 | Letters from New York |  |
LETTER II.
You think my praises of the Battery exaggerated; perhaps
they are so; but there are three points on which I am
crazy—music, moonlight, and the sea. There are other
points, greatly differing from these, on which most American
juries would be prone to convict me of insanity. You
know a New-York lawyer defined insanity to be “a differing
in opinion from the mass of mankind.” By this rule,
I am as mad as a March hare; though, as Andrew Fair-service
said, “Why a hare should be more mad in March
than at Michaelmas, is more than I ken.”
I admit that Boston, in her extensive and airy Common,
not the less disposed to be thankful for the circumscribed,
but well-shaded limits of the Washington Parade Ground,
and Union Park, with its nicely trimmed circle of hedge,
its well-rolled gravel walks, and its velvet greensward,
shaven as smooth as a Quaker beau. The exact order of its
arrangement would be offensive in the country; and even
here, the eye of taste would prefer variations, and undulation
of outline; but trimness seems more in place in a city,
than amid the graceful confusion of nature; and neatness
has a charm in New-York, by reason of its exceeding rarity.
St. John's Park, though not without pretensions to
beauty, never strikes my eye agreeably, because it is shut
up from the people; the key being kept by a few genteel
families in the vicinity. You know I am an enemy to monopolies;
wishing all Heaven's good gifts to man to be as
free as the wind, and as universal as the sunshine.
I like the various small gardens in New-York, with their
shaded alcoves of lattice-work, where one can eat an ice-cream,
shaded from the sun. You have none such in Boston;
and they would probably be objected to, as open to
the vulgar and the vicious. I do not walk through the
world with such fear of soiling my garments. Let science,
literature, music, flowers, all things that tend to cultivate
the intellect, or humanize the heart, be open to “Tom,
Dick, and Harry;” and thus, in process of time, they will
become Mr. Thomas, Richard, and Henry. In all these
things, the refined should think of what they can import,
not of what they can receive.
As for the vicious, they excite in me more of compassion
than of dislike. The Great Searcher of Hearts alone
knows whether I should not have been as they are, with the
same neglected childhood, the same vicious examples, the
same overpowering temptation of misery and want. If they
will but pay to virtue the outward homage of decorum, God
breeze, and the shaded promenade. Wretched enough
are they in their utter degradation; nor is society so guiltless
of their ruin, as to justify any of its members in unpitying
scorn.
And this reminds me that in this vast emporium of poverty
and crime, there are, morally speaking, some flowery
nooks, and “sunny spots of greenery.” I used to say, I
knew not where were the ten righteous men to save the
city; but I have found them now. Since then, The Washington
Temperance Society has been organized, and
active in good works. Apart from the physical purity,
the triumph of soul over sense, implied in abstinence
from stimulating liquors, these societies have peculiarly
interested me, because they are based on the Law of Love.
The Pure is inlaid in the Holy, like a pearl set in fine
gold. Here is no “fifteen-gallon-law,” no attendance upon
the lobbies of legislatures, none of the bustle or manœuvres
of political party; measures as useless in the moral world,
as machines to force water above its level are in the physical
world. Serenely above all these, stands this new Genius
of Temperance; her trust in Heaven, her hold on the
human heart. To the fallen and the perishing she throws
a silken cord, and gently draws him within the golden circle
of human brotherhood. She has learned that persuasion
is mightier than coercion, that the voice of encouragement
finds and echo in the heart deeper, far deeper, than the
thunder of reproof.
The blessing of the perishing, and of the merciful God,
who cares for them, will rest upon the Washington Temperance
Society. A short time since, one of its members
found an old acquaintance lying asleep in a dirty alley,
scarcely covered with filthy rags, pinned and tied together.
Being waked, the poor fellow exclaimed, in piteous tones,
“Oh don't take me to the Police Office—Please don't take
“you shall have shoes to your feet, and a decent coat on
your back, and be a Man again! We have better work for
you to do, than to lie in prison. You will be a Temperance
preacher, yet.”
He was comfortably clothed, kindly encouraged, and
employment procured for him at the printing office of the
Washington Society. He now works steadily all day, and
preaches temperance in the evening. Every week I hear
of similar instances. Are not these men enough to save a
city? This Society is one among several powerful agencies
now at work, to teach society that it makes its own criminals,
and then, at prodigious loss of time, money, and morals,
punishes its own work.
