The Homes of the New World/Letter I.
LETTER I.
ON THE SEA.
Sept. 23rd, 1849.
This is, dearest Agatha, my second day on the great ocean! And if the voyage goes on as it has begun I shall not soon long for land. The most glorious weather, the heaven and the sea full of light, and for a habitation on my voyage to the new world a cabin large and splendid as a little castle, and besides that, convenient in the highest degree. And how I enjoy my quiet uninterrupted life here on board, after the exciting days in England, where the soul felt itself as on a rack, whilst the body hurried hither and thither in order to see and accomplish that which must be seen and accomplished before I was ready for my journey! For it was requisite to see a little of England, and especially of London, before I saw America and New York. I did not wish to be too much overcome by New York, therefore I would know something of the mother before I made acquaintance with the daughter, in order to have a point and rule of comparison, that I might correctly understand the type. I knew that Sweden and Stockholm were of another race, unlike the English country, and towns, people, manners, mode of building, and so on. But England had in the place given population, laws, and tone of mind to the people of the new world. It was the old world in England which must become my standard of judgment as regarded the new. For that reason I came first to England, and to England I shall, please God, return when I have finished my pilgrimage on the other side of the ocean, in order to obtain a more decided impression, to form a conclusive judgment before I return home. We will expound together the runes in the native land of runic lore.
Now, however, I know what London looks like, and I shall not be amazed by the buildings of New York.
To-day, Sunday, has been to me really a festival day. We have had divine service on board, and that was good and beautiful. The passengers, about sixty in number, together with the crew of the vessel, all in their best attire, assembled in the great saloon on deck. The captain, a brisk, good-looking, young officer, read the sermon and prayers, and read them remarkably well. The whole assembly joined in the prayers and responses, as is customary in the English episcopal church. The sun shone in upon that gay assembly composed of so many different nations.
To be so solitary, so without countrymen, kindred or friends, in this assembly, and yet to know myself so profoundly united with all these in the same life and the same prayer,—“Our Father, which art in Heaven!”—it affected me so much that I wept (my usual outlet, as you know, for an overflowing heart, in joy as in grief). The captain thought that I needed cheering, and came to me very kindly after the service. But it was not so. I was happy.
Since then I have walked on deck, and read a poem called “Evangeline,” a tale of Acadia, by the American poet, Henry Longfellow. The poem belongs to America, to its history and natural scenery. There is much dramatic interest and life in it. The end, however, strikes me as melo-dramatic and somewhat laboured. The beginning, the descriptions of the primeval forests of the new world, the tall trees which stand like the old druids with long descending beards and harps, which sound and lament in the wind, is glorious, and is a chord of that fresh minor key, which pervades the whole song, about the peaceful persecuted people of Acadia—a beautiful but mournful romance, and founded upon history. This little book was given to me by William Howitt on my departure from England; and thus I have to thank him for this my first taste of American literature, in which I fancy I can perceive a flavour of the life of the New World.
How pleasant it is to be able to read a little, and to be able to lie and think a little also! People here show me every possible attention; first one and then another comes and speaks a few words to me. I answer politely, but I do not continue the conversation; I have no inclination for it. Among the somewhat above fifty gentlemen, who are passengers on board, there is only one—a handsome old gentleman—whose countenance promises anything of more than ordinary interest. Nor among the twelve or thirteen ladies either is there anything remarkably promising or attractive, although some are very pretty and clever. I am very solitary. I have an excellent cabin to myself alone. In the day I can read there by the light from the glass window in the roof. In the evening and at night it is lighted by a lamp through a ground glass window in one corner.
People eat and drink here the whole day long; table is covered after table; one meal-time relieves another. Everything is rich and splendid. Yes, here we live really magnificently; but I do not like this superabundance, and the eternally long dinners are detestable to me; all the more so sitting against a wall between two gentlemen, who are as still as mice, and do nothing but eat, although one of them, an Englishman, might converse very well if he would. My passage-money is thirty-five sovereigns, which includes everything. Somewhat less in price, and somewhat less to eat and drink, would be more to my taste.
Later.—I have just seen the sun go down in the sea, and the new moon and stars come forth. The North Star and Charles's Wain have now gone farther from me; but just above my head I see the cross and the lyre, and near them the eagle which we also see at home; and with these companions by the way I cannot be other than cheerful. We have the wind in our favour, and drive on our thundering career with all sails set. If we continue to proceed in this way we shall make the voyage in from twelve to thirteen days.
I hope, my sweet Agatha, that you regularly received my two letters from England; I sent the last from Liverpool on the morning before I went on board. I was quite alone there, and had to do and arrange everything for myself: but all went on right. I had the sun with me, and my little travelling fairy, and the last dear letters of my beloved, my passport to the new world, and—to the better world, if so be, for they are to me like a good conscience. I say nothing about my good spirits, but you know me, my darling: “Long live Hakon Jarl!”
