who took me between them, and I continued my walk in great glory and
exultation of spirit, listening to Rogers, and hearing
Wordsworth,--the gentle rill of the one speech broken into and
interrupted by sudden loud splashes of the other; when Rogers, who
had vainly been trying to tell some anecdote, pathetically
exclaimed, "He won't let me tell my story!" I immediately stopped,
and so did Wordsworth, and during this halt Rogers finished his
recital. Presently afterwards, Wordsworth having left us, Rogers
told me that he (Mr. Wordsworth), in a visit he had been lately
paying at Althorpe, was found daily in the magnificent library, but
never without a volume of his own poetry in his hand. Years after
this, when I used to go and sit with Mr. Rogers, I never asked him
what I should read to him without his putting into my hands his own
poems, which always lay by him on his table.
A comical instance of the rivalry of wits (surely as keen as that of
beauties) occurred one day when Mr. Rogers had been calling on me
and speaking of that universal social favorite, Lady Morley, had
said, "There is but one voice against her in all England, and that
is her own." (A musical voice was the only charm wanting to Lady
Morley's delightful conversation.) I was enchanted with this pretty
and appropriate epigram, so unlike in its tone to Mr. Rogers's usual
_friendly_ comments; and, very soon after he left me, Sydney Smith
coming in, I told him how clever and how pleasant a remark the
"departed" poet (Sydney Smith often spoke of Rogers as dead, on
account of his cadaverous complexion) had made on Lady Morley's
voice. "He never said it," exclaimed my second illustrious visitor.
"But he did, Mr. Smith, to me, in this room, not half an hour ago."
"He never _made_ it; it isn't his, it isn't a bit like him." To all
which I could only repeat that, nevertheless, he _had_ said it, and
that, whether he made it or not, it was extremely well made.
Presently Sydney Smith went away. I was living in upper Grosvenor
Street, close to Park Lane; and he in Green Street, in the near
neighborhood. But I believe he must have run from my house to his
own, so short was the interval of time, before I received the
following note: "Dans toute l'Angleterre il n'y a qu'une voix contre
moi, et c'est la mienne." Then followed the signature of a French
lady of the eighteenth century, and these words: "What a dear,
innocent, confiding, credulous creature you are! and how you _do_
love Rogers!
"SYDNEY SMITH."
When I was leaving England, I received two most kind and
affectionate letters from him, bidding me farewell, and exhorting
me, in a most comical and yet pathetic manner, to be courageous and
of good cheer in returning to America. One of these epistles ended
thus: "Don't forget me, whatever you do; talk of me sometimes, call
me Butler's Hudibras, and believe me always.
"Affectionately yours,
"SYDNEY SMITH."]
LIVERPOOL, Monday, September 11th, 1837.
Here we are again, dearest Harriet, returned from our ship, after a
wretched day and night spent on board of her most unnecessarily. When we
reached the quay yesterday morning, we saw the vessel lying under
close-reefed sails; the favorable wind had died away, and the captain,
whom we found standing on the wharf, said that, it being Sunday morning,
he did not know how he should get a steamboat to tow us out. All this
seemed to me very much like not sailing, and I begged not to go on
board; at all events, I proposed, if we did not sail, that we should
return to shore, and received a promise that we certainly should do so;
so we went off in a small boat to the ship. She is crowded to excess,
and the greater proportion of passengers are emigrant women and
children.... I busied myself in stowing away everything in our
state-room, and removing the upper berth so as to secure a little more
breathing space. I even was guilty of the illicit proceeding--committed
the outrage, in fact--of endeavoring to break one of my bull's-eyes,
preferring being drenched to dry suffocation in foul air; but my utmost
violence, even assisted with an iron rod, was ineffectual, and I had to
give up breaking that window as a bad job. I found Margery's state-room
one chaos of confusion, she at the same time protesting that everything
was as tidily disposed of as possible; so I had to stand by and show her
where to put every individual article, and having cleared the small
space of the heap of superfluous things with which it was crammed, and
removed the upper berth, I left it to her option whether she or baby
should occupy the floor at night.
