 | Randolph |  |
SARAH TO JULIET.
I promised to continue my journal. Lo! here it is—I
copy it, just as it was written, with all my pencil annotations,
on the road.
Portsmouth ferry—What a beautiful river!—and
what multitudes of fish. The name, too is remarkable,
and would indicate a strange affinity, between the Latin,
and the Indian tongues. Wrong—the Latin is a language,
the Indian a tongue—a tongue is a dialect—a dialect
is a—it is called Piscataqua—that was the original
name too. The Indians say, that, it is, in their language,
the water of fish. It is so in Latin. But there are other instances,
I am told, of the same kind. The current is very
strong; and we cross in a wide curve. There is a
navy-yard in sight, where, I am told they are building
some three-deckers. We are now in old Massachusetts
again. This town is Wells. But what can I say of it?
Nothing.
Kennebunk.—A pretty place, with an air of bustle and
impatience, that pleases me. The tavern keeper, with
his surly good humour, good face, and gouty feet, is quite
an oddity. On the whole, there is an air of picturesqueness
here, that strikes me.
Saco.—We are now approaching the capital of the new
state, that is to be. This is a marvellous, neat, snug cluster
of habitations. The houses are of board, (frame, as we
call them) wooden they are called here—and painted,
chiefly white;which has a lively, bright air, when contrasted
with the deep green of the turf and trees about, and
the clear blue sky. There is, I am told, a good deal of fashion
and gentility here; and I dare say that it is true. For
I have always observed that, in these little towns, there
is (bating their scandal, which is less in quantity, and
sharper in quality, than with us)—a general fondness
for convivial, sociable intercourse. Having more leisure
—and being few in number, they huddle together, without
much etiquette; and therefore, soon learn, all but the
parade of fashion, by learning to be agreeable. Have
you ever been in a country ball room? Did you never observe
men, and that of the women? With the exception of the
village lawyer, a doctor perhaps, and some young shopkeeper,
the beaux are always rough-hewn, awkward creatures,
who scarcely know how to sit in their chair;—
and dance, generally, in purple gloves, that discharge
their dye, like a steeped poppy,—so stiff in the fingers too,
that few can succeed in shutting the hand. They are
like an iron gauntlet, without joints;—while the women are
really well bred and almost fashionable. Whence is
the difference? I have asked Frank. He is running
over at the eyes, with pleasure;—half crazy, I believe,
with one adventure after another. He says that there
is less difference in the employments, of women, than in
those of men. The woman of the village, and the lady
of the city, spend their time chiefly in the house.—
But with the men, it is widely different. In the country
they are exposed night and day, to toil, and wind and
rain. Voila la difference.
This has been a great place for the lumber trade.—
You know what that is. It is the place of a hundred
mills;—but there has just happened a tremendous rise of
the river. It is all white and roaring, at this moment—
and the bridges are all carried away—and many mills;
and, as far as the eye can see, the water is covered with
pine logs, tumbling and pitching about, in their way to
the ocean, with here and there, a little boat dancing like
a cork in the foam,—carrying some men, who are busy
in picking up their stray lumber. It is very perilous, I
am told—Ah!—
At that moment, a boat upset, in sight of my window;
but no lives are lost. The poor creatures are just landed,
almost under where I sit. Our house is full, uncomfortably
full; for, all the travellers are stopped—each way;
and, it is with the greatest difficulty that the mail is sent
across. Such swells and inundations are called freshets.
They are caused by great rains—in the up country; melting
of the snows; and breaking up of the ice.
Portland—Well—here we are, at last, in one of
the most delightful places, I verily believe, to be
found in the world. The weather is charming; and
we have just returned from a walk, to what they call
the Observatory. It is a tall red tower, built of pine, to
be sure, with a fine telescope at the top. It stands on a
high hill, from which you look down upon the coloured
roofs of innumerable houses, mingled with innumerable
trees. It is a beautiful fashion they have here, of planting
trees, along the streets, and putting every house into a bed
of foliage. It cools the air, and consumes that part of it
which is pernicious to animal life; purifies it; gives
shadow and beauty to the whole town; and has the pretty
effect of making it appear three times as large as it
is. Portland is quite an amphitheatre, from the water.
