University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

So sudden had been the determination of my friend to accompany
me south, that there was but a single acquaintance to see
him off, and he came late, with a quarter-box of cigars under
his arm, and a bottle of London-Dock black brandy, rolled up
in a blue silk pocket-handkerchief, carried in his hands as gingerly
as if a new-born baby. These were to afford the necessary
consolations against salt-water. My friend and myself,
meanwhile, mounted to the quarter-deck, leaving the gang-way
free to the bustling crowds that come and go, like so many
striving, crossing, and purposeless billows, on all such occasions.
We had not many passengers, at this season of the year, but
they had numerous acquaintances to see them off. We watched
sundry groups, in which we could detect symptoms of suppressed
emotion, not less intelligent and touching because, evidently,
kept down with effort.

Even when we know our own restless nature, eager always
for change, it is yet wonderful that we should leave home —
should tear ourselves away from the living fibres of love which
we leave to bleed behind us, and but slowly to close the wounds
in our own bosoms.

The strongest heart goes with some reluctance, even when it
hurries most. The soul lingers fondly, though the horses grow
restiff in the carriage at the door. We look back with longing
eyes, while the vessel drops down the stream. If we could
endure the shame and self-reproach of manhood, in such a proceeding,
we should, half the time, return if we could.

Truly, this parting is a serious business — even where the
voyager is, like myself, an old one. To the young beginner it

is a great trial of the strength. To tear oneself away from the
youthful home — the old familiar faces — the well-remembered
haunts and pathways, more precious grown than ever, — when
we are about to leave them, perhaps for ever, — is a necessity
that compels many a struggle in which the heart is very apt to
falter. The very strength of the affections betrays its great
deficiency of strength.

The gathered crowd upon the quay — the eagerness, the
anxiety, and earnest words and looks of all — the undisguised
tears of many — the last broken, tender words of interest — the
subdued speech — the sobs which burst from the bosom in the
last embrace; — what associations, and pangs, and fears, and
losses, do these declare! what misgivings and terrors! True,
the harbor smiles in sweetness; the skies look down in beauty;
the waves roll along, soft, subdued, with a pleasant murmur;
there is not a cloud over the face of heaven — not a voice of
threat in the liquid zephyr that stirs the hair upon your forehead:
but the prescient soul knows the caprice of wind, and
sea, and sky; and the loving heart is always a creature full of
tender apprehensions for the thing it loves. Long seasons of
delicious intercourse are about to terminate; strong affinities,
which can not be broken, are about to be burdened with cruel
apprehensions, and doubts which can not be decided till after
long delay; and the mutual intercourse, which has become the
absolute necessity of the heart, is to be interrupted by a separation
which may be final. The deep waters may roll eternal
barriers between two closely-linked and bonded lives, and neither
shall hear the cry of the other's suffering — neither be permitted
to extend the hand of help, or bring to the dying lips the
cup of consolation.

Such are the thoughts and fears of those who separate daily.
Necessity may excuse the separation; but how is it with those
whose chief motive for wandering is pleasure? In diversity of
prospect, change of scene, and novel associations, they would
escape that ennui which, it seems, is apt to make its way even
into the abode of love. There is some mystery in this seeming
perversity, and, duly examined, it is not without its justification.
The discontent which prompts the desire for change in the
breast of man, is the fruit, no doubt, of a soul-necessity which is

not easy to analyze. We owe to this secret prompter some of the
best benefits which the world enjoys; and the temporary sufferings
of the affections — the wounds of separation — are not wholly
without their compensation, even while the wounds are green.