At about half-past ten the captain came on board to say that we should
not sail then, but if the wind grew fair, we _might perhaps_ sail in the
afternoon. He then took himself off the vessel, the wind was fast
veering to dead ahead, ... and, with an aching heart and head, I
remained in my berth all day long. In the night a perfect gale arose,
the ship dragged her anchor for two miles, and we had thus much
consolation that, had we put to sea, we should have encountered a
violent storm, and, in all probability been driven back into the Mersey.
This morning the wind was still contrary, and so we at length exerted
ourselves to return to shore. Had we done so yesterday in good time--or,
rather, not gone on board at all, you and I might have spent two more
days together, and the baby and myself been spared considerable misery.
But lamenting cures nothing; ... but I wish we never had left the quay
yesterday morning, for everything showed against the probability of our
sailing, and so here we are back in our old quarters at the Star and
Garter, and you are gone.
We have taken places at the theater for this evening, to see Macready in
"Macbeth." The Captain says we are to sail to-morrow morning, but I
shall do my utmost this time to avoid going on board except in his
company; and then, I think, we shall perhaps have some chance of not
spending another day in vain in our sea-prison.
Ever your affectionate,
F. A. B.
[The foregoing letter gives some idea of the difference between
crossing from England to the United States in those days, and in
these; when a telegram bears the defiance to fate of this message:
"We sail in the _Russia_ on the 3d; have dinner for us at the
Adelphi on the 11th."]
PHILADELPHIA, Sunday, October 29th, 1837.
MY DEAREST HARRIET,
We landed in New York, ten days ago, _i.e._, on Friday, the 20th
October; and had we come on immediately hither, your letter would have
been just in time to greet me on my arrival here; but our passage was of
thirty-seven days, stormy as well as tedious, and I was so ill that I
did not leave my bed six times during the crossing; the consequence was,
that on landing I looked more like a ghost than a living creature, and
was so reduced in strength as hardly to be able to stand, so we remained
in New York a few days, till I was able to travel.... Our
fellow-passengers, the women, I mean, were rather vulgar, commonplace
people, with whom I should not have had much sympathy, had I been well.
As it was, I saw but little of them, and may consider that one of the
counterbalancing advantages of having suffered so much.
One of them was in circumstances which interested me a good deal, though
there was little in herself to do so. Her husband was a Staffordshire
potter, and had gone to the United States to establish a pottery there;
to begin the building up of a large concern, and lay the foundation for
probable future wealth and prosperity. He had been gone two years, and
she was now going out to join him with their four children. In his
summons to her after this long separation, he told her that all had
prospered with him, that he had bought a large tract of land, found
excellent soil, water, and means of every description for his
manufacturing purposes, obtained a patent, and established his business,
and was every way likely to thrive and be successful.
What hope, what energy, what enterprise, what industry, in but two years
of one human existence! What a world of doubt, of distressful anxiety
and misgiving in the heart of the woman, left to patient expectation, to
prayerful, tearful hopes and fears! What trust in man and faith in God
during those two years! And now, with her children, she was coming to
rejoin her helpmate, and begin life all over again, with him and them,
in a strange country, in the midst of strangers, with everything strange
about her. I lay thinking with much sympathy of this poor woman and her
feelings, during my miserable confinement to my berth through that
dismal voyage. She was an uneducated person, of the lower middle class,
and not in herself interesting: though I do not know why I say that,
when I was deeply interested about her, and I do not know that any
creature endowed with a heart and soul can fail to be an object of
interest in some way or other; and human existence, with all its
marvelous developments, going on round one, must always furnish matter
for admiration, pity, or sympathy. Moreover, this woman was carrying out
with her the wives of several of her husband's workmen, who had
accompanied him out on his experimental voyage; and, being settled in
his employment, had got their master's wife to bring their partners out
to them. Think what a meeting for all these poor people, dear Harriet,
in this little hive of English industry and energy in the far west, the
fertile wildernesses of Indiana! How often I thought of the fears and
misgivings of these poor women in the steerage, when our progress was
delayed by tempestuous, contrary winds, when the heavy seas leaped over
our laboring vessel's sides, and when, during a violent thunderstorm,
our masts were tipped with lambent fire, which played round them like a
halo of destruction.
