LETTER LIV.
You will find me, after having been so near you as
New York, receding again from you, and my next letter
will be from the bosom of my native hills, in the north
of dear New England. My last was written from New
York, where we arrived seven days ago, by the Crescent
City, as I have already stated.
The fifth day after reaching that Babel of confusion of
tongues and of omnibuses, Isidore and Isabel embarked
for England in the steamer. During their brief stay in
New York they visited every place of interest, I being
in their company, with the addition of Monsieur de
Cressy from New Orleans, who had fairly attached himself—not
to me—no, no,—but to our party.
It was a sad parting that, between Isabel and myself.
I accompanied her on board the steamer, and again took
leave of her to return to the city. I shed more tears
that day than ever I did before, and my eyes still overflow
when I reflect that I may never see again the sweet
lovely girl, who for three years has been my pupil, and
who as a married woman is now fairly launched upon
the stormy billows of life. That she will be happy I
have no doubt, for M. de Clery is very devoted, and
seems every way worthy of her. My only consolation
is now in the prospect of letters from her, as she has
promised to write me every two weeks while she is
abroad. The colonel intended to have accompanied his
accomplished daughter, but the day before they sailed he
received a letter informing him of the death of his overseer,
and of sickness among the slaves upon his estate
in Tennessee. He accordingly delayed only to see them
embark, and the next day, after accompanying me to
the New Haven and Boston cars, to bid me good bye,
started for the West, sad at heart, with parting from so
beloved a child as Isabel had ever been. When he shook
me by the hand to speak “good bye,” his eyes filled
with tears; and he said,
“Be a good girl, Kate! Next to Bel, you are dear to
me. Write to me often, for in your letters and Bel's
remain my only solace now; and look you, dear Kate,
don't fall in love and marry somebody or other that
can't appreciate you. Write and tell me all about yourself,
and give my love to your dear good mother, and
kiss the little folk for me, and don't forget to give them
the presents!”
He then whispered in a low tone, “Don't lose your
heart, Kate, to De Cressy.”
He then—kissed me, Mr. —, and I hid my face
with my thick veil to conceal my tears; and so I saw the
dear good colonel no more! The best of heaven's benisons
be upon him!
I was not alone in my journey to Boston. I was
placed in charge of our Member of Congress from Tennessee,
who, with his lady, was taking a trip to see the
Yankee Capital, and purchase a few Yankee notions as
curiosities for their children at home. There was, besides,
in the cars by chance, M. de Cressy, the handsome
young New Orleans gentleman, who was on his way to
Montreal. He was very civil and kind, and did all he
could to make me cheerful, and pointed out the pretty
bits of scenery. The ride to Boston was very dull, all
that he could do, and I fear I was very poor company
for any one. At length we came in sight of the massive
dome of the state-house, crowning the city, to which
three years before I had bidden adieu on my way south;
and before I could believe the fact, I found myself in the
heart of the city, opposite the United States Hotel.
We are at the Revere House, a very elegant establishment,
kept in the finest way. Boston is an odd-looking
city, with inexpressibly tortuous streets, and narrow;
while the habitations usually are the plainest structures
that brick, mortar, and stone can erect. The door entrances
are, half of them, mere square cuts in the brick,
wholly destitute of ornament or grace. The public
buildings are very grand and massive: but as a city,
Boston is surpassed by New York, Philadelphia, and
Baltimore. But as to intellect, for great men, for jurists,
statemen, and princely educated merchants, no
city is its peer.
I have visited to-day old Fanueil Hall, through which
the mighty voice of Webster has reverberated; also the
old State-house, associated with the early Colonial history
of the Commonwealth; also the place of the British
massacre in State street; the site of the famous “Liberty
Tree;” the wharf from which the tea was thrown into
the harbor; the house where Washington lived; and
Bunker's Hill, upon which the monument of enduring
granite rises like a gigantic needle, hundreds of feet into
the blue ether; “the first object to catch the beams of
the rising sun, which tremble last upon its sky-piercing
pinnacle!”
These Boston folk are very aristocratic—more so and
more English than other Americans. They are very
literary, too, and among them are a large number of
scholars of both sexes. The Countess d' Ossoli, so unhappily
lost at sea, was a noble specimen of these Boston
literary women. German is a great deal studied
here, and where it is not studied, its knowledge is
affected. No person here is considered at all literary
without German! and the possession of this, without
much brains, is a passport into the “Book Society.”
The Boston people dress very primly—the men much
more so than the ladies. The latter have a horrid fashion
of bundling up themselves in cloaks and muffs in the
winter, that is monstrous. They look exactly like Kamschatka
merchants waddling about. I had not seen a
muff for so many years that they looked perfectly ludicrous
to me. I don't wonder the green Mississippi
medical student wrote home that “all the girls in Boston
carried young bears in their hands when they went
out.”
The churches here are very tall and numerous, and
nice looking; but none very elegant. Trinity is a gray
massive pile of architectural rock, imposing and fortress-like.
St. Paul's is a Grecian temple; Park Street a
spire after the old Puritan pagoda fashion, lessening in
a succession of white porticoes, one elevated, ad infinitum,
upon another, till it ended “into nothing,” as the Hon.
Mr. Slick once graphically described the same structure.
Every body goes to Church here, and it is wicked to
be seen in the
streets in church hours, on Sunday, except
for doctors. Tiding men I believe no longer go
about at such times with long rods “seeking whom they
may devour,” that is, such small game as little boys playing
truant from their seats in the pews.
I have not yet had the pleasure of seeing dear good
old Mistress Partington. Everybody seems to be well
acquainted with her, but nobody seems to know where
she “puts up.” All I can learn is, that her maiden
name was Green. As soon as I ascertain, I intend to
call upon her and pay my respects; for such an honor to
Boston literature should not be lightly passed by. The
good dame I understand is very thin, having lost much
of her flesh in trying to master the German language, in
order to be admitted into the “Blue-Stocking Club of
Literary Ladies,” the motto of which is “Nulla Comeina
sine Germano.” The unhappy old lady, it is rumored,
dislocated her jaw the third lesson, in trying to pronounce
“Ich,” which it is said has contributed to her
leanness, from inability to take only liquids.
There is a probability of my leaving to-morrow for
home, dear Mr. —, and when I am once more in the
quiet seclusion of my native village, I shall have nothing
of interest to give occupation to my pen; for the history
of one day there is the history of every day in the year.
I shall therefore send you but one letter more, informing
you of my safe arrival amid the cherished scenes of my
childhood.
Your friend, very truly,
Kate.