Thursday.—Five days at sea! and we are already more than half-way to New York. We have had fair wind without intermission, and if all goes on as it has begun we shall make one of the most rapid and most prosperous voyages which has ever been made from Europe to America. “But one must not boast till one has crossed the brook.” To-day when the wind blew and the sea heaved somewhat roughly, my style of writing became somewhat like Charles XII.'s in his letter to “mon cœur.” I get on capitally, my little heart, and do not wish myself away, so comfortable am I here, and so animating and elevating appears to me the spectacle of heaven and earth. Yes, the soul obtains wings therefrom and raises herself upwards, high above the roaring deep.
For several days we have seen no other object than heaven and sea, and circling sea-birds; not a sail, nor the smoke of a steamer. All is vacancy in that immense circle of space. But the billows, and the sunbeams, and the wandering clouds are sufficient company; these and my own thoughts. I stand and walk whole hours alone on deck and inhale the fresh soft sea-air, watch one leviathan dive down and rise again from the roaring waves, and let my thoughts dive down also, and circle round like the sea-birds in the unknown distance. There was always something of the life and joy of the Viking in me, and it is so even now. Yesterday was a glorious day, it was throughout a festival of beauty which I enjoyed unspeakably.
In my early youth, when we were many in family, and it was difficult to be alone, I used sometimes to go and lock myself in that dark little room at Årsta, where mamma keeps her keys, merely that I might feel myself alone, because as soon as I was quite alone in that pitch darkness, I experienced an extraordinary sensation—a sensation as if I had wings and was lifted up by them out of my own being, and that was an unspeakable enjoyment to me. That half-spiritual, half-bodily feeling is inexplicable to me; but it always returns when I am quite alone and altogether undisturbed by agitating thoughts; as is the case at this time. I experience a secret, wonderful joy as I stand thus alone among strangers, in the midst of the world's sea, and feel myself to be free and light as a bird upon the bough.
Yet it is not this feeling alone which gives me here calmness and, as it were, wings, but another which I well understand, and which is common to all alike as to me. For whoever when alone in the world, or in heart, can from his heart say—Our Father! Mine and all men's! To him will be given rest and strength, sufficient and immortal, merely through this consciousness.
Out of the chaotic group of human countenances, which at first met my eyes here, a few figures have come nearer to me, and have acquired an interest for me through glances, expression or words. Among these is a tall respectable clergyman from New York, by name John Knox; and who seems to me to have a little of the historical Knox-nature of stern Puritanism, although united to much benevolence. Besides him, a family from New York, also, consisting of an old lady, the mother, with her daughter and son-in-law—a handsome young couple, who have for their bridal-tour visited, during eleven months, Egypt, Greece, Italy, France, etc., without having, in the first instance, seen Niagara, or any of the natural wonders of their own country, which I do not quite forgive in them. They are now on their return, the old lady having gained the knowledge “that all human nature is very much alike throughout the world.” This family, as well as Mr. Knox, are Presbyterian, and will not concede that Unitarians are Christians.
There is also a couple of young ladies from Georgia. One of them a handsome, married lady; the other a very pale young girl with delicate features, Hanna L——, clever, sensible, and charming, with whom it is a pleasure for me to converse. Although belonging to a slave-holding family, she condemns slavery, and labours at home to make the slaves better and happier. She is consumptive, and does not expect to live long; but goes forward to meet death with the most contented mind. One sees the future angel gleam forth from her eyes, but the suffering mortal is seen in the delicate features.
Besides these, there are some elderly gentlemen, with respectable and trustworthy countenances, who assure me that I shall find much pleasure in my journey through the United States; and lastly, a couple of slave-holders, handsome, energetic figures, who invite me to the South, and assure me that I shall find the slaves there to be “the most happy and most enviable population!!”
The days pass on calmly and agreeably. The only objection I have to the life on board the “Canada,” is the excess of eating and drinking.
Monday, October 1.—The tenth day on board. It has been somewhat less agreeable during the last few days: stormy and rough. We had yesterday what they call “a gale.” I endeavoured, but in vain, to stand on deck. I was not made to be a sailor. We are near Newfoundland. We steer so far northward to avoid the equinoctial storms on the more southern ocean. But we have had contrary winds, and considerable storms for some days, so that we have not progressed as favourably as the commencement promised. We shall not reach Halifax till to-morrow. We shall put in there for a few hours and send our European letters to the post (for this reason I am bringing mine into order), after which we steer direct south to New York.
