 | Randolph |  |
SARAH TO FRANK.
We have, at last, determined to go through New England;
and I am to be left, next summer, they tell me,
somewhere in the District of Maine; what will become of
me—heaven only knows. But I shall be among a host
of relations, who, I am told, are the worthiest people in
the world. Let this account for my levity, cousin, and
apologise for the little that I have to say. Enclosed is the
letter which led to the discovery of Helen. She was
to conjecture, as all traces of a lady, whom they supposed
to be her, were lost in Richmond, Virginia. It
was then that my father was written to; and his extensive
correspondence was immediately brought in aid of
the wretched parents. But all to no purpose, as a last expedient,
the advertisement, which you saw, was written.
That led to the very point, by a most lucky circumstance.
You know, that all dead letters, as they are called, after
some previous ceremonies, are sent to the general Post
Office, and opened. One of the clerks, struck by the singular
beauty of the writing in one, that he opened, read
it; and, when he came to the bottom, found the initials H.
W. O. He happened to recollect the advertisement, for
he had pasted it up in the office; and, on comparing the
whole, he felt himself justified in directing the letter, not
to H. W. O. at the place where it was written, (the usual
practice, when they apprehend it to be of importance,)
but to my father.—He received it, and, sending immediately
for the young man, (a most interesting fellow, too, as
our fashionables say,) was confirmed, beyond all doubt,
in the belief that Helen was the writer. The next thing
was to ascertain where she was. The letter, as you
perceive, was written in this city, but we were not satisfied
with our inquiries here; and whether we should
have ever fallen upon the right track, is very problematical,
had I not seen the direction, one day, by chance,
as my father was reading it again, and commending the
style. Judge of my astonishment. I had heard of Molton's
half sister; and I knew of a circumstance that seemed
rather mysterious, if she were truly his half sister. So I
wrote to Washington. The result you know. You
may keep her letter till we meet. I am unwilling to
trust it by mail, and I hope to see you soon. Mr. Marion
(the youngster of whom I spoke,) appears greatly
concerned in the affair; and a venerable old man has
called, repeatedly, on my father, since I left the city. I
am told, who is determined upon taking some serious measures.
There is one thing certain: they say, that, if Molton
be her betrayer, he is, actually, at this moment, holding
his life at the mercy of the law. I should begin to
Edward Molton, if I heard that he was arraigned for his
life. It is even said—(but this in confidence, Frank, you
understand me, and will have an interest in keeping it
to yourself)—it is said that there was something inexplicable
in the death of William.—Do you start!—And that
—I tremble. Frank—and that an inquiry will yet be instituted.
If so, let Molton beware! There is an inconceivable
mysteriousness about all that concerns that man.
Something has happened of late, to make me question
my own knowledge of his affair with Juliet. His chaacter
darkens, and she—she is mad, I verily believe;
for, I have good reason to think, that she—let it not hurt
you, my dear Frank, to hear it—that she loves him yet.
Yes, I am aware of the contradiction; but hitherto I
have been mistaken.
(The following was enclosed.)
Well, Edward, to continue, where I left off; and this I
hope will be the last of my journalizing. I like no place
yet, so much as Richmond, after all. The people here,
are pleasant; there is enough of parade, and uproar, to
remind me of London;—much opulence, but it is all mercantile
opulence; and the manners of the people are
those of the newly made gentry. Here is none of that
lofty, imposing, natural gentility, which I have seen at
Richmond. The people of Virginia, to say the truth,
are much more like our nobility, than any of their countrymen.
Perhaps, we may attribute something of this
to their slave population. They carry that air of dominion,
like the still more southern planters, (which befits
them, in a republican land, only when surrounded
by their slaves,) into all the concerns of life. This I like,
where I have seen it;—for there it was proper enough.
How I should like the same lordly air, in New England,
a nation of men, I do not pretend to say. But one thing
you must have observed. It struck me at once. From
Boston to Charleston, there is so much mannerism, that
I think I could tell a Philadelphian, a Baltimorean, a
man—by the very cut of his coat—or his walk,—and,
certainly, by his pronunciation. A stranger would
hardly believe this, yet the natives aver it; and the little
experience that I have had, leaves me no reason to doubt
it. Moreover, there is such an invincible nationality, if
I may so express myself, in the people of each city, that
their very opinions are peculiar and characteristick;—
nay, their dwellings, their spirit of enterprize, commercial
speculation, and literature are so. An amusing jealousy
exists among them, too. They have a court language,
of their own, in every state; and all that live out
of the capital, are provincials, of course. Nay, the people
seem to partake of the age and rank of their respective
places of residence. A Philadelphian carries his
nose above all the world,—except the New-Yorker.—
One boasts of his literature; another of his great canal.
