was "_New York Ledger Out_," all over the Canadian walls; and nobody can
compute the thousands they said were sold there, so that I may get a
boxed ear for saying what I have about Montreal, and as there is a
possibility of it, I might as well be cuffed for half a dozen things as
one, and so I'll go on and free my mind. And to begin with, I confess
that I never could understand that curious piece of female mechanism, an
English woman, who is shocked almost into fits at the way American women
move, act, and have their independent being generally; who can get along
with nothing but yea and nay, thee and thou, and the most formal,
walk-on-a-crack strait-lacedness of demeanor and speech, and iced at
that; who is ready to hold up hands of holy horror at the idea of an
American parent or guardian allowing a young girl to be left _alone_
with her lover one second before marriage; and yet these pattern icicles
will strip (I know it is a shocking word, but it is the only one that
will express my meaning), upon going to a ball, or the theatre, with a
freedom that would make any decent American woman crimson with shame. I
have seen this again and again, and yet the prudes lecture American
women upon the proprieties. Truly, great is English propriety! I saw the
same English latitude in dress at the theatre in Montreal, where were
assembled, with other ladies, many of the wives, daughters, and
sweethearts of the English officers. Of course, in a New York theatre
the awful voice of fashion would vote a ball-room dress "vulgar;" and
even at the opera, where fashion goes to yawn, and whisper, and ogle,
ladies, as a general thing, wear their bonnets and opera cloaks, but the
fair Montrealites, having but few places of public amusement, made the
most of this, and of their personal charms also, and the result was
stunning, even to the eye of that model of impropriety, an American
woman. Mesdames, let us have no more lectures from English lips on
"American female improprieties," till you pick this big beam out of your
own eyes. As to the English officers, they were magnificent specimens of
manhood; tall, broad-chested, straight-limbed, healthy, muscular,
lovable looking men, not at all dependent for their attractiveness
either upon epaulette or uniform, with fine bass voices, and a jolly
laugh that was a regular heart-warmer to hear.
Of course we saw _the_ magnificent cathedral in Montreal. I did not
think it necessary, as did a fellow-traveller, one Sir Statistic, who
forever had some unhappy wretch by the button, asking about "feet" and
"inches," with pencil, paper, and "guide-book"--how I hate a guide-book!
I did not think it necessary to inquire how many square feet there were
in this immense building; I knew that there was one pair of feet in it
that were _not_ square, and that had to support the body to which they
belonged till they ached for want of a seat, as heretic feet should, I
suppose, from a Montreal point of view, though the _locked_ empty pews
were very tantalizing. The sermon was in French, and if the eye of my
old teacher should fall on this, I beg to say to her ladyship, that
notwithstanding "she never could tell how _that_ girl was ever going to
learn French," and notwithstanding "that girl" has never rubbed up said
French since she left school, yet she was able to understand the sermon,
as also the French signs and labels so abundant in Montreal, as also
some French remarks about herself, all the while looking as stupid as
she very well knows "that girl" can. But to return to the cathedral. I
hold up both hands for the largest liberty of conscience for everybody,
and though I could not understand why one set of priests took such
tender care of the hind lappets of another set of priests, spreading
them reverently over the backs of their chairs for them, whenever they
sat down, or why candles were burned in broad daylight, or why some kept
sitting, and others kept kneeling, and bowing, and crossing themselves,
or why some glided perpetually in and out from behind the altar, or why
some swung incense, or why some were dressed in red and white, and some
in black, and some in black and white, yet I was glad that this was a
country where everybody could worship the way it best pleased him, and I
have seen quite too much to condemn in other sects and faiths, to wish
to interfere with this. The "confession boxes," some for English sins,
some for French sins, some for Spanish sins, labelled each with the name
of the human "father" into whose ears they were to be poured, gave me a
long fit of thinking. My sins are many, but it is not _there_ I would
unburden my soul. Still, let all these religious problems work
themselves out. For the priests, I must say, in all candor, that I have
never seen a body of men--and I scanned them closely whenever and
wherever I met them--with more purity, serenity, and perfect
good-humored content expressed in their faces. Their life being active
and out of doors, may in part explain this; but alas for the nuns!