A similitude has somewhere been traced between the effects
of parting and of death. The former has been called a death
in miniature. It certainly very often provokes as fond an exhibition
of grief and privation. But these declare as much for
life as for mortality. There is another side to the picture. The
parting of friends is so far grateful, as it gives us the renewed
evidences of a warm, outgushing, and acutely-sensitive humanity.
We are consoled, through the sorrow, by the love. We see the
grief, but it does not give us pain, as we find its origin in the
most precious developments of the human nature. We weep,
but we feel; and there is hope for the heart so long as it can
feel. There are regrets — but O! how sweet are the sympathies
which harbor in those regrets! The emotions, the passions,
— the more precious interior sentiments, — need occasionally
some pressure, some privation, some pang, in order that
they may be made to show themselves — in order that we may
be assured of our possessions still; — and how warmly do they
crowd and gather above us in the moment when we separate
from our associates! Into what unexpected activity and utterance
do they start and spring, even in the case of those whose
ordinary looks are cold, who, like certain herbs of the forest,
need to be bruised heavily before they will give out the aromatic
sweetness which harbors in their bosoms!

And these are the best proofs of life — not death. Humanity
never possesses more keen and precious vitality than while it
suffers. It is not, as in the hour of decay and decline — when
the blood is chilled by apathy — when the tongue is stilled by
palsy — when the exhausted nature gladly foregoes the struggle,
and craves escape from the wearying conflict for existence —
anxious now for the quiet waters only — imploring peace, and
dulled and indifferent in respect to all mortal associations. The
thoughts of the mind, the yearnings of the heart, are all of a
different nature, at the separation of friends and kindred. They
do not part without a hope. The pain of parting is not without
a pleasure. There are sweet sorrows, as well as sad, and this

is one of that order. There are many fears, it is true; but these
speak for life, nay hope, rather than for death. Every impulse,
in the hour which separates the voyagers, tells of life — of
vague and grateful anticipations — of renovating experiences —
of predicted and promised enjoyments, which neutralize the
pain of parting, even in the breasts that most warmly love.
Those who remain weep, perhaps, more passionately than those
who go. Yet how sweet is that silent tear in the solitude —
haunted by happy memories — in the little lovely realm of
home! The voyager loses these presences and associations of
home; but, in place of them, he dreams of discoveries to be
made which he shall yet bring home and share with those he
leaves. He will gather new associations to add to the delights
of home; new aspects; treasures for the eye and mind, which
shall make the solitary forget wholly the lonely length of his
absence. Nature has benevolently possessed us with promptings,
such as these, which disarm remorse and apprehension:
else how should enterprise brave the yet pathless waters, or
hope retread the wilderness? Where should genius look for the
accompanying aid of perseverance? where would ambition seek
for encouragement? where would merit find its reward?

It is well to leave our homes for a season. It is wise to go
abroad among strangers. The mind and body, alike, become
debilitated, and lose their common energies as frequently from
the lack of change and new society as from any other cause.
Relaxation, in this way, from the toils of one station, serves to
enlarge the capacities, to make room for thought, to afford time
for the gathering of new materials, and for the exercise of all
the faculties of sense and sentiment. As the farther we go in
the natural, so in the moral world, a like journey in the same
manner yields us a wider horizon. We add to our stock by
attrition with strangers. A tacit trade is carried on between us.
Our modes of thinking, our thoughts themselves, our manners,
habits, aims, and desires — if not exchanged for others — become
intermixed with, or modified by them. They gather from us as
much, in these concerns, and in this way, as we can possibly
derive from them; and thus, by mutual acquaintance with each
other, we overcome foolish prejudices, subjugate ancient enmities,
make new friends and associations, and all this simply by

enlarging the sphere of our observation — by overleaping the
boundaries of a narrow education — leaving the ten-mile horizon
in which we were born, and to which our errors are peculiar,
and opening our eyes upon a true picture of the character of
the various man.

Of all tyrants, home ignorance is the worst.

which subjugate the understanding, enthral the heart, minister
to a miserable sectarianism, as well in society as in politics and
religion, and which, in the denial to the individual of any just
knowledge of his fellows, leaves him in most lamentable ignorance
of the proper resources in himself. We should know our
neighbor if only in order to know ourselves, and home is never
more happily illustrated than when we compare and contrast it
with what we see abroad. It is surprising how soon we lose the
faculty of reasoning when the province which we survey is contracted
to the single spot in which we sleep and eat. We cease
to use our eyes when the sphere is thus limited. The disease
of moral nearsightedness supervenes, and the mind which, in a
larger field of action and survey, might have grasped all humanity
within its range, grows, by reason of this one mishap, into
the wretched bigot, with a disposition to be as despotic, in degree
with the extreme barrenness of his mental condition.

