 | CHAPTER VIII. Home as found |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
“First, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa.”
Shakspeare.
The conflagration alluded to, rather than described,
in the proceeding chapter, threw a gloom over the
gaieties of New-York, if that ever could be properly
called gay, which was little more than a strife in prodigality
and parade, and leaves us little more to say
of the events of the winter. Eve regretted very little
the interruption to scenes in which she had found no
pleasure, however much she lamented the cause; and
she and Grace passed the remainder of the season
quietly, cultivating the friendship of such women as
Mrs. Hawker and Mrs. Bloomfield, and devoting hours
to the improvement of their minds and tastes, without
ever again venturing however, within the hallowed
precincts of such rooms as those of Mrs. Legend.
One consequence of a state of rapacious infatuation,
like that which we have just related, is the intensity
of selfishness which smothers all recollection of the
past, and all just anticipations of the future, by condensing
life, with its motives and enjoyments, into the
present moment. Captain Truck, therefore, was soon
forgotten, and the literati, as that worthy seaman had
termed the associates of Mrs. Legend, remained just
as vapid, as conceited, as ignorant, as imitative, as
dependent, and as provincial as ever.
As the season advanced, our heroine began to look
with longings towards the country. The town life of
an American offers little to one accustomed to a town
life in older and more permanently regulated communities;
and Eve was already heartily weary of crowded
and noisy balls, (for a few were still given;) belles,
the struggles of an uninstructed taste, and a representation
by the elegance and convenience of a condition of
society, in which more attention is paid to the fitness
of things.
The American spring is the least pleasant of its four
seasons, its character being truly that of “winter lingering
in the lap of May.” Mr. Effingham, who the
reader will probably suspect, by this time, to be a descendant
of a family of the same name, that we have
had occasion to introduce into another work, had sent
orders to have his country residence prepared for the
reception of our party; and it was with a feeling of delight
that Eve stepped on board a steam-boat to escape
from a town that, while it contains so much that is
worthy of any capital, contains so much more that is
unfit for any place, in order to breathe the pure air,
and to enjoy the tranquil pleasure of the country. Sir
George Templemore had returned from his southern
journey, and made one of the party, by express arrangement.
“Now, Eve,” said Grace Van Cortlandt, as the boat
glided along the wharves, “if it were any person but
you, I should feel confident of having something to
show that would extort admiration.”
“You are safe enough, in that respect, for a more
imposing object in its way, than this very vessel, eye
of mine, never beheld. It is positively the only thing
that deserves the name of magnificent I have yet
seen, since our return,—unless, indeed, it may be magnificent
projects.”
“I am glad, dear coz, there is this one magnificent
object, then, to satisfy a taste so fastidious.”
As Grace's little foot moved, and her voice betrayed
vexation, the whole party smiled; for the whole party,
while it felt the justice of Eve's observation, saw the
real feeling that was at the bottom of her cousin's remark.
Sir George, however, though he could not conceal
from himself the truth of what had been said by
had too much sympathy for the provincial patriotism
of one so young and beautiful, not to come to the rescue.
“You should remember, Miss Van Cortlandt,” he
said, “that Miss Effingham has not had the advantage
yet of seeing the Delaware, Philadelphia, the noble
bays of the south, nor so much that is to be found out
of the single town of New-York.”
“Very true, and I hope yet to see her a sincere penitent
for all her unpatriotic admissions against her own
country. You have seen the Capitol, Sir George Templemore;
is it not, truly, one of the finest edifices of the
world?”
“You will except St. Peter's, surely, my child,” observed
Mr. Effingham, smiling, for he saw that the
baronet was embarrassed to give a ready answer.
“And the Cathedral at Milan,” said Eve, laughing.
“Et le Louvre!” cried Mademoiselle Viefville, who
had some such admiration for every thing Parisian,
as Eve had for every thing American.
“And, most especially, the north-east corner of the
south-west end of the north-west wing of Versailles,”
said John Effingham, in his usual dry manner.