All this while I have forgotten to tell you why I have not written
sooner; and I suppose my accusation is yet bitter in your heart while
you are reading this. I told you on my first page I was obliged to stay
in New York to recruit my strength; the first time I went out, after
walking about a quarter of a mile, I was obliged to sit down and rest,
for half an hour, in a public garden, before I could crawl back again to
the hotel.
On Monday, when I was a little better, we came on here. I am every day
now expecting to be fetched to Harrisburg.... A woman should be her
husband's friend, his best and dearest friend, as he should be hers: but
friendship is a relation of equality, in which the same perfect respect
for each other's liberty is exercised on both sides; and that sort of
marriage, if it exists at all anywhere, is, I suspect, very uncommon
everywhere. Moreover, I am not sure that marriage ever is, can be, or
ought to be, such an equality; for even "When two men ride on one
horse," you know, etc. In the relation of friendship there is perfect
freedom, and an undoubted claim on each side to be neither dependent on,
nor controlled by, each other's will. In the relation of marriage this
is impossible; and therefore certainly marriage is not friendship.... A
woman should, I think, love her husband better than anything on earth
except her own soul; which, I think, a man should respect above
everything on earth but his own soul: and there, my dear, is a very
pretty puzzle for you, which a good many people have failed to solve. It
is, indeed, a pretty difficult problem; and perhaps you have chosen, if
not the wiser and better, at any rate the easier and safer part.
God bless you, dear friend.
Ever affectionately yours,
F. A. B.
HARRISBURG, Friday, November 14th, 1837.
Thank you, dearest Harriet, for your epitome of the history of the New
Testament. I have read the same things, in greater detail, more than
once.... I have repeatedly gone over accounts of the history and
authenticity of the Gospel narratives; but I have done so as a duty, and
in order to be able to give to others some reason for the faith that is
in me,--not really because I desired the knowledge for its own sake; and
therefore my memory had gradually lost its hold of what I had taken into
my mind, chiefly for the satisfaction of others, to enable me to make
sufficient answers upon a subject whose best evidence of truth seems to
me to reside in itself, and to be altogether out of the region of
logic.... Christ received the last and perfect revelation of moral
truth, brought it into the world, preached it by his practice, and bore
witness to it by his death; and since he came, every holy life and
death, in those portions of the globe where his name is known, has been
moulded upon his teaching and example; and those individuals least
inclined to acknowledge it have unconsciously imbibed the influence of
the inspiration which he breathed into the soul of humanity. He has
saved, and is daily and hourly saving, the world: and so far from
imagining the possibility of any end to the work he has begun, or any
superseding of his revelation by any other, it appears to me that
civilized societies and nations calling themselves Christian have hardly
yet begun to comprehend, believe, or adopt his teaching; under the
influence of which I look for the regeneration of the race through the
coming ages: it will extend above and beyond all discoveries of science
and developments of knowledge, and more and more approve itself the only
moral and spiritual theory that will at once carry forward and keep pace
with the progress of humanity....
If, by telling you that my mind dwelt more upon religious subjects now
than formerly, I have led you to suppose that I ever investigate or
ponder creeds, theologies, dogmas, or systems of faith, I have given you
a false impression. But I live alone--much alone bodily, more alone
mentally; I have no intimates, no society, no intellectual intercourse
whatever; and I give myself up, as I never did in my life before, to
mere musing, reverie, and speculation--I cannot dignify the process by
the title of thought or contemplation.
My mind is much less active than it was: I read less, write less, study
little, plan no work, and accomplish none. It is curious how,
immediately upon my return to England, my mind seemed to flow back into
its former channels; how my thoughts were roused and awakened; and how
my imagination revived, and with what ease and rapidity I wrote, almost
_currente calamo_, the only thing worth anything that I ever have
written, my "English Tragedy." Here, all things tend to check any
utterance of my thoughts, spoken or written; and while in England I
could not find time enough to write, I here have no desire to do so, and
lament my inability to force myself to mental exertion as a mere
occupation and fill-time: _I dare not say kill-time, "for that would be
a sin."_ ... I ride and walk, and pass my days alone; and lacking
converse with others, have become much addicted to desultory thinking
(almost as bad a thing as desultory reading), which is indeed no
thinking at all. Real thinking is what Cleopatra calls "sweating labor,"
to which the hewing of wood and drawing of water is a joke; but this I
carefully avoid, knowing my own incapacity for it; so I dawdle about my
mind, and, naturally, arrive at few conclusions; and among those few, no
doubt, many false ones....