A Bostonian talks about letting money at 5 per cent. interest;—India
dock;—the “dome”—the Exchange;—
Bunker's Hill;—Faneuil Hall, &c. and fancies that all
rivalry is presumptuous. The New-Yorker carries you
over the CITY HALL;—talks of De Witt Clinton, and a
superannuated old gentleman, to whom the Emperor of
all the Russias has lately sent a ring;—lounges up broad-way,
and swears that “that are is the capital of all North
America.” But go to Philadelphia, and you are “done
up” at once, with criticism, and taste, and science;—they
make the handsomest gigs in the world—the best boots
—and are the most regular bred people in the union;—
have, what they call, the Water Works—(where a
wooden image holds a wooden swan—through whose
beak, a little squirt of water runs up, now and then, to
the height of ten or a dozen feet,)—and a Masonick
Hall, where there is a wooden Washington;—a picture
gallery, among which is a picture by Mr. West,—the vilest
thing that he has ever done, in my opinion,—where,
after you have paid for admission, you are made to pay
12½ cents more, for a criticism, evidently written by
somebody that never saw the picture. Next, you go to
Baltimore, and there you find, among a people of adventurers,
slave dealers, privateersmen, broken merchants,
pirates, mail robbers, and rioters, the same ridiculous pretension,
themselves for their literature, or age, or wealth; but for
having shot General Ross, at North Point;—for having
built two monuments—and several of the best privateers
that ever infested the seas;—and for having grown up
faster than any people, ever did; not even excepting those
of St. Petersburg, when they exhausted the resources of
the whole Russian Empire.
Thus a Baltimorean comes from the “first city in the
union;” he proves it by referring to the year 1752, when
there were only three or four miserable hovels, where
the city now stands,—and all their commerce was carried
on by one or two fishing smacks.
A Philadelphian proves, that he is from the “first city
in the union,” by referring to the last census, where, it
appears, that there were more cattle, within the liberties,
than within those of any other city of the United States.
A New-Yorker, to prove the right of his city to the
first rank, refers to the next census. And a Bostonian,
appeals to history, and shows that Boston is first, because
oldest.
And when you get to Charleston, you find the people
there, affecting the same airs, on just about as rational
grounds; one of which, if I am not mistaken, is the defence
of Sullivan's Island,—forty or fifty years ago.
But in Richmond, I have found nothing of this. The
distinction that they seek, is one, that is perfectly
evident, they have found,—from that air of self complacency—and
negligent superciliousness, which characterise
them. They affect to disdain all competition with
the plebeians of the north;—commerce is beneath them;
literature—O, it is all froth and flummery—except what
is imported: though, perhaps, an occasional look into a
Philadelphia publication, is taken, by way of seeing what
the pleasant barbarians of the north are about.
Shall I go on? I will, for one more page, and then,
farewell forever, to this ungenerous return, for so much
politeness and attention, as I, a stranger, have received
from the people of all these cities. Yet—would you believe
it. I am only repeating, what they say of each other!
and what is believed too, by each, of all but themselves!
I spoke of their character. I will give you an example
or two. In Philadelphia there is all the cold, plodding,
cautious deportment, of suspicious age, toward a
stranger, even when well recommended. You deliver
your letters—and are asked to call again—are told that
the gentleman will be very glad to see you—at his counting
room. He will be happy to see you, any where, but
at his dinner table, or fireside. He is afraid of his daughters—or
his spoons. Yet, after a time, strangers are delighted
with the Philadelphians. They are sincere, cordial,
and direct; well informed, polite, and sufficiently
indulgent. But I never knew a stranger, of a few days,
not superlatively introduced there, who did not curse
them all, for a sordid, unfeeling, mercenary people.
In New-York, there is a royal opulence, in their style
of living; great warmth, approaching to imprudence, and
very little discrimination, in their treatment of strangers.
