 | Letters from New York |  |
LETTER XXX.
Oh, who that has not been shut up in the great prison-cell
of a city, and made to drink of its brackish springs,
can estimate the blessings of the Croton Aqueduct? clean,
sweet, abundant water! Well might they bring it thirty
miles under-ground, and usher it into the city with roaring
cannon, sonorous bells, waving flags, floral canopies, and a
loud chorus of song!
I shall never forget my sensations when I first looked
upon the Fountains. My soul jumped, and clapped its
hands, rejoicing in exceeding beauty. I am a novice, and
easily made wild by the play of graceful forms; but those
accustomed to the splendid displays of France and Italy,
say the world offers nothing to equal the magnificence of
the New-York jets. There is such a head of water, that
it throws the column sixty feet into the air, and drops it
into the basin in a shower of diamonds. The one in the
Park, opposite the Astor house, consists of a large central
pipe, with eighteen subordinate jets in a basin a hundred
feet broad. By shifting the plate on the conduit pipe, these
fountains can be made to assume various shapes: The
Maid of the Mist, the Croton Plume, the Vase, the Dome,
the Bouquet, the Sheaf of Wheat, and the Weeping-willow.
As the sun shone on the sparkling drops, through mist and
feathery foam, rainbows glimmered at the sides, as if they
came to celebrate a marriage between Spirits of Light and
Water Nymphs.
The fountain in Union Park is smaller, but scarcely less
beautiful. It is a weeping willow of crystal drops; but one
can see that it weeps for joy. Now it leaps and sports as
gracefully as Undine in her wildest moods, and then sinks
into the vase under a veil of woven pearl, like the undulating
farewell courtesy of her fluid relations. On the
evening of the great Croton celebration, they illuminated
this Fountain with coloured fireworks, kindling the cloud of
mist with many-coloured gems; as if the Water Spirits had
had another wedding with Fairies of the Diamond Mines.
I went out to Harlaem, the other day, to see the great
jet of water, which there rises a hundred feet into the air,
and falls through a belt of rainbows. Water will rise to its
level, as surely as the morality of a nation, or a sect, rises
to its idea of God. They to whom God is the Almighty,
rather than the Heavenly Father, do not understand that the
highest ideal of Justice is perfect and universal Love.
They cannot perceive this: for both spiritually and naturally
water never rises above the level of its source. But how
sublimely it rushes upward to find its level! As I gazed
in loving wonder on that beautiful column, it seemed to me
a fitting type of those pure, free spirits, who, at the smallest
opening, spring upward to the highest, revealing to all
mankind the true level of the religious idea of their age.
But, alas, here is the stern old conflict between Necessity
and Freewill. The column, by the law of its being,
would rise quite to the level of its source; but as the impulse,
that sent it forth in such glorious majesty, expends
itself, the lateral pressure overpowers the leaping waters,
and sends them downward in tears.
If we had a tube high enough to defend the struggling
water from surrounding pressure, it would rise to its level.
Will society ever be so constructed as to enable us to do
this spiritually? It must be so, before, “Holiness to the
Lord,” is written on the bells of the horses.
I told my beloved friends, as we stood gazing on that
magnificent jet of water, that its grandeur and its gracefulness
revealed much, and promised more. They smiled,
and reminded me that it was a canon of criticism, laid
down by Blair, never to liken the natural to the spiritual.
I have no dispute with those who let down an iron-barred
portcullis between matter and spirit. The winged soul
flies over, and sees the whole as one fair region, golden
with the same sunlight, fresh with the same breezes from
heaven.
But I must not offer sybilline leaves in the market. Who
will buy them? The question shows that my spirit likewise
feels the lateral pressure. Would I could turn downward
as gracefully as the waters! uniting the upward and the
downward tendency in an arch so beautiful, and every drop
sparkling as it falls into the common reservoir, whence
future fountains shall gush in perpetual beauty.