There is a spacious bay in front of us—the bluest water
in the world—all covered over with little islets, that
look like spots of green turf; and all along the horizon, on
one side, is a line of irregular green—like surging emerald,
over which the white dazzling spray dashes, incessantly;
it is like an embankment of moss—drifting up.
There is a light-house—and there are two neatly constructed
forts. Just behind it, is another, that was
built during our revolutionary war. Before us, on the
hill, a heavy, but ruinous battery, bearing evident marks
of having been visited by the enemy, in other days; the
guns are broken and dismounted, and the intrenchments
levelled. Just below, however, almost on a level with the
water, is a formidable battery, recently constructed, in
consequence, I am told, of a threat made by the British
commander on the station, to enter, and cut out the Enterprize
and Boxer; for, it was into this port, that she
brought her prize, says a gentleman that is with us, a
fidgetty, active, good natured, good-for-nothing sort of
a man, as I am used to call just such another one of your
acquaintance, to whom the Emperour Alexander once sent
a ring: O, by the way, did you ever hear the reason? It
was admirable;—a genuine “yankee trick.” He first
sent the Emperour a copy of the life of the Czar Alexander
of Russia, magnificently bound, written and printed in
dollars. In return for which, could the Emperour do less?
The Emperour sent him a ring, about the size of a shoe
buckle, in which a couple of hundred bits of broken diamonds,
are so managed, as to dazzle and blind many a
beautiful pair of eyes, that have attempted to count them.
Gracious! who knows but the Emperour may have had
that very ring upon his imperial finger---taken snuff in
it, perhaps!---O,---it reminded me of Henry fourth,
and his turnip,---so good a bargain. But let me return,
if I can, to the subject. Our guide was amazingly like
him---extremely polite, on account of our appearance, I
suppose---for, while he was with us, he appeared neither
to hear nor see any body else. He had been every where;
and seen every thing; and talked incessantly, with his
hat in his hand. He was the first on board of the Boxer,
after the battle. It was fought, almost within sight of
him. Her deck was covered with blood and brains---the
scuppers were running yet; and he saw two men shake
hands, who had been aiming and firing at each other, for
twenty minutes, during the battle. Each had killed or
wounded every body about the other; and the last shot
that was fired, struck a man in the mouth that stood by
the side of him. The mast was full of balls, too. “But
how did you manage to fire so much faster than I?” said
the Briton. “I'll tell you,” said the American. “O, it was
a neat thing;—my mess mate, in the fore-top, was
wounded—so he lay down, and bit off the ends of the
cartrages; and primed for me, while I loaded.”
This has been a place of great busines; but a series of
misfortunes and disorders, had reduced it, exceedingly.
Of late, it has taken a new start; a monkish superstition
has given way to the rational dominion of festivity; business
has a wakened; rash and adventurous speculation is
done with; and things have settled down, into a substantial
and healthful tranquillity. People are contented now,
with moderate and certain profits, in their business; and
there is an air of comfort and good sense about them,
that I love to meet with. Some religious factions have
existed, they say—and I am promised an introduction to[1]
creature, with a heart overflowing in benevolence and
sincerity; the other, equally sincere, but more ambitious,
and tremendously austere. The last prevailed for a term,
and darkened all the habitations of enjoyment. But the
reign of the other is now established; and things go on
pleasantly, rationally, and with a sufficient degree of
solemnity, even for a religious people.
This town was burnt, during the revolution, in a most
cruel, and wanton manner, by a wretch, whose name they
will not pronounce, even in execration, lest he should be
remembered; and I have just trodden upon the ground,
where Sullivan says that a sort of Indian battle was
once fought, many years before the Revolution.