In Boston, it is much the same, provided one comes
from England. There, he is feasted and feasted, and
puffed, till he may literally eat his way, at the publick
expense, from Dan to Beersheba. But in Baltimore,—
they have all, or rather had, for they are beginning now
to be cautious, having been cruelly bit by a few of our stray
nobility—(by the way, remind me of this, when we meet,
and I will relate some amusing anecdotes, in illustration
of our impudence, and their credulity)—a most improvident
warm-heartedness toward every thing in the shape of
a stranger. Like people in their youth, full of youthful
properties, unsuspicious, careless and noisy, the whole
city is ringing, from one end to the other, if a stranger,
of any notoriety—an elephant, or a nobleman—an American
general, or a pair of mustachios—a brute, or a
mountebank, appears—it is all the same to them—the
dwellings are emptied, like the baby houses of children,
and the streets are impassable till the raree-show has
departed.
You speak of their publick buildings. Some of them
are beautiful, it must be confessed; but to hear the Americans
talk about them, you would be led to believe that
the seven wonders of the world, at least, were within
truly their own, is overlooked;—the thunder of their cataracts;—their
rivers and mountains—unrivalled and unapproachable—are
all forgotten, so laughably too, at
times, that a friend of mine solemnly assures me, that, he
lately had occasion to speak of the trembling, and continual
noise, that appears to issue from the earth, and fill
the whole sky, within two or three miles of Niagara, to a
man who had grown old in its thunder and spray, who,
he soon found, had never given himself any trouble about
the cause of either; for he expressed some indignation,
like one that resents an attempt to impose upon his credulity—when
my friend informed him, that the rest of the
world was silent and still,—that other lands neither
shook nor sounded—and that other skies were as silent
as these would be, if he should stop his ears.
I have only a moment more—in which, if you are not
already wearied to death, you may follow me, dear Edward,
while I speak of the publick buildings.
I will begin with Boston, because I begun there.
There are some pretty churches; (including one that they
mean to build, which is, already, the most beautiful
building on paper, in the world)—and some about as
grotesque and fantastick, clumsy things, as you can well
imagine. [1]
The Exchange is a noble building—hemmed
in, and blocked up, by an encampment of printing offices,
tailors' shops, and shoemakers. Then, there is a State
House, a great clumsy, awkwardly contrived affair,
perched on the top of a beautiful round hill, like a fat
man on a feather bed; much too big for the hill; with the
head and shoulders far too big for the body. The Mall
is beautiful—and the stupendous undertaking which they
are soon to begin, for connecting, with a solid block of
masonry, a part of—Northampton, I believe, with west
Boston, is, it is in vain to deny it—a—a—. They
have a Court House, too, with a front of Chelmsford granite;
and its wings askew, which I particularly admired,
from the position, where I stood. The State Prison, at
Charleston, is however, of a better character. There
pile of building. Several dwelling houses are noble—
one or two, (building near the State House) princely;
and, taken together, I suspect that they are better built,
and more comfortably arranged, than any others in this
country. There are, also, four or five bridges, by which
you enter the town; not one of which is even tolerable,
as a matter of architecture. I must not forget the Mall,
neither, as they call it, in a spirit of paltry imitation,
together with their Park place, and Suffolk place, and
Bowdoin square, and this court, and that court—all
of which, I am already American enough, after breathing
the air, for a few weeks, to despise very cordially.
But the Mall, as a walk, not as a Mall, is unrivalled.
At a distance, the town looks like an amphitheatre, with
a great brick pile, whose disproportion is not to be discovered,
then—crowning it, like a square of palaces.
But the streets—O, it is in vain to think of describing
them. No stranger should venture abroad, without a
chart and pocket compass. A gentleman, whom I knew,
assured me, with a face that I shall never forget, (a bystander
would have thought that he was talking treason;)
that, after twenty attempts, in as many different directions,
to escape from an enclosure with a high brick wall, he was
brought up, twenty times in succession, by the very place
that he started from. It was a grave-yard. Every lane
and alley, street and passage, seemed to terminate there,
and only there. Start which way he would, east, west,
north or south, the end of his walk was always the same
high brick wall, with “the place of graves,” within it.
Thus much for Boston.—But, when you get to New-York—(By
the way, I have overlooked New Haven, and
its churches and colleges; and Cambridge—all of which are
exceedingly wonderful and imposing—to the inhabitants
and professors,)—you find yourself arrested, in a noble
street, by a truly magnificent building—the City Hall.