I am again violating Blair's injunction. His iron gate
rolls away like a stage curtain, and lo, the whole region of
spiritual progress opens in glorious perspective! How
shall I get back to the actual, and stay there? If the doctrine
of transmigration of souls were true, I should assuredly
pass into a bird of Paradise, which forever floats in
the air, or if it touches the earth for a moment, is impatient
to soar again.
Strange material this for a reformer! And I tell you
plainly that reforming work lies around me like “the ring
of Necessity,” and ever and anon Freewill bites at the
circle. But this nesessity is only another name for conscience;
and that is the voice of God. I would not unchain
Freewill, if I could; for if I did, the planets would
fly out of their places; for they, too, in their far off splendour,
are linked with every fragment we perceive of truth
and duty.
But there is a false necessity with which we industriously
whose iron never changes to ductile gold. This is the
pressure of public opinion; the intolerable restraint of
conventional forms. Under this despotic influence, men
and women check their best impulses, suppress their noblest
feelings, conceal their highest thoughts. Each longs
for full communion with other souls, but dares not give
utterance to its yearnings. What hinders? The fear of
what Mrs. Smith, or Mrs. Clark, will say; or the frown of
some sect; or the anathema of some synod; or the fashion
of some clique; or the laugh of some club; or the misrepresentation
of some political party. Oh, thou foolish
soul! Thou art afraid of thy neighbour, and knowest not
that he is equally afraid of thee. He has bound thy hands,
and thou hast fettered his feet. It were wise for both to snap
the imaginary bonds, and walk onward unshackled. If thy
heart yearns for love, be loving; if thou wouldst free mankind,
be free; if thou wouldst have a brother frank to thee,
be frank to him.
In other men, sleeping but never dead,
Will rise in majesty to meet thine own.”
“But what will people say?”
Why does it concern thee what they say? Thy life is
not in their hands. They can give thee nothing of real
value, nor take from thee anything that is worth the having.
Satan may promise thee all the kingdoms of the earth, but
he has not an acre of it to give. He may offer much, as the
price of his worship, but there is a flaw in all his title deeds.
Eternal and sure is the promise, “Blessed are the meek,
for they shall inherit the earth.” Only have faith in this,
and thou wilt live high above the rewards and punishments
of that spectral giant, which men call Society.
“But I shall be misunderstood—misrepresented.”
And what if thou art? They who throw stones at what
is above them, receive the missiles back again, by the law
of gravity; and lucky are they, if they bruise not their
own faces.
Would that I could persuade all who read this to be
truthful and free; to say what they think, and act what
they feel; to cast from them, like ropes of sand, all fear of
sects, and parties, and clans, and classes. Most earnestly
do I pray to be bound only by my own conscience, in that
circle of duties, which widens ever, till it enfolds all being,
and touches the throne of God.
What is there of joyful freedom in our social intercourse?
We meet to see each other; and not a peep do we get under
the thick, stifling veil which each carries about him.
We visit to enjoy ourselves; and our host takes away all
our freedom, while we destroy his own. If the host wishes
to work or ride, he dare not, lest it seem unpolite to the
guest; if the guest wishes to read or sleep, he dare not,
lest it seem unpolite to the host; so they both remain
slaves, and feel it a relief to part company. A few individuals,
mostly in foreign lands, arrange this matter with
wiser freedom. If a visiter arrives, they say, “I am busy
to-day; but if you wish to ride, there are horse and saddle
in the stable; if you wish to read, there are books in the
library; if you are inclined to music, flute and piano are in
the parlour; if you want to work, the men are raking hay
in the fields; if you want to romp, the children are at play in
the court; if you want to talk with me, I can be with you
at such an hour. Go when you please, and while you stay
do as you please.”