Monday Evening.—I have been unable to write till
now. The women are very beautiful here; and some
singularly intelligent—but the men—they are so---so. I
speak of the young men; for, with two or three exceptions,
they have proved a very tame, insipid, spiritless
set to me. They affect to admire me; but there is no
character in their admiration. I had rather have a
blunt fellow wring my hand, till the blood spirts out of the
nail---in sincerity, than listen, forever, to the chattering
of these magpies, however pleased they may really
be with me. But I lately spent an evening here in a
society of women, who would have done honour, to any
city in the world. Indeed, I never saw so many truly
fine women assembled together before. I saw a great
deal of plain unaffected good sense; and really very little
pretension, or prettiness, or affectation.—It is true, that
they look much younger to a southern eye, than they
really are; for, a woman of two or three and twenty, here,
looks more fresh and youthful, than many of sixteen or
seventeen with us. And I have made an acquaintance
with one who astonished me, by telling her age, the moment
that I alluded to her appearance, without the
slightest expression, either of concern or candour. She
was twenty-seven!—Juliet!—she does not look so old as
your humble servant. Twenty-seven!—upon my word,
I have a prodigious fancy to know, how I shall feel and
look when I am twenty-seven.
Saturday we had a sort of a water party, to see the
forts—and eat chowder. That is no laughing matter,
here, I assure you. A large fish is caught, if possible;—
if not, many small ones—and soused in, head and ears,
into a large kettle of water,—into which, biscuit, and
herbs, and one thing and another are put, until the whole
makes (with a plenty of pepper) a thick, indescribable
dish, which I really found quite palatable. This, you will
observe, is cooked in the open air—and by the beaux,
with whom it is a matter of no little jealousy and competition.
We had some tolerable singing—and were
politely treated, at the forts—but we were well nigh getting
most nobly ducked, if not something worse, on our
disembarkation; and returned, drenched, wet, and cold,
and weary. But that is a part of the amusement. It would
hardly be thought a water-party, else. Frank is half
frantick. The admiration of the women, by the way,
is not very equivocally expressed;—but that we must
forget, when we recollect that the males have all
burrowed abroad—or scampered off; and that a good fellow
is no light matter among such a multitude of unmarried
women.—But, Frank says, he would not mind
a sleigh-ride in such company! You, have heard him describe
one that he had—a ball—cold rooms—cold feet—
cold supper—cold sickness at the stomach—cold giddiness
of the head—returning late—no fire—and going into a
bed, cold as a snow drift, with feet—feeling as if they
belonged to—anybody but the owner.
Bath—Brunswick.—We are now at Bath. We passed
through several pleasant places on our route; the last
of which was Brunswick. Here is the Bowdoin College;
a very respectable institution. I met a Mr. Cleveland
there, who, Frank says, is a man of uncommon science,
as a mineralogist, geologist, and conchologist—(I believe
these are the names;)—that he has published a
book, which is the established text book, in the science,
at some of the universities of Europe. I liked the man.
His manner was plain and unpretending. He showed
us a respectable cabinet, and some decent pictures;—in
return for which, happening to hear him ask Frank, if
very adroitly, I assure you, some of my scholarship. I
begged, modestly, like the red coat, before Pope, (for, I
confess, I thought of him, at the time,) to be permitted
to look at the passage. I was able to explain it. And,
I thought, if ever the poor man had kissed any woman
but his wife, that he would have jumped into my arms.
His dark, manly eyes, sparkled fire. He was a beginner,
he said—and had never heard it pronounced. I read
two or three sentences—and we parted. What should
you say, to my learning chymistry? I assure you, that it is
considered, here, quite a common thing, for a lady. Mr.
C. has made it popular and fashionable;—he is an admirable
lecturer, and lectures every season, to ladies. This
town is built on a perfect level—and is remarkable, I
dare say, for nothing. There are a great number of saw
mills—some students—plenty of pigeons; and, what they
call, huckleberries—(whortleberries, I suppose.)
Bath is a small, but very pleasant town. I am quite
pleased with it. Here lives the brother of our Rufus
King; an ambitious, strong-minded, awkward, unprincipled,
ignorant man, with considerable talent for intrigue—and
military talent enough, to construct a redoubt,
lately, of pine-timber—the splinters of which,
when struck by a ball, would infallibly have done ten
times the mischief, that the ball would, if it struck a
whole platoon. So, says a mischievous fellow, here, who
seems to delight in caricaturing, with a great air of
pleasantry, whatever passes through his mind.
Wiscasset.—Here we are, at last, half dead with fatigue,
over the vilest road in the world. With this little
place, I am delighted. I shall never think of it, but with affection.