It has two fronts; one of fine marble, and one of brown
free stone!—You may judge of the effect, when you stand
at the ends. There is a house in Boston, constructed in
the same spirit of pleasantry. Approach it as you will,
the front being of granite, you perceive the ends to be
without propriety, fitness, or taste. But you can
not approach even the City Hall, without perceiving somewhat
more of the same spirit, in front;—for the enclosure
there, is askew; so that you cannot enter it, and march
directly up to the great steps. No; you must oblique and
manœuvre, or you will never get there. I know of nothing
else worth description. There are some paltry
publick buildings, many handsome private houses, and a
respectable penitentiary; (a matter of which the Americans
seem especially jealous—and, toward which, they
are often abundantly magnificent, perhaps with a presentiment
like that of Swift, when he founded a madhouse,
and made all things comfortable about it.)
Well—we are now at Philadelphia. Of course, the
Pennsylvania Bank is to be praised again; (for the United
States' Bank is not yet thought of:)—no! for once I
must disappoint you. I don't like it. It is too cold, formal,
and quaker-like. We don't want Greek temples for
banking houses. No—I do not like it. It wants that
which gives a charm to every thing, and without which,
the purest and most beautiful creations of genius, are
base and inefficient;—it wants suitableness. The waterworks,
of which you have heard so much, are paltry: the
markets fine—particularly the butchers' division; but
the market-houses, throughout the country, except in
Boston, are contemptible. The Schuylkill bridge is a
pretty affair enough; but you will be surprised, after all
that you have heard of it, when you know of what it is
built. Is it iron?—No! Stone?—No! What then? Deal
boards and logs. There are some respectable private
buildings, country seats, wire bridges, wire fences, and
publick institutions; but nothing that I think worth troubling
you about.
We will now go to Baltimore, if you please. There
you will find the handsomest, because the most appropriate,
publick edifices in America. With the exception
of the capitol at Washington, a magnificent pile of stone
and marble—painted!—and a sweet, pretty church at
Richmond, the description of which has gone the rounds
of Europe, like a problem in geometry, defying all conjecture
and—and—and—there is none so truly beautiful. —
First, there is the Cathedral, a heavy pile of granite,
somewhat after the fashion of St. Peter's; and the grandest
building, of its dimensions, that I ever stood within:
then, there is the Unitarian church, a piece of exquisite
deception—manufactured of lime-stone, wooden-bronze,
and pine-marble;—that is, without punning, or attempting
to pun—plastered and stuccoed, till the eye is completely
deceived into a notion that it is stone. Then,
there is a pillar, which is (or will be,) a round, substantial
affair of marble, called the Washington Monument.
Edward, I must be serious here. I cannot write or speak
the name of George Washington, without a contraction,
and dilation of the heart, if I do it irreverently.—
The pillar is grand—plain—substantial; and I like it
better than I should, a work of ten thousand times more
architectural merit. It is only wonderful to me, that a
series of blundering, should have produced so simple and
august a thought. But, I suppose that the building committee
could not agree upon the ornamental part—like
all who quarrel about matters of taste—and so, awarded
such as they could agree upon; which was, naturally, the
simplest proposition. But was it wise? Would it not
have been better, had the money which this pillar has
cost, been applied to some equally permanent, equally
ornamental, and more useful purpose—such, for instance,
as a hospital for the men of the revolution? Will not
others look for the same reward?—and will not monuments,
in time, become as common in America, as titles
are, even now?—to say nothing of the ridiculous conceit
of perpetuating the memory of George Washington by
a work, that must crumble in a few centuries....
Why is it, Edward, that I never think of that man,
without sitting more erect in my chair? When I was at
home, I dreaded to approach him. I feared that I should
find him, as I had others, who were called great. They
were pyramids at a distance;—but, when I approached—
I found them built of pebbles.—I came.—I stood
upon his grave. I plucked off a branch from the dark
cedars, that had sprung from it. Were they instinct with
substance.—The thought makes me tremble. Some
fancy possessed me. I went home, and bent one of the
beautiful little branches into the form of a weeping
willow—pasted it on paper, and painted the grave underneath
it, with all the shadow and desolation of truth.
God of heaven!—Edward—not a flower sprung there!
What would I have given, for one blessed little violet, that
had blossomed, perhaps, out of the moisture of the giant's
heart!—Might it not be? He was gentle; and if warmth
and richness of soil were enough, his tomb had been a heap
of blossom and verdure—trodden and crushed incense
and odour—.
Farewell—my heart is too full for trifling, now—.
Good night.
| Randolph | |