“Ah! clearly,” concluded my companion, after we had worked
out the meditations together which I have thrown together above
as a sort of essay — “clearly, there is no more moral practice in
the world than is found in vagabondage; yet if you try to prove
its morality, you take from it all its charm. I am for enjoying
the vice as such, without arguing for the necessity of evil —
which I yet admit.—But, look you, we are to have some lady
passengers. That's a graceful creature!”

I soon discovered in the group to which my companion called
my attention, some old acquaintances.

“Ay, indeed; and when you have seen her face, and chatted
with her, you will account her beautiful as graceful. She is a
sweet creature to whom I will introduce you. The family is
one of our oldest, highly-esteemed and wealthy. You want a
wife — she is the woman for you. Win her, and you are a favorite

of the gods. She has already refused a dozen. Ten to one,
she is on her way to the very mountain regions to which we go.”

“Good! — I shall be glad to know her. Not that I want a
wife — though, perhaps, I need one.”

The group disappeared in the cabin. Our hour was approaching.
The last bell would soon ring — our fellow-passengers
— fortunately few in number — some forty only — were all
on board. Several of them were known to me, and I promised
myself and my companion good-fellowship. Meanwhile, we
were taking our last look at the neighborhood. The bay and
harbor of New York make a very grateful picture. The amphitheatre
is a fine and noble one, but it is a mistake to insist
upon the grandeur of its scenery. Mr. Cooper, once, in a conversation
with me, even denied that it could be called a beautiful
one. But he was clearly in error. He had measured its
claims by foreign standards, such as the bay of Naples, the adjuncts
of which it lacked. But its beauties are nevertheless
undeniable. The error of its admirers is in talking vaguely of
its sublimity. Grandeur is not the word to apply to any portion
of the Hudson. It is a bold and stately stream, ample,
noble, rich, but with few of the ingredients of sublimity. It impresses
you — is imposing; — your mind is raised in its contemplation,
your fancy enlivened with its picturesqueness — but it
possesses few or none of the qualities which awe or startle. It
has boldness rather than vastness, is commanding rather than
striking, and, if impressive, is quite as frequently cold and unattractive.
To a Southern eye, accustomed to the dense umbrage,
the close coppice, the gigantic forest, the interminable shade,
the wilderness of undergrowth, and the various tints and hues
of leaf and blossom, which crown our woods with variety and
sweetness, the sparseness of northern woods suggests a great
deficiency, which the absence of a lateral foliage, where the
trees do occur, only increases. Mountain scenery, unless wild
and greatly irregular, repels and chills as commonly as it invites
and beguiles. There must be a sufficient variety of forest tint
and shelter, under a clear blue sky, to satisfy the fancy and the
sympathies. That along the Hudson, after the first pleasant
transition from the sea, becomes somewhat monotonous as you
proceed. For the length of the river, the scenery is probably as

agreeable and attractive as any in the country, unless, perhaps,
the St. John's, which is quite a wonderful stream — imposing in
spite of the absence of all elevations — and I may add, in certain
respects, the Tselica, or French-Broad, in North Carolina. The
first of these rivers is remarkable for its great openings into noble
lakes, and its noble colonnades of trees; — the last for its furious
rapids, its precipitous and broken heights, that bear upon their
blasted fronts the proofs of the terrible convulsion of storm and
fire, that rent their walls apart and gave passage for the swollen
torrent. These you may study and pursue, mile after mile,
with constant increase of interest. But, along the Hudson, I do
not see that the spectator lingers over it with any profound admiration,
or expectation, the first hour or two of progress being
over. His curiosity seldom lasts beyond West Point. Observe
the crowds wayfaring daily in the steamboats, between New
York and Albany — as they glide below the Palisade, that excellent
wall of trap, almost as regularly built, as if by the hand
of mortal artificer — as they penetrate the Highlands and dart
beneath the frowning masses of Crow Nest, and Anthony's
Nose; — watch them as they approach all these points and places
— all of them distinguished in song and story, in chronicle and
guide-book — and you will perceive but little raised attention —
little of that eager enthusiastic forgetfulness of self, which
speaks the excited fancy, and the struggling imagination. They
will talk to you of beauties, but these do not inflame them; of
sublimities, which never inspire awe; and prospects, over which
they yawn rather than wonder.