At some houses in Florence, large parties meet, without
invitation, and with the slightest preparation. It is understood
that on some particular evening of the week, a lady
or gentleman always receive their friends. In one room are
in a third, music; couples are ensconced in
some sheltered alcove, or groups dotted about the rooms in
mirthful or serious conversation. No one is required to
speak to his host, either entering or departing. Lemonade
and baskets of fruit stand here and there on the side-tables,
that all may take who like; but eating, which constitutes
so large a part of all American entertainments, is a slight
and almost unnoticed incident in these festivals of intellect
and taste. Wouldst thou like to see such social freedom
introduced here? Then do it. But the first step must
be complete indifference to Mrs. Smith's assertion, that you
were mean enough to offer only one kind of cake to your
company, and to put less shortening in the under crust of
your pies than the upper. Let Mrs. Smith talk according
to her gifts; be thou assured that all living souls love freedom
better than cake or under-crust.
Of perfect social freedom I never knew but one instance.
Doctor H—of Boston, coming home to dine one day,
found a very bright-looking handsome mulatto on the steps,
apparently about seven or eight years old. As he opened
the door, the boy glided in, as if it were his home. “What
do you want?” said the doctor. The child looked up with
smiling confidence, and answered, “I am a little boy that
run away from Providence; and I want some dinner; and
I thought maybe you would give me some.” His radiant
face, and child-like freedom operated like a charm. He
had a good dinner, and remained several days, becoming
more and more the pet of the whole household. He said
he had been cruelly treated by somebody in Providence,
and had run away; but the people he described could not
be found. The doctor thought it would not do to have him
growing up in idleness, and he tried to find a place where
he could run of errands, clean knives, &c., for his living.
An hour after this was mentioned, the boy was missing.
city, sitting on a door-step at dinner-time. When the door
opened, he walked in, smiling, and said, “I am a little boy
that run away from Providence; and I want some dinner,
and I thought maybe you would give me some.” He was
not mistaken this time either. The heart that trusted so
completely received a cordial welcome. After a time, it
was again proposed to find some place at service; and
straightway this human butterfly was off, no one knew
whither.
For several months no more was heard of him. But one
bright winter day, his first benefactor found him seated on
the steps of a house in Beacon-street. “Why, Tom, where
did you come from?” said he. “I came from Philadelphia.”
“How upon earth did you get there?” “I heard
folks talk about New-York, and I thought I should like to
see it. So I went on board a steamboat; and when it put
off, the captain asked me who I was; and I told him that I
was a little boy that run away from Providence, and I wanted
to go to New-York, but I hadn't any money. `You little
rascal,' says he, `I'll throw you overboard.' `I don't
believe you will,' said I; and he didn't. I told him I was
hungry, and he gave me something to eat, and made up a
nice little bed for me. When I got to New-York, I went
and sat down on a door-step; and when the gentleman came
home to dinner, I went in, and told him that I was a little
boy that run away from Providence, and I was hungry.
So they gave me something to eat, and made up a nice little
bed for me, and let me stay there. But I wanted to see
Philadelphia; so I went into a steamboat; and when they
asked me who I was, I told them that I was a little boy that
run away from Providence. They said I had no business
there, but they gave me an orange. When I got to Philadelphia,
I sat down on a door-step, and when the gentleman
came home to dinner, I told him I was a little boy that run
give me something to eat. So they gave me a good dinner,
and made me up a nice little bed. Then I wanted to
come back to Boston; and everybody gave me something
to eat, and made me up a nice little bed. And I sat down
on this door-step, and when the lady asked me what I wanted,
I told her I was a little boy that run away from Providence,
and I was hungry. So she gave me something to
eat, and made me up a nice little bed; and I stay here, and
do her errands sometimes. Every body is very good to
me, and I like everybody.”
He looked up with the most sunny gayety, and striking
his hoop as he spoke, went down the street like an arrow.
He disappeared soon after, probably in quest of new adventures.
I have never heard of him since; and sometimes
a painful fear passes through my mind that the kidnappers,
prowling about all our large towns, have carried him into
slavery.
The story had a charm for me, for two reasons. I was
delighted with the artless freedom of the winning, wayward
child; and still more did I rejoice in the perpetual kindness,
which everywhere gave it such friendly greeting.
Oh, if we would but dare to throw ourselves on each other's
hearts, how the image of heaven would be reflected all over
the face of this earth, as the clear blue sky lies mirrored in
the waters.
| Letters from New York | |