The other day, I stood by the wayside while a Washingtonian
procession, two miles long, passed by. All
classes and trades were represented, with appropriate music
and banners. Troops of boys carried little wells and
pumps; and on many of the banners were flowing fountains
and running brooks. One represented a wife kneeling in
gratitude for a husband restored to her and himself; on
another, a group of children were joyfully embracing the
knees of a reformed father. Fire companies were there
with badges and engines; and military companies, with
gaudy colours and tinsel trappings. Toward the close,
came two barouches, containing the men who first started
a Temperance Society on the Washingtonian plan. These
six individuals were a carpenter, a coach-maker, a tailor, a
blacksmith, a wheelwright, and a silver-plater. They held
their meetings in a carpenter's shop, in Baltimore, before
any other person took an active part in the reform. My
heart paid them reverence, as they passed. It was a
beautiful pageant, and but one thing was wanting to make
it complete; there should have been carts drawn by garlanded
oxen, filled with women and little children, bearing
NOW! I missed the women and the children; for without
something to represent the genial influence of domestic
life, the circle of joy and hope is ever incomplete.
But the absent ones were present to my mind; and the
pressure of many thoughts brought tears to my eyes. I
seemed to see John the Baptist preparing a pathway through
the wilderness for the coming of the Holiest; for like unto
his is this mission of temperance. Clean senses are fitting
vessels for pure affections and lofty thoughts.
Within the outward form I saw, as usual, spiritual significance.
As the bodies of men were becoming weaned
from stimulating drinks, so were their souls beginning to
approach those pure fountains of living water, which refresh
and strengthen, but never intoxicate. The music, too, was
revealed to me in fulness of meaning. Much of it was of
a military character, and cheered onward to combat and to
victory. Everything about war I loathe and detest, except
its music. My heart leaps at the trumpet-call, and marches
with the drum. Because I cannot ever hate it, I know that
it is the utterance of something good, perverted to a ministry
of sin. It is the voice of resistance to evil, of combat
with the false; therefore the brave soul springs forward at
the warlike tone, for in it is heard a call to its appointed
mission. Whoso does not see that genuine life is a battle
and a march, has poorly read his origin and his destiny.
Let the trumpet sound, and the drums roll! Glory to resistance!
for through its agency men become angels. The
instinct awakened by martial music is noble and true; and
therefore its voice will not pass away; but it will cease to
represent war with carnal weapons, and remain a type of
that spiritual combat, whereby the soul is purified. It is
right noble to fight with wickedness and wrong; the mistake
is in supposing that spiritual evil can be overcome by
physical means.
Would that Force were banished to the unholy region,
whence it came, and that men would learn to trust more
fully in the law of kindness. I think of this, every time I
pass a dozing old woman, who, from time immemorial, has
sat behind a fruit stall at the corner of St. Paul's church.
Half the time she is asleep, and the wonder is that any
fruit remains upon her board; but in this wicked city very
many of the boys deposit a cent, as they take an apple; for
they have not the heart to wrong one who trusts them.
A sea-captain of my acquaintance, lately returned from
China, told me that the Americans and English were much
more trusted by the natives, than their own countrymen;
that the fact of belonging to those nations was generally
considered good security in a bargain. I expressed surprise
at this; not supposing the Yankees, or their ancestors,
were peculiarly distinguished for generosity in trade. He
replied, that they were more so in China, than at home;
because, in the absence of adequate laws, and legal penalties,
they had acquired the habit of trusting in each others'
honour and honesty: and this formed a bond so sacred, that
few were willing to break it. I saw deep significance in
the fact.
Speaking of St. Paul's church, near the Astor House, reminds
me of the fault so often found by foreigners with our
light grey stone, as a material for Gothic edifices. Though
this church is not Gothic, I now understand why such buildings
contrast disadvantageously with the dark colored cathedrals
of Europe. St. Paul's has lately been covered
with a cement of dark, reddish-brown sand. Some complain
that it looks “like gingerbread;” but for myself, I
greatly like the depth of colour. Its steeple now stands relieved
against the sky, with a sombre grandeur, which
would be in admirable keeping with the massive proportions
of Gothic architecture. Grey and slate colour appropriately
belong to lighter styles of building; applied to the
tones.
The disagreeables of New-York, I deliberately mean to
keep out of sight, when I write to you. By contemplating
beauty, the character becomes beautiful; and in this wearisome
world, I deem it a duty to speak genial words, and
wear cheerful looks.
Yet, for once, I will depart from this rule, to speak of the
dog-killers. Twelve or fifteen hundred of these animals
have been killed this summer; in the hottest of the weather
at the rate of three hundred a day. The safety of the
city doubtless requires their expulsion; but the manner of
it strikes me as exceedingly cruel and demoralizing. The
poor creatures are knocked down on the pavement, and
beat to death. Sometimes they are horribly maimed, and
run howling and limping away. The company of dog-killers
themselves are a frightful sight, with their bloody
clubs, and spattered garments. I always run from the window
when I hear them; for they remind me of the Reign of
Terror. Whether such brutal scenes do not prepare the
minds of the young to take part in bloody riots and revolutions
is a serious question.
You promised to take my letters as they happened to
come—fanciful, gay, or serious. I am in autumnal mood
to-day, therefore forgive the sobriety of my strain.
| Letters from New York | |