I am greeted and welcomed here, with that cordiality,
which we give to relations. I shall stay some
days here.
Thursday.—I am about to depart. I have made some
pleasant acquaintances; among others, a clergyman now
here on a visit;—a very extraordinary man. He is settled
in Bath; but they are about to lose him, as he cannot
make up his mind to downright starvation. He is a
lady here, too—a Miss R—, with whom I should
be proud and pleased to renew my acquaintance. But
how unlikely it is!—alas, my dear Juliet, it is a melancholy
thought—to part smilingly, and forever!---I cannot
bear it. It were better, I think sometimes, that we had
never met. I have found a sweet little creature here, too;
who, I am afraid, is about to be married. I shall never
forget Wiscasset, or its hearty, hospitable, intelligent,
and polite people.
Waterville.--“The pleasantest village in the world!”
said Frank, the moment that we entered it. We are now
within eighty miles, I am told, of Quebec, in a right
line. Indeed, it is a beautiful place—a few neat dwellings;
and all so happy and rural. Frank has just returned.
Would you believe it—we are close at home.—
Here—here, within a stone's throw, lives my beloved
aunt! O, I do feel happy. I must run to her.
Evening.—I am happy, Juliet—once more, I am really
happy. My dear aunt knew me, immediately. She
wept—and fainted. I knew her character—I expected
it. She is a noble-looking woman; but sorrow and disappointment
have broken her down. She says that my
resemblance to my mother is striking. I can scarcely
remember her. She was the younger sister, it appears;
but no more at present. I am happy. Frank appears
very cloudy and distressed, of late. For two or three
days, he has been remarkably silent—and I have caught
his eyes dwelling upon me, sometimes, with a singular
expression. When I say, “What is the matter, cousin?—you
frighten me.” He attempts to smile—“Be of
good heart, dear Sarah,” he says—“all will go right—
I have only recovered my senses.” Well, well—I will
not trouble myself about it. It was natural—these artificial
spirits of his have passed off—and languor and depression
are the natural consequences. Yet, somehow,
I do feel a little cold about the heart, as if some other calamity—what,
I know not—were near to me.
Perhaps he is out of temper. He has been inconceivably
annoyed, in all directions, on this road. He has been
Ripley. I never saw the general; but, the resemblance
must be very extraordinary, indeed, to be observed here;
for, we are told, that he once lived in this village, and
practised law for some time. Frank is not so tall, nor
so old; and beside that, he has very handsome teeth, while
the front ones of the general are gone. Yet, nevertheless,
when sitting, he has been addressed as general, by
persons that knew him well. Even their voices are
alike.
I forgot to describe Hallowell and Augusta, two
towns upon the Kennebeck; or, rather, we passed through
them so rapidly, that I had no time. I am told, however,
that the people are active, polite, and kind to
strangers; and the situation and appearance of both
towns are very pleasant. I should like to reside in them,
awhile, I think.
Ah, Sarah.—Frank has just left me. The mystery is
explained. He brought an open letter in his hand. He
sat down by me.—He prepared me—but his heart was
full, and his hand shook the while—for what I was to
expect. My father was a bankrupt. Does it shock you,
Juliet. I know not why—it may be apathy in me—it
may be, that my sensibility is deadened by recent suffering—it
may be, that I do not yet know the value of
what I have lost—but, at this moment, Juliet,—if thou
wert near me, I would bid thee lay thy hand upon my
heart—It aches not. It is neither colder nor warmer---
more nor less hurried, or agitated, than before. Perhaps
it is that I expected something more terrible.----I
did---I know not what---but this certainty, is really a
relief to me.
I shall send this, immediately. I shall now abandon all
thought of Quebec. Frank will leave me here, awhile,
and return to look into the estate. It may not be so
bad, as we fear;—but, in the mean time, my sweet Juliet
will believe me, when I say, that my only sorrow is—
that I have no longer a habitation for her.—Perhaps
you have received my letter —perhaps!—Oh! that I
could pray that you may not. May it miscarry!—if the
will be less cruel.—Heaven only knows when we
shall meet, now.—Farewell! farewell!—
| Randolph | |