immured in those tomb-like walls; their cheerfullest employment
listening to the moans of the sick and the groans of the dying, in the
hospital wards under their roofs. I saw them come into chapel two and
two, with downcast eyes, and pallid faces, shrouded by the black hood of
renunciation, and kneeling on the floor chant their prayers. Oh, the
unnaturalness of such seclusion for a woman! If they could but leave
outside the walls, upon entering, their human feelings, and really _be_
the cold statues they _look_; but God help them, they do not; they are
but women still, and some of them young, and one look into their faces
told the story. Nothing could exceed the neatness of the nunnery we
visited, or the apartments and bedding in them for the sick and
disabled. One man whom we saw there had been strapped into his chair
like an infant for _twenty-five_ years, and there he sat, with a rosary
between his helpless fingers, scarcely living, and yet, perhaps, with
many a year of patient waiting for release before him. The outer door of
the convent was opened for us by a young novice, whose sweet face,
framed in pure white muslin bands, was beautiful to see. Poor child,
sighed I, and in another moment I thought of the gay, bedizened misery
in Broadway, and I said to myself, as I lingered to take another look at
her, perhaps 'tis better so, and left her with a lighter heart.
I should not do justice to Montreal were I to omit to mention _the_
drive of the place, "round the mountain." A New York gentleman whom we
met in Montreal took us round, and I was glad I saw the city at parting
to such good advantage; distance brightened it up wonderfully, and the
St. Lawrence sparkled as gayly and as innocently in the sunlight, as if
its waters did not play the mischief with every traveller who tasted
them. There are many fine country-seats round the mountain. We saw,
too, a "haunted house" in this ride, and verily, the occupant was a
ghost of taste, and had selected for himself most comfortable quarters,
commanding as lovely a view as you or I or any other ghost would ever
wish to see. I proposed leaving my card for him, with a view to better
acquaintance, but the rest of the party were in flesh-and-blood humor,
and evidently preferred returning to the manifold creature comforts to
be had of our host of the Donegana House. We left next morning for
Quebec, of which more anon. My kingdom for a horse-blanket on that misty
morning over the ferry! Instead we had two priests, buttoned up to their
heels in long black robes, which I wanted most furiously to borrow, for
I was shaking with cold, and New York cold and Montreal and Quebec cold,
let me tell you, are two quite different things. When you get such a
cough fastened on your lungs there as I did, you may believe it.
I liked Quebec much better than Montreal. Of its splendid site it is
unnecessary to speak, everybody having either seen it or read of it, and
yet how tame seem all descriptions, when, standing upon the ramparts,
one tries to take in at a glance the splendid panorama before him. Every
inch of ground is historical, and imagination runs riot as you look at
the spot where the gallant Burr bore off from the enemy the dead body of
the brave Montgomery, or gaze at the monuments erected to Wolfe and
Montcalm. The sentinels, pacing up and down with their measured tread,
aid in keeping up the illusion; and as the wind whistles past, you start
involuntarily, as if expecting a shower of bullets past your ears. And
speaking of bullets, the little urchins who lie perdu on the
battle-field, watching for unwary travellers, have an inexhaustible
stock of them, which they assure you, with precociously grave faces,
funny to see, were "_actually_ found there," with their wan, dirty
little paws; also they exhibit some shining little pebbles, baptized by
them "diamonds," all of which we of course pocketed, and paid for, as if
there were no humbug in the little speculators; bigger boys than they
have told worse fibs in the same line of business--poor little Barnums!