We are established here during the rest of the Session of the
Convention, which is a gain to me, as here I get companionship. There is
a recess of a couple of hours, too, in the middle of the day, which the
members avail themselves of for their very early dinner, but which we
employ, and I enjoy immensely, in riding about the neighboring country.
It is not thought expedient that I should ride alone about this strange
region, on a strange horse, so I am escorted, at which I rejoice for all
sakes, as everybody's health here would be the better for more exercise
than they take.
This place, which is the seat of Government of the State of
Pennsylvania, is beautifully situated in a valley locked round by purple
highlands, through which runs the Susquehanna; in some parts broad,
bright, rapid, shallow, brawling, and broken by picturesque reefs of
rock; in others, deep and placid, bearing on its bosom beautiful
wood-crowned islands, whose autumnal foliage, through which the mellow
sunshine is now pouring, gives them the appearance of fairyland planted
with golden woods.
The beautiful river is bountifully provided, too, with a most admirable
species of trout, weighing from two to four pounds, silvery white
without, and pale pink within (just the complexion of a fresh mushroom),
and very excellent to eat, as well as lovely to behold.
Many of the members of the Convention have been kind enough to come and
see me, and I have attended one of their debates. They are for the most
part uncultivated men, unlettered and ungrammared; and those among them
who are the best educated, or rather the least ignorant, carry their
small _lore_ much as a school-boy carries his, stiffly, awkwardly, and
ostentatiously: an Eton sixth-form lad would beat any one of them in
classical scholarship. But though in point of intellectual acquirement,
I do not find much here to excite my sympathy, there is abundant matter
of interest, as well as much that is curious and amusing to me in their
intercourse. The shrewdness, the sound sense, the original observations,
and the experience of life of some of these men are striking and
remarkable. Though not one of them can speak grammatically, they all
speak fluently, boldly, readily, easily, without effort or hesitation.
There is, of course, among them, the usual proportion of well, and less
well, witted individuals; and perhaps the contrast is the more apparent
because the education has here covered no natural deficiencies and
developed no natural gifts; so that there is not the usual superficial,
civilized level produced by a common intellectual training. The
questions they discuss are often in themselves interesting, though I
cannot say that they often treat them in the most interesting manner....
Ever your affectionate,
F. A. B.
[The play which I have called an "English Tragedy," was suggested by
an incident in the life of Lord de Ros, which my father heard at
dinner at Lady Blessington's, and, on his return from Gore House,
related it to us. I wrote the principal scene of the third act the
same evening, under the impression of the story I had just heard;
and afterwards sketched out and wrote the drama, of which I had
intended, at first, to write only that one scene.
The whole fashionable world of London had been thrown into
consternation by the discovery that Lord de Ros, premier Baron of
England, cheated at cards. He was, notoriously, one of the most
worthless men of his day; which circumstance never prevented his
being perfectly well received by the men and women of the best
English society. That he was an unprincipled profligate made him
none the less welcome to his male associates, or their wives,
sisters, and daughters; but when Lord de Ros cheated his
fellow-gamblers at the Club, no further toleration of his wickedness
was, of course, possible; and then every infamous story, which, if
believed, should have made him intolerable to decent people before,
was told and re-told; and it seemed to me, that of all the evil
deeds laid to his charge, his cheating at cards was quite the least
evil.
Lady Ellesmere, from whom I heard a story of his cold-blooded
profligacy far more dreadful than that on which I founded my
"English Tragedy," told me that she thought Lord de Ros's influence
had been exceedingly detrimental to her brother, Charles Greville,
who was his most intimate friend; and who, she said, burst into
tears in speaking to her of it, when the fact of his cheating was
discovered,--certainly a strong proof of affection from such a man
to such a man; and I remember how eagerly and earnestly he
endeavored to persuade me that the incident on which I had founded
my "English Tragedy" had not been so profoundly base on Lord de
Ros's part as I supposed.