“I see you are all against me,” Grace rejoined,
“but I hope, one day, to be able to ascertain for myself
the comparative merits of things. As nature makes
rivers, I hope the Hudson, at least, will not be found
unworthy of your admiration, gentlemen and ladies.”
“You are safe enough, there, Grace,” observed Mr.
Effingham; “for few rivers, perhaps no river, offers so
great and so pleasing a variety, in so short a distance,
as this.”
It was a lovely, bland morning, in the last week of
May; and the atmosphere was already getting the soft
hues of summer, or assuming the hazy and solemn calm
that renders the season so quiet and soothing, after the
fiercer strife of the elements. Under such a sky, the
wanting in the terrific grandeur of an Alpine nature,
and perhaps disproportioned to the scenery they adorned,
they were bold and peculiar.
The great velocity of the boat added to the charm
of the passage, the scene scarce finding time to pall
on the eye; for, no sooner was one object examined
in its outlines, than it was succeeded by another.
“An extraordinary taste is afflicting this country, in
the way of architecture,” said Mr. Effingham, as they
stood gazing at the eastern shore; “nothing but a Grecian
temple being now deemed a suitable residence
for a man, in these classical times. Yonder is a structure,
for instance, of beautiful proportions, and, at this
distance, apparently of a precious material, and yet it
seems better suited to heathen worship than to domestic
comfort.”
“The malady has infected the whole nation,” returned
his cousin, “like the spirit of speculation. We
are passing from one extreme to the other, in this, as
in other things. One such temple, well placed in a
wood, might be a pleasant object enough, but to see a
river lined with them, with children trundling hoops
before their doors, beef carried into their kitchens, and
smoke issuing, moreover, from those unclassical objects
chimnies, is too much even of a high taste; one
might as well live in a fever. Mr. Aristabulus Bragg,
who is a wag in his way, informs me that there is one
town in the interior that has actually a market-house
on the plan of the Parthenon!”
“Il Capo di Bove would be a more suitable model
for such a structure,” said Eve, smiling. “But I think
I have heard that the classical taste of our architects
is any thing but rigid.”
“This was the case, rather than is,” returned John
Effingham, “as witness all these temples. The country
has made a quick and a great pas, en avant, in the
way of the fine arts, and the fact shows what might
The stranger who comes among us is apt to
hold the art of the nation cheap, but, as all things are
comparative, let him inquire into its state ten years
since, and look at it to-day. The fault just now, is
perhaps to consult the books too rigidly, and to trust
too little to invention; for no architecture, and especially
no domestic architecture, can ever be above serious
reproach, until climate, the uses of the edifice, and
the situation, are respected as leading considerations.
Nothing can be uglier, per se, than a Swiss cottage, or
any thing more beautiful under its precise circumstances.
As regards these mushroom temples, which
are the offspring of Mammon, let them be dedicated
to whom they may, I should exactly reverse the opinion,
and say, that while nothing can be much more
beautiful, per se, nothing can be in worse taste, than to
put them where they are.”
“We shall have an opportunity of seeing what Mr.
John Effingham can do in the way of architecture,”
said Grace, who loved to revenge some of her fancied
wrongs, by turning the tables on her assailant, “for I
understand he has been improving on the original
labours of that notorious Palladio, Master Hiram Doolittle!”
The whole party laughed, and every eye was turned
on the gentleman alluded to, expecting his answer.
“You will remember, good people,” answered the
accused by implication, “that my plans were handed
over to me from my great predecessor, and that they
were originally of the composite order. If, therefore,
the house should turn out to be a little complex and
mixed, you will do me the justice to remember this
important fact. At all events, I have consulted comfort;
and that I would maintain, in the face of Vitruvius
himself, is a sine quâ non in domestic architecture.”
