
splendour, unobscured by the mist of translation. Though the ocean
divides our dwelling-places: though the sword and the cannon-shot have
sundered the bonds that once united us to her dominion: though the
misrepresentations of travelling adventurers have done much to foster
mutual prejudices, and to embitter mutual jealousies, still we share the
pride of our parent in the glorious beings she can number among the
children of her island home, for
"Yet lives the blood of England in our veins."
On the fourth day of our departure from the Isle of Wight, we found
ourselves several hundred miles from land, and consigned to the
solitudes of that ocean-desert, "dark-heaving-boundless--endless--and
sublime"--whose travellers find no path before them, and leave no track
behind. But the wind was favourable, the sky was bright, the passengers
had recovered their health and spirits, and for the first time were all
able to present themselves at the dinner-table; and there was really
what might be termed a "goodly company."
It is no longer the custom in American packet ships for ladies to
persevere in what is called a sea-dress: that is, a sort of dishabille
prepared expressly for the voyage. Those who are not well enough to
devote some little time and attention to their personal appearance,
rarely come to the general table, but take their meals in their own
apartment. The gentlemen, also, pay as much respect to their toilet as
when on shore.
The _coup d'oeil_ of the dinner-table very much resembles that of a
fashionable hotel. All the appurtenances of the repast are in handsome
style. The eatables are many of them such as, even on shore, would be
considered delicacies, and they are never deficient in abundance and
variety. Whatever may be the state of the weather, or the motion of the
ship, the steward and the cook are unfailing in their duty; constantly
fulfilling their arduous functions with the same care and regularity.
The breakfast-table is always covered with a variety of relishes, and
warm cakes. At noon there is a luncheon of pickled oysters, cold ham,
tongue, &c. The dinner consists of fowls, ducks, geese, turkeys, fresh
pork or mutton; for every ship is well supplied with live poultry, pigs
and sheep. During the first week of the voyage there is generally fresh
beef on the table, it being brought on board from the last place at
which the vessel has touched: and it is kept on deck wrapped closely in
a sail-cloth, and attached to one of the masts, the salt atmosphere
preserving it. Every day at the dessert there are delicious pies and
puddings, followed by almonds, raisins, oranges, &c.; and the tea-table
is profusely set out with rich cakes and sweetmeats. For the sick there
is always an ample store of sago, arrow-root, pearl-barley, tamarinds,
&c. Many persons have an opportunity, during their passage across the
Atlantic, of living more luxuriously than they have ever done in their
lives, or perhaps ever will again. Our passengers were not too numerous.
The lesser cabin was appropriated to three other ladies and myself. It
formed our drawing-room; the gentlemen being admitted only as visiters.
One of the ladies was Mrs. Calcott, an amiable and intelligent woman,
who was returning with her husband from a long residence in England.
Another was Miss Harriet Audley, a very pretty and very lively young
lady from Virginia, who had been visiting a married sister in London,
and was now on her way home under the care of the captain, expecting to
meet her father in New York. We were much amused during the voyage with
the coquetry of our fair Virginian, as she aimed her arrows at nearly
all the single gentlemen in turn; and with her frankness in openly
talking of her designs, and animadverting on their good or ill success.
The gentlemen, with the usual vanity of their sex, always believed Miss
Audley's attacks on their hearts to be made in earnest, and that she was
deeply smitten with each of them in succession; notwithstanding that the
smile in her eye was far more frequent than the blush on her cheek; and
notwithstanding that rumour had asserted the existence of a certain
cavalier in the neighbourhood of Richmond, whose constancy it was
supposed she would eventually reward with her hand, as he might be
considered, in every sense of the term, an excellent match.
Our fourth female passenger was Mrs. Cummings, a plump, rosy-faced old
lady of remarkably limited ideas, who had literally passed her whole
life in the city of London. Having been recently left a widow, she had
broken up housekeeping, and was now on her way to join a son established
in New York, who had very kindly sent for her to come over and live with
him. The rest of the world was almost a sealed book to her, but she
talked a great deal of the Minories, the Poultry, the Old Jewry,
Cheapside, Long Acre, Bishopsgate Within, and Bishopsgate Without, and
other streets and places with, appellations equally expressive.