The most unimaginative person could easily fancy himself in a foreign
country in Quebec. The motley population--the long, black-robed priests,
serving as a foil to the scarlet coats of the officers, and the white
uniform worn by the band; the loose-trousered, rolling sailors; the
Frenchy, peasant-looking country people, driving into market with their
produce in the most ancient of lumbering-looking vehicles, with bright
red raspberries, in shining little birch-bark baskets. The
healthy-looking female Quebec-ites, with their fanciful dark straw hats,
with a fall of black lace about their rosy faces, wonderfully enhancing
the brightness of bright eyes, and making even dull ones, if any such
there are, look coquettish under this pretty head-dress, so much more
comfortable than our little minikin bonnets, and worn alike by mothers
and daughters. Their dresses almost even with their ankles, and little
or no crinoline, but such healthy, rosy faces, such luxuriant locks, and
the universal little band of black velvet round the throat, of which the
French women are so fond. I am sure I did not see an ugly woman in
Quebec, nor one that, to my eye, was not sensibly and prettily habited,
and such little fat loves of children, chattering French with their
nurses. The people were as picturesque as the place, and nobody
scrutinized you as they do in New York, fixing a stony stare upon you (I
speak of the New York women), till they have found out everything you
have on, how it is made and trimmed, and then comment upon the same to
their next elbow neighbor. Every healthy and contented-looking female
soul of them seemed to have business of their own, and to mind it. Now
and then, to be sure, an officer or a private would take a look in
passing, and sometimes we heard them say "Anglice," and that is where
they did not hit it, at least with the ladies of the party, spite of
light hair and eyes. A gentleman at the hotel where we stayed, said,
"Those ladies are English," looking at myself and daughter. English!
when we talked and laughed, ate and drank, got up and sat down, without
ever once looking into a book of etiquette to see if it was "proper!"
A drive, which I shall long remember, we took to a little French village
just out of Quebec. I had always thought--shade of Napoleon, forgive
me--that the peasant French were an unthrifty, unneat people. My
delight was unbounded at their rows of neat little white-washed
cottages, standing sociably and cosily together, with long strips of
farms extending back; not an unsightly object about them; clean,
white-muslin window-curtains, with pretty pots of bright, flowering
plants at the casements; rosy little children, with their bright red
stockings--how I _like_ to see a little child in red stockings--and
clean, white aprons, and shiny hair, sitting on the door-step with the
family Towser, or running after the carriage, with bunches of flowers
for "the English ladies," as they persisted in calling us, keeping up
with our horses with a pertinacity which would have drawn out the
pennies were we less favorably inclined; and gay little bouquets they
gave us, too--roses just in bloom (for their summers are late and
fleeting), and pretty pinks and geranium leaves. In the fields, women
and girls were raking hay, with broad straw hats, which they pushed back
from their brown faces, as they leaned on their rakes to look as we
passed, quite unconscious how pretty they looked, helping their stout,
healthy-looking brothers, who, with strong, white teeth, and curly hair,
laughed merrily as they tossed the hay about. And yet this, like all
pictures, had its shadow, for _I_ saw, though they did not, the pale
procession of half-paid sewing girls coming up Nassau and Chatham
streets, in New York, at that very moment, home to some stifled attic,
or perhaps some more noisome place, of which those Canadians, in their
pure country seclusion, could not even dream. How I wished they were all
in those sweet hayfields, breathing that pure, untainted air!
Oh, it was a delicious picture; I could have looked at it forever; and
at every turn in the road some lovely view enchanted us--some new
blending of sea and sky, wood and valley, and each perfect of its kind;
and so we came at last to the famous Falls of "Montmorenci," where we
were to have twenty-five cents' worth of a miniature Niagara, with
root-beer and sponge-cake "to suit," for an additional fee; and truly
they might have been more extortionate as far as the Falls were
concerned, were it not such a damper to sentiment to pay for one's
ecstasy by the shilling. Beautiful were the Falls, tumbling, dashing,
and foaming down into their rocky bed beneath, where were patches of
velvet moss, of as vivid a green as your foot ever sank in while
wandering in the cool, fragrant woods. Of course we were pointed to the
remains of the "suspension bridge," which, about four years ago, broke
so treacherously over the Falls, precipitating a whole family to instant
death in the boiling torrent below. A great, hungry monster it looked to
us after that, as we went shuddering up the steep steps to sunlight and
safety, after viewing it from below. "Not one of them was ever heard of,
I suppose?" said I to our boy guide. "Not one, ma'am," replied my
juvenile oracle, with a solemn sniffle that would have done credit to a
camp-meeting.