“I took a run into Connecticut the other day,” said
Haven, I saw the commencement of a taste that bids
fair to make a most remarkable town. It is true, you
cannot expect structures of much pretension in the
way of cost and magnitude in this country, but, so far
as fitness and forms are concerned, if what I hear be
true, and the next fifty years do as much in proportion
for that little city, as I understand has been done in the
last five, it will be altogether a wonder in its way.
There are some abortions, it is true, but there are also
some little jewels.”
The baronet was rewarded for this opinion, by a
smile from Grace, and the conversation changed. As
the boat approached the mountains, Eve became excited,
a very American state of the system by the way,
and Grace still more anxious.
“The view of that bluff is Italian;” said our heroine,
pointing down the river at a noble headland of
rock, that loomed grandly in the soft haze of the tranquil
atmosphere. “One seldom sees a finer or a softer
outline on the shores of the Mediterranean itself.”
“But the Highlands, Eve!” whispered the uneasy
Grace. “We are entering the mountains.”
The river narrowed suddenly, and the scenery became
bolder, but neither Eve nor her father expressed
the rapture that Grace expected.
“I must confess, Jack,” said the mild, thoughtful Mr.
Effingham, “that these rocks strike my eyes as much
less imposing than formerly. The passage is fine, beyond
question, but it is hardly grand scenery.”
“You never uttered a juster opinion, Ned, though
after your eye loses some of the forms of the Swiss
and Italian lakes, and of the shores of Italy, you will
think better of these. The Highlands are remarkable
for their surprises, rather than for their grandeur,
as we shall presently see. As to the latter, it is an
affair of feet and inches, and is capable of arithmetical
demonstration. We have often been on lakes, beneath
height; whereas, here, the greatest elevation is materially
less than two. But, Sir George Templemore,
and you, Miss Effingham, do me the favour to combine
your cunning, and tell me whence this stream
cometh, and whither we are to go?”
The boat had now approached a point where the
river was narrowed to a width not much exceeding a
quarter of a mile, and in the direction in which it was
steering, the water seemed to become still more contracted
until they were lost in a sort of bay, that appeared
to be closed by high hills, through which, however,
there were traces of something like a passage.
“The land in that direction looks as if it had a ravine-like
entrance,” said the baronet; “and yet it is
scarcely possible that a stream like this can flow
there!”
“If the Hudson truly passes through those mountains,”
said Eve, “I will concede all in its favour that
you can ask, Grace.”
“Where else can it pass?” demanded Grace, exultingly.
“Sure enough—I see no other place, and that seems
insufficient.”
The two strangers to the river now looked curiously
around them, in every direction. Behind them was a
broad and lake-like basin, through which they had just
passed; on the left, a barrier of precipitous hills, the
elevation of which was scarcely less than a thousand
feet; on their right, a high but broken country, studded
with villas, farm-houses, and hamlets; and in their
front the deep but equivocal bay mentioned.
“I see no escape!” cried the baronet, gaily, “unless
indeed, it be by returning.”
A sudden and broad sheer of the boat caused him
to turn to the left, and then they whirled round an
angle of the precipice, and found themselves in a reach
of the river, between steep declivities, running at right
angles to their former course.
“This is one of the surprises of which I spoke,”
said John Effingham, “and which render the highlands
so unique; for, while the Rhine is very sinuous, it has
nothing like this.”
The other travellers agreed in extolling this and
many similar features of the scenery, and Grace was
delighted; for, warm-hearted, affectionate, and true,
Grace loved her country like a relative or a friend,
and took an honest pride in hearing its praises. The
patriotism of Eve, if a word of a meaning so lofty
can be applied to feelings of this nature, was more
discriminating from necessity, her tastes having been
formed in a higher school, and her means of comparison
being so much more ample. At West Point they
stopped for the night, and here every body was in
honest raptures; Grace, who had often visited the
place before, being actually the least so of the whole
party.
“Now, Eve, I know that you do love your country,”
she said, as she slipped an arm affectionately through
that of her cousin. “This is feeling and speaking like
an American girl, and as Eve Effingham should!”