In fact, the exaggerations in regard to this river have done
some wrong to its real claims to respect and admiration. The
traveller is taught to expect too much. The scenery does not
grow upon him. The objects change in their positions, from
this hand to that, in height and bulk, but seldom in form, and
as infrequently in relation to one another. The groups bear
still the same family likenesses. The narrow gorge through
which you are passing at one moment, presented you with its
twin likeness but a few minutes before; and the great rock
which towers, sloping gradually up from the river in which it is
moored with steadfast anchorage, is only one of a hundred such,
which lack an individual character. The time has not yet arrived

when the commanding physical aspects of the scene shall
possess an appropriate moral attraction; when the temple shall
swell up with its vast range of marble pillars, crowning the eminence
with a classic attraction, and addressing equally the
taste and patriotism; — when groves and gardens, and palaces,
like those of Bagdad, shall appeal to that oriental fancy in the
spectator which is clearly the province of our sky and climate.

At present, these are somewhat repelled by the frequent and
manifest perversities of taste, as it seeks to minister to pretension,
at the expense of fine and imposing situations. The lawn
which spreads away upon the shore, terminating at once with a
West Indian verandah, a Dutch farmhouse, and probably a
Gothic cottage, scarcely persuades you to a second glance; or,
if it does, only to prompt you to quarrel with the painful and
unfruitful labors of the architect in search of the picturesque.
In what is natural, it may be admitted that you find grace and
beauty, but somewhat injured by monotony; in what is done
by art you are annoyed by newness, and a taste still crude and
imperfectly developed.

The bay of New York is much more noble, I am inclined to
think, than the Hudson; but the characteristics of the two are not
unlike. Depth, fullness, clearness — a coup d'æil which satisfies
the glance, and a sufficient variety in the groups and objects to
persuade the eye to wander — these are the constituents of both;
and, in their combination, we find sweetness, grace and nobleness,
but nowhere grandeur or sublimity. Green islets rise on
either hand, the shore lies prettily in sight, freshened with verdure,
and sprinkled by white cottages which you must not examine
in detail, lest you suspect that they may be temples in
disguise. Here are forts and batteries, which are usually said
to frown, but, speaking more to the card, the grin is more frequent
than the frown; and here, emerging through the gorge
of the Narrows, we gaze on pleasant heights and headlands,
which seem the prettiest places in the world for summer dwellings
and retreats. No one will deny the beauty of the scene,
as it is, or will question its future susceptibilities. Let us adopt
the right epithets. In passing out to sea, with the broad level
range of the Atlantic before us, glowing purple in the evening
sunlight, we find it easy to believe, gazing behind us upon the

shore, that, for the charm of a pleasing landscape, a quiet home,
a dear retreat for peace and contemplation, no region presents
higher attractions than we find along the shores which lead from
Sandy Hook to the city of Manhatta, and spread away from
that up the valley of the Hudson, till we pass beyond the Catskill
ranges.

“You are like all the rest of the outsiders,” said my companion,
querulously. “It takes a New York eye to see and appreciate
the sublimity of the Hudson.”

“Precisely. That is just what I say. It is the New York
eye only which makes this discovery. But we are off. There
goes the gun! — and farewell, for the present, to our goodly
Gotham. Ah! there is Hoboken! How changed for the worse,
as a picture, from what is was when I first knew it. Twenty
years ago, when I first visited New York, Hoboken was as
favorite a resort with me, of an afternoon, as it was to thousands
of your citizens. Its beautifully sloping lawns were green and
shady. Now! oh! the sins of brick and mortar! There, I first
knew Bryant and Sands, and wandered with them along the
shores, at sunset, or strolled away, up the heights of Weehawken,
declaiming the graceful verses of Halleck upon the scene.
All is altered now! Vale!”