Oh, these early breakfasts in "banquet halls deserted" of huge hotels,
waited upon by yawning servants scarce awake; no appetite for the food
you know you will be dying for five or six hours afterwards; meanwhile,
conscious only of an intense and unmitigated disgust for big trunks,
little trunks, bonnet-boxes, keys, carpet-bags, and reticules. The
morning foggy and chill; the hotel parlor, so pleasant the evening
before, as you sat upon its comfortable sofa with a party of friends
looking now quite as miserable as you feel, with its gay bouquets of
yesterday drooping and faded. Blue-looking men emerging from the
bar-room, twisting their travelling-shawls, in folds more warm than
graceful, over their chests and shoulders; ladies shivering as the chill
morning air strikes their but half-protected, shrinking figures. "All
ready" at last, and away we start for Portland. Yet, stay; what's this?
Heaven bless that ebony waiter, who, running after me, slid into my hand
a cold chicken, with a little package of salt inclosed, and with an
indescribable twist of his good-natured, shiny phiz, whispers, "Ladies
gets _so_ hungry on railroads, ma'am!" Now that's what I call a
compliment, and a substantial one, too; he should have seen me a few
hours after with one of the drumsticks, bless his soul. May he meet some
appreciative Dinah, and may they never want for a chicken!
Rain, rain, rain all day, in the most pitiless manner. Some solace
themselves with newspapers, some with novels, and some with sleep; the
latter sure to be broken in upon by the conductor's nudge, and "your
ticket, sir!" Directly in front of me sat two young men, strangers to
each other, who presently finding one of those convenient pretexts for
speaking which travel always affords, commenced conversation. Imagine
how long those two fellows kept it up without stopping to wink, or even
to look at the "way-stations"! _Sixty-five miles!_--I repeat
it--_sixty-five miles!_ Wouldn't the fact have been published from Dan
to Beersheba, had the conversationists happened to have been a couple of
women? And by the help of the limitless NEW YORK LEDGER, I'll send it
thus far. Mostly, these young men appeared to pity the Canadian nuns,
whom they seemed to have philanthropic desires to benefit, without the
opportunity. Then the vexed question of North and South was discussed,
that grindstone upon which every youngster must needs whet his
jack-knife. But time would fail to tell all the nonsense I was forced,
in the next seat, to hear, far transcending that of women, which, the
saints know, is ofttimes bad enough.
Well, we lived through that day's drizzle and rain, and reached Portland
in a most limp condition, just at night. Curious to be again in a
birthplace which I left when I was but six weeks old! "If the sun will
only shine out to-morrow," said I, as I cuddled under the blankets with
horrible forebodings. The fates were propitious. A warm, lovely morning;
every tree and shrub newly polished, and as fresh as if just made.
Within range of my window was a beautiful garden, gay as a rainbow with
all sorts of brilliant flowers. Two Quakers came along in solemn drab. I
smiled and held my breath. "Thank God," said I, as I saw them lean
delightedly over the fence to look at the gay flowers, "nature is, and
ever will be, stronger than creeds." A hasty breakfast, and forth I
started on my exploring tour. "I shall know the house where I was born,
if I pass it," said I; "some magnetic influence will surely arrest my
steps. Stay, that is Dr. Payson's church." "How do you know?" asked my
companions. "I _feel_ it; ask and see." And so it was. He who, by his
sweet, consistent, loving, holy life, came between me and the grim creed
which my very soul spurned, and which was driving me to disbelieve all
of which his Christ-like life was the beautiful exponent. _He_ who laid
holy hands of blessing on my baby-forehead, and knew God's creatures too
well to try to drive them, through fear of endless torment, to heaven. I
felt like crossing myself, as I passed the church where his feet had so
often entered, to tell, in that most musical of voices, of God's
infinite love to everything He had made--of God's infinite pity--but why
attempt to convey an idea of what must have been heard to be understood
and felt? Hundreds whom man's denunciatory self-righteousness had driven
to cursing, bitterness, and despair, are now stars in his crown.