Eve laughed, but she had discovered that the provincial
feeling was so strong in Grace, that its discussion
would probably do no good. She dwelt, therefore,
with sincere eloquence on the beauties of the
place, and for the first time since they had met, her
cousin felt as if there was no longer any point of dissension
between them.
The following morning was the first of June, and it
was another of those drowsy, dreamy days, that so
much aid a landscape. The party embarked in the
first boat that came up, and as they entered Newburgh
bay, the triumph of the river was established. This is
a spot, in sooth, that has few equals in any region,
though Eve still insisted that the excellence of the
view was in its softness rather than in its grandeur.
The country-houses, or boxes, for few could claim to
numerous. The heights around the town of Newburgh,
in particular, were fairly dotted with them, though Mr.
Effingham shook his head as he saw one Grecian temple
appear after another.
“As we recede from the influence of the vulgar
architects,” he said, “we find imitation taking the
place of instruction. Many of these buildings are
obviously disproportioned, and then, like vulgar pretension
of any sort, Grecian architecture produces less
pleasure than even Dutch.”
“I am surprised at discovering how little of a Dutch
character remains in this state,” said the baronet; “I
can scarcely trace that people in any thing, and yet, I
believe, they had the moulding of your society, having
carried the colony through its infancy.”
“When you know us better, you will be surprised
at discovering how little of any thing remains a
dozen years,” returned John Effingham. “Our towns
pass away in generations like their people, and even
the names of a place undergo periodical mutations, as
well as every thing else. It is getting to be a predominant
feeling in the American nature, I fear, to
love change.”
“But, cousin Jack, do you not overlook causes, in
your censure. That a nation advancing as fast as this
in wealth and numbers, should desire better structures
than its fathers had either the means or the taste to
build, and that names should change with persons, are
both things quite in rule.”
“All very true, though it does not account for the
peculiarity I mean. Take Templeton, for instance;
this little place has not essentially increased in numbers,
within my memory, and yet fully one-half its
names are new. When he reaches his own home, your
father will not know even the names of one-half his
neighbours. Not only will he meet with new faces,
but he will find new feelings, new opinions in the place
thing but the present moment, and even those who may
have better feelings, and a wish to cherish all that belongs
to the holier sentiments of man, afraid to utter
them, lest they meet with no sympathy.”
“No cats, as Mr. Bragg would say.”
“Jack is one who never paints en beau,” said Mr.
Effingham. “I should be very sorry to believe that a
dozen short years can have made all these essential
changes in my neighbourhood.”
“A dozen years, Ned! You name an age. Speak
of three or four, if you wish to find any thing in
America where you left it! The whole country is in
such a constant state of mutation, that I can only
liken it to that game of children, in which as one quits
his corner, another runs into it, and he that finds no
corner to get into, is the laughing-stock of the others.
Fancy that dwelling the residence of one man from
childhood to old age; let him then quit it for a year
or two, and on his return he would find another in
possession, who would treat him as an impertinent
intruder, because he had been absent two years. An
American `always,' in the way of usages, extends no
further back than eighteen months. In short, every
thing is condensed into the present moment; and services,
character, for evil as well as good unhappily,
and all other things, cease to have weight, except as
they influence the interests of the day.”
“This is the colouring of a professed cynic,” observed
Mr. Effingham, smiling.
“But the law, Mr. John Effingham,” eagerly inquired
the baronet—“surely the law would not permit
a stranger to intrude in this manner on the rights of
an owner.”
“The law-books would do him that friendly office,
perhaps, but what is a precept in the face of practices
so ruthless. `Les absents ont toujours tort,' is a maxim
of peculiar application in America.”
“Property is as secure in this country as in any
other, Sir George; and you will make allowances for
the humours of the present annotator.”
