 | Letters from New York |  |
LETTERS FROM NEW-YORK.
LETTER I.
You ask what is now my opinion of this great Babylon:
and playfully remind me of former philippics, and a long
string of vituperative alliterations, such as magnificence and
mud, finery and filth, diamonds and dirt, bullion and brass
tape, &c. &c. Nor do you forget my first impression of
the city, when we arrived at early dawn, amid fog and
drizzling rain, the expiring lamps adding their smoke to the
impure air, and close beside us a boat called the “Fairy
Queen,” laden with dead hogs.
Well, Babylon remains the same as then. The din of
crowded life, and the eager chase for gain, still run through
its streets, like the perpetual murmur of a hive. Wealth
dozes on French couches, thrice piled, and canopied with
damask, while Poverty camps on the dirty pavement, or
sleeps off its wretchedness in the watch-house. There,
amid the splendour of Broadway, sits the blind negro beggar,
with horny hand and tattered garments, while opposite
to him stands the stately mansion of the slave trader, still
plying his bloody trade, and laughing to scorn the cobweb
laws, through which the strong can break so easily.
In Wall-street, and elsewhere, Mammon, as usual, coolly
calculates his chance of extracting a penny from war, pes-tilence,
and famine; and Commerce, with her loaded drays,
and jaded skeletons of horses, is busy as ever “fulfilling
the World's contract with the Devil.” The noisy discord
of the street-cries gives the ear no rest; and the weak
voice of weary childhood often makes the heart ache for
hours of night. Sometimes, the harsh sounds are pleasantly
varied by some feminine voice, proclaiming in musical cadence,
“Hot corn! hot corn!” with the poetic addition of
“Lily white corn! Buy my lily white corn!” When this
sweet, wandering voice salutes my ear, my heart replies—
And the soul that speaks hath suffered wrong.
There was a time when all these things would have
passed by me, like the flitting figures of the magic lantern,
or the changing scenery of a theatre, sufficient for the
amusement of an hour. But now, I have lost the power of
looking merely on the surface. Every thing seems to me
to come from the Infinite, to be filled with the Infinite, to be
tending toward the Infinite. Do I see crowds of men
hastening to extinguish a fire? I see not merely uncouth
garbs, and fantastic, flickering lights, of lurid hue, like a
tramping troop of gnomes,—but straightway my mind
is filled with thoughts about mutual helpfulness, human
sympathy, the common bond of brotherhood, and the mysteriously
deep foundations on which society rests; or rather,
on which it now reels and totters.
But I am cutting the lines deep, when I meant only to
give you an airy, unfinished sketch. I will answer your
question, by saying that, though New-York remains the
same, I like it better. This is partly because I am like
the Lady's Delight, ever prone to take root, and look up
with a smile, in whatever soil you place it; and partly because
bloated disease, and black gutters, and pigs uglier
than their ugly kind, no longer constitute the foreground in
my picture of New-York. I have become more familiar
with the pretty parks, dotted about here and there; with
the shaded alcoves of the various public gardens; with
blooming nooks, and “sunny spots of greenery.” I am
Boston Common. The fine old trees are indeed wanting;
but the newly-planted groves offer the light, flexile
gracefulness of youth, to compete with their matured majesty
of age. In extent, and variety of surface, this noble
promenade is greatly inferior to ours; but there is,
The fresh, the bright, the ever free!”
Most fitting symbol of the Infinite, this trackless pathway
of a world! heaving and stretching to meet the sky it never
reaches—like the eager, unsatisfied aspirations of the human
soul. The most beautiful landscape is imperfect without
this feature. In the eloquent language of Lamartine, “The
sea is to the scenes of nature what the eye is to a fine
countenance; it illuminates them, it imparts to them that
radiant physiognomy, which makes them live, speak, enchant,
and fascinate the attention of those who contemplate
them.”
If you deem me heretical in preferring the Battery to
the Common, consecrated by so many pleasant associations
of my youth, I know you will forgive me, if you will go
there in the silence of midnight, to meet the breeze on
your cheek, like the kiss of a friend; to hear the continual
plashing of the sea, like the cool sound of oriental fountains;
to see the moon look lovingly on the sea-nymphs,
and throw down wealth of jewels on their shining hair; to
look on the ships in their dim and distant beauty, each
containing within itself, a little world of human thought,
and human passion. Or go, when “night, with her
thousand eyes, looks down into the heart, making it also
great”—when she floats above us, dark and solemn, and
scarcely sees her image in the black mirror of the ocean.
The city lamps surround you, like a shining belt of descended
constellations, fit for the zone of Urania; while
speak to the soul of thoughtful shepherds on the ancient
plains of Chaldea. And there, like mimic Fancy, playing
fantastic freaks in the very presence of heavenly Imagination,
stands Castle Garden—with its gay perspective of
coloured lamps, like a fairy grotto, where imprisoned fire-spirits
send up sparkling wreaths, or rockets laden with
glittering ear-drops, caught by the floating sea-nymphs, as
they fall.
But if you would see the Battery in all its glory, look at
it when, through the misty mantle of retreating dawn, is
seen the golden light of the rising sun! Look at the horizon,
where earth, sea, and sky, kiss each other, in robes of
reflected glory! The ships stretch their sails to the coming
breeze, and glide majestically along—fit and graceful emblems
of the Past; steered by Necessity; the Will constrained
by outward Force. Quick as a flash, the steamboat
passes them by—its rapidly revolving wheel made
golden by the sunlight, and dropping diamonds to the laughing
Nereids, profusely as pearls from Prince Esterhazy's
embroidered coat. In that steamer, see you not an appropriate
type of the busy, powerful, self-conscious Present?
Of man's Will conquering outward Force; and thus making
the elements his servants?
From this southern extremity of the city, anciently called
“The Wall of the Half-Moon,” you may, if you like, pass
along the Bowery to Bloomingdale, on the north. What a
combination of flowery sounds to take captive the imagination!
It is a pleasant road, much used for fashionable
drives; but the lovely names scarcely keep the promise
they give the ear; especially to one accustomed to the
beautiful environs of Boston.
During your ramble, you may meet wandering musicians.
Perhaps a poor Tyrolese with his street-organ, or a Scotch
lad, with shrill bag-pipe, decorated with tartan ribbons.
skill, indeed, is needed to grind forth that machinery of
sounds; but my heart salutes them with its benison, in
common with all things that cheer this weary world. I
have little sympathy with the severe morality that drove
these tuneful idlers from the streets of Boston. They are
to the drudging city, what Spring birds are to the country.
The world has passed from its youthful, Troubadour Age,
into the thinking, toiling Age of Reform. This we may
not regret, because it needs must be. But welcome, most
welcome, all that brings back reminiscences of its childhood,
in the cheering voice of poetry and song!
Therefore blame me not, if I turn wearily aside from the
dusty road of reforming duty, to gather flowers in sheltered
nooks, or play with gems in hidden grottoes. The Practical
has striven hard to suffocate the Ideal within me; but
it is immortal, and cannot die. It needs but a glance of
Beauty from earth or sky, and it starts into blooming life,
like the aloe touched by fairy wand.
| Letters from New York | |