Well, I passed on through the lovely streets of my native city, with
their green hedges and climbing plants, and bright flowers, and stately
trees, and most substantial, palatial stone houses, with shining
window-panes and massive entrances. Not there, not there, said I; it
must have been in some small wooden house, with an inch or two of
ground, and perhaps a few flowers that needed little care, for those
were humble days to her who, taking the baby-boy (poet that was to be)
in her arms, went daily to nurse him in the jail where his father was
confined. She who, if there _is_ a heaven of bliss, is in it to-day, as
one of those earth-martyrs whose mask of heavenly serenity a
short-sighted world never pierces. No, I feel no throb at my heart when
looking at these grand houses. Sure I am, it was not there that the baby
was baptized, whose little grave-clothes were well nigh bespoken. It was
not there that the little face purpled with what they said was the
death-agony. Would to God it had pleased Him to make it so. It was not
there that the little life began, from which that baby might well
struggle to escape. And so, wearily my feet passed up and down one
lovely street after another, admiring all, yet not drawn magnetically to
any. _Somewhere_--let it suffice--in that lovely, leafy city, with its
grand old drooping elms, and glimpses of the broad, blue sea, I first
opened eyes that will close far enough away from its Sabbath stillness
and quiet.
_IDLE HOURS AT OUR OWN EMERALD ISLE, THE GEM OF THE SEA._
Don't you wish you were here in Newport with me? the broad, blue ocean
in front of your window, and the crisp sea-breeze sending fresh life
through every vein? For a while we shall have Newport mostly to
ourselves, as at this present writing Fashion still lingers in the city,
searching for dry-goods to do this lovely spot fitting honor, according
to their idea of the same. Meantime we look at their lovely gardens and
velvety lawns, adorned like a bride for her expectant spouse, and
bewitching, with their flowery contrasts of vivid color, beyond any
words I can find to express them. Hanging baskets of ivy and scarlet
geranium, swinging like the censers of the Catholic churches, and
diffusing incense as we pass. Now and then some little white-robed child
springs out upon a door-step, with a frame of vine leaves above her
lovely, unconscious head, and the picture is complete. She will never,
in after years, have a more fervent worshipper at her feet than I, at
that moment. Turn where you will in Newport, all is beauty. If you weary
of the finish and elegance of these beautiful villas, there is the rocky
shore, where the sea dashes with tireless vigor; or you can contemplate
the bay that lies sparkling in the sunlight; or you can walk or ride in
the many lovely roads which give wonderfully beautiful glimpses of both,
and are as much "country" in their leafy and quiet seclusion, as if
Fashion were exiled to the North Pole, instead of the distance of a mile
of so. Then, if you are book-y, there are the well-stocked libraries of
the place; and for ladies whose shopping propensities no raging dog-star
allays or hinders, stores, where New York and other cities have freely
poured out their knicknacks, in the shape of ribbons, dress goods,
laces, and--dearer than all--"_embroidery worsted_!"
Think of the blasphemy of using this last, when nature has so far
outrivalled them! I wonder they are not afraid of being struck with
lightning for such presumption. But nobody knows the coquetry lurking in
a skein of bright worsted, held in lily, diamond-decked fingers, in the
corner of a vine-wreathed piazza. I declare that I will turn "state's
evidence," and expose it. _Blue_ worsted now, in the hands of a
sunny-haired, white-robed blonde; crimson or yellow on the lap of a
dark-haired brunette! And _you_, simple Theodore or Frank, never
dreaming that these effects are studied with the nicest diplomatic skill
by these "artless" creatures at whose feet you are willing slaves.
Whatsoever you do, don't offer to hold one of those skeins for winding.
That brings heads, and fingers, too, together in a manner--well, don't
you do it, that's all. Offer to kill caterpillars, if you will, or
rose-bugs; that's a safe employment; but in this worsted business, take
my word for it, you will be sure to get worsted yourself. It is quite
safe, however, for you to drive with them, if they invite you, in those
cunning little phaetons with the footman at your back, because flirting
in that case is under difficulties, not easily conquered unless you lose
him off upon the road. Meantime Newport remains the gem of summer
seaside resorts, combining, as it does, society or seclusion at your
pleasure, and city and country, with all the advantages of both.