“Well, well, Ned; I hope you will find every thing
couleur de rose, as you appear to expect. You will get
quiet possession of your house, it is true, for I have
put a Cerberus in it, that is quite equal to his task,
difficult as it may be, and who has quite as much
relish for a bill of costs, as any squatter can have for
a trespass; but without some such guardian of your
rights, I would not answer for it, that you would not
be compelled to sleep in the high-way.”
“I trust Sir George Templemore knows how to
make allowances for Mr. John Effingham's pictures,”
cried Grace, unable to refrain from expressing her
discontent any longer.
A laugh succeeded, and the beauties of the river again
attracted their attention. As the boat continued to ascend,
Mr. Effingham triumphantly affirmed that the
appearance of things more than equalled his expectations,
while both Eve and the baronet declared that a
succession of lovelier landscapes could hardly be presented
to the eye.
“Whited sepulchres!” muttered John Effingham—
“all outside. Wait until you get a view of the deformity
within.”
As the boat approached Albany, Eve expressed her
satisfaction in still stronger terms; and Grace was
made perfectly happy, by hearing her and Sir George
declare that the place entirely exceeded their expectations.
“I am glad to find, Eve, that you are so fast recovering
your American feelings,” said her beautiful cousin,
after one of those expressions of agreeable disappointment,
as they were seated at a late dinner, in an inn.
“You have at last found words to praise the exterior
of Albany; and I hope, by the time we return, you
will be disposed to see New-York with different eyes.”
“I expected to see a capital in New-York, Grace,
and in this I have been grievously disappointed. Instead
of finding the tastes, tone, conveniences, architecture,
streets, churches, shops, and society of a capital,
I found a huge expansion of common-place things,
a commercial town, and the most mixed and the least
regulated society, that I had ever met with. Expecting
so much, where so little was found, disappointment
was natural. But in Albany, although a political capital,
I knew the nature of the government too well, to
expect more than a provincial town; and in this
respect, I have found one much above the level of
similar places in other parts of the world. I acknowledge
that Albany has as much exceeded my expectations
in one sense, as New-York has fallen short of
them in another.”
“In this simple fact, Sir George Templemore,” said
Mr. Effingham, “you may read the real condition of
the country. In all that requires something more than
usual, a deficiency; in all that is deemed an average,
better than common. The tendency is to raise every
thing that is elsewhere degraded to a respectable
height, when there commences an attraction of gravitation
that draws all towards the centre; a little closer
too, than could be wished perhaps.”
“Ay, ay, Ned; this is very pretty, with your attractions
and gravitations; but wait and judge for yourself
of this average, of which you now speak so complacently.
“Nay, John, I borrowed the image from you; if it
be not accurate, I shall hold you responsible for its
defects.”
“They tell me,” said Eve, “that all American villages
are the towns in miniature; children dressed in
hoops and wigs. Is this so, Grace?”
“A little; there is too much desire to imitate the
towns, perhaps, and possibly too little feeling for country
life.”
“This is a very natural consequence, after all, of
people's living entirely in such places,” observed Sir
George Templemore. “One sees much of this on the
continent of Europe, because the country population
is purely a country population; and less of it in England,
perhaps, because those who are at the head of
society, consider town and country as very distinct
things.”
“La campagne est vraiment délicieuse en Amerique,”
exclaimed Mademoiselle Viefville, in whose
eyes the whole country was little more than campagne.
The next morning, our travellers proceeded by the
way of Schenectady, whence they ascended the beautiful
valley of the Mohawk, by means of a canal-boat,
the cars that now rattle along its length not having
commenced their active flights, at that time. With the
scenery, every one was delighted; for while it differed
essentially from that the party had passed through the
previous day, it was scarcely less beautiful.
At a point where the necessary route diverged from
the direction of the canal, carriages of Mr. Effingham's
were in readiness to receive the travellers, and
here they were also favoured by the presence of Mr.
Bragg, who fancied such an attention might be agreeable
to the young ladies, as well as to his employer.
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