Besides the revival of these tragical stories of his misdeeds, the
poor man's disgrace gave rise to some bitter jokes among his friends
of the club-house and gambling-table. An epitaph composed for him to
this effect was circulated among his intimates:--
"Here lies Henry, twenty-sixth Baron de Ros, in joyful expectation
of the last trump."
Of course he was cut by all his noble associates; and Lord Alvanley,
being hailed one day by some of them with an inquiry as to whether
it was true that he had called on De Ros, replied, "I left a card on
Lord de Ros, and I marked it, that he might know it was an honor."]
HARRISBURG, Saturday, November 11th, 1837.
MY DEAR MRS. JAMESON,
It seems useless for me to wait any longer for the chance of giving you
some definite idea of our plans, for day after day passes without their
assuming anything like a decided form, and I am now as uncertain of what
is to become of us when the Convention leaves this place, as I was when
I saw you in New York.
From the date of your last, I perceive that you have taken your intended
trip [to the Sault St. Marie, and some of the then little frequented
Canadian Lake scenery]. I rejoice at this, as your health must, of
course, be better than when you wrote to me before, and I think the
scenery and people you are now amongst fit to renovate a sick body and
soothe a sore mind. [Mrs. Jameson was staying at Stockbridge, with the
Sedgwick family.] Catherine Sedgwick is my best friend in this country,
but the whole family have bestowed more kindness upon me than I can ever
sufficiently acknowledge.... They have all been exceedingly good to me,
and the place of their dwelling combines for me the charms of great
natural beauty with the associations that belong to the intellect and
the affections.
After your first letter from New York, I never rested till I got Mrs.
Griffith's review of your book. The composition itself did not surprise
me, but what did a little--only a little (for I am growing old, and have
almost done with being surprised at anything), was that such a
production should have gained admission into one of the principal
magazines of this country; it is a sad specimen, truly, of the
periodical literature it accepts.... Criticism in periodical journals is
apt to be slightly malignant, ... and more often the result of personal
sentiment than impartial literary or artistic judgment: so that I rather
admired the article in question for its ignorance and vulgarity than the
qualities which it exhibited in common with other criticisms to be met
with in our own periodical literature, which, however unjust or partial
in their censures and commendations, are decidedly inferior to Mrs.
Griffith's composition in the two qualities I have specified....
My baby acquired a cough in coming from Philadelphia to this place in a
railroad carriage (car, as they are called here), which held sixty-four
persons in one compartment, and from which we were all obliged to
alight, and walk a quarter of a mile through the woods, because the
railroad, though traveled upon, is not finished.
We are here upon the banks of the Susquehanna, and surrounded by fine
blue outlines of mountainous country. How thankful I am that God did not
despise beauty! He is the sole provider of it here.
Believe me ever yours very truly,
F. A. B.
P. S.--"A change has come o'er the spirit of my dream" since yesterday;
upon due deliberation, it is determined that when the Convention goes to
Philadelphia we shall take possession of Butler Place; and therefore
(however uncomfortably), I shall be able to receive you there after the
first of next month. If a half-furnished house and half-broken household
do not deter you, you will find me the same you have ever known me,
there, as elsewhere,
Yours most truly,
F. A. B.
PHILADELPHIA, Thursday, November 20th, 1837.
MY DEAR MRS. JAMESON,
I write in haste, for I find our garden-cart is just starting for town,
and I wish this to be taken immediately to the post-office. I was
beginning to be almost anxious about you, when your letter from Boston
arrived, to remove the apprehension of your being again ill, which I
feared must be the case.
You tell me that you will let me know the day on which to expect you in
Philadelphia, and bid me, if I cannot receive you in my house, seek out
a shelter for you. The inconveniences, I fear, are yours, and not mine;
though a residence of even a few days in an American boarding-house,
must, I should think, make even the discomforts of my housekeeping seem
tolerable. But that you are yourself likely to be a sufferer in so
doing, I should not be sorry to show you the quite indescribable
difference between an English and an American home and household; which,
I assure you, nothing less than seeing is believing.