I am perfectly well; have not been sea-sick for a moment, but cannot deny but that it seems to me rather unpleasant when, in the evening and at night, the waves thunder and strike above our heads, and the vessel heaves and strains. Fortunately, the ladies are all well and cheerful; and in the evening three of them sing, two of whom met here for the first time in the world; the “old lady,” who, after all, is not so old—only about fifty—and who has a splendid soprano voice, and the pale girl and her friend, with their clear voices, sing hymns and songs remarkably well together. It is very charming and beautiful. The tones remain with me at night like consolatory spirit-voices, like the moonlight on the swell of the waves.
Last night, when the sea was rough and there was even some danger, when every movable thing was tumbled about, and I thought of my home, and was in “a shocking humour,” and acknowledged it even to my fellow-voyagers, those three voices sang hymns so exquisitely till about midnight, that every restless wave within me hushed itself to repose. To-day, we have better weather and wind, and are all in good spirits. Some little children, however, are so sick that it is pitiable to see them. This next night we shall come into dangerous water. One of the great steamers, which goes between Europe and America, struck amid the surf in the neighbourhood of Halifax, and suffered considerable damage. But we must manage better than that. Our Captain Judkins is considered to be a remarkably skilful seaman. An excellent, good-tempered, and kind-hearted man is he beside; likes to come and sit in the saloon with the ladies, tells them stories, and plays with the children.
I read a deal here on board; one can get through a vast many books on such an occasion. I have read Châteaubriand's “Confessions,” but without much pleasure. What can one learn from an autobiography in which the writer acknowledges that he will confess nothing about himself which would be derogatory to his dignity. It was in a manner different to this that St. Augustine wrote his Confessions, regarding merely the eternal eye; in a different manner Rousseau, great and noble, at least in his desire to confess to the truth. Thus will I, sometime, shrive myself. For every object and every consideration is mean except this, the highest. Châteaubriand's French vanity spoils, for me, his book; nevertheless, I have retained some glorious descriptions, some occasional profound word or expression, as well as another fresh conviction of the weakness of human nature.
I have read here also Miss Martineau's “Life in the East.” I like to study pictures of the East, and of the earliest period of the cultivation of our race in opposition to the West—that promised land which I am approaching with a thousand questions in my soul. But I am disturbed in Miss Martineau's book by her evident endeavour to force her own religious opinions upon the life and history of antiquity. Some great and beautiful thoughts, nevertheless, run through the book, like a refreshing breeze. In them I recognise that noble spirit before which I often bowed myself in awe, and before which I bowed last when reading her “Life in a Sick Room.”
The calmest day we have yet had on board! And this calm is really beautiful after the last day's storm. Little sparrows swarm around our vessel in the evening, with greetings from land. They remind me of the birds which brought to Columbus the first intelligence from the shores of the New World. What must have been his state of mind on seeing them!
To-morrow morning, early, we may set foot on American soil at Halifax; but as we there fall in again with “Old England,” I take the matter coolly. I have been on deck for a long time. Sea and sky are calm, and of an uniform light grey, like the everyday life of the north. We leave a broad, straight pathway behind us on the sea, which seems to fade away towards the horizon.
I have been annoyed to-day by the behaviour of some gentlemen to a little storm-driven bird which sought for rest in our vessel. Wearied, it settled down here and there upon our cordage, but was incessantly driven away, especially by two young men, an Englishman and a Spaniard, who seemed to have nothing to do but to teaze this poor little thing to death with their hats and handkerchiefs. It was distressing to see how it endeavoured again and again, upon its wearied wings, to follow the vessel, and again panting to alight upon its cordage or masts, only to be again driven away. I was childish enough to persecute these young men with my prayers that they would leave this poor little creature in peace. But it was to no purpose, and to my astonishment, neither did any of the other passengers take the little stranger under their protection. I called to mind that I had seen in Swedish vessels little storm-driven birds treated differently—left in peace, or fed with bread-crumbs. The end of the pursuit here was, that after the bird had left its tail in the hand of one of its tormentors, it was soon taken; it was then put into a dark cage, where it died in a few hours.
I consider myself to be far from all excess of sensibility; but nothing angers me more, among human beings, than unnecessary cruelty to animals; and I know that a noble human nature abhors it. For the rest, I deplored over the cruel children in men's shape, because I believe in a Nemesis even in little things; and I believe that the hour may come when these young men may long for rest, and find none; and that then that hunted bird may make itself remembered by them. When I arrive in America one of my first visits shall be to the Quakers, because I know that one of the beautiful traits of their religion is mercy to animals.
I once was also a cruel child, when I did not understand what suffering was, and what animals are. I received my first lesson in humanity to animals from a young, lively officer, who afterwards died the death of a hero in the war against Napoleon. Never shall I forget his reproachful glance and tone, as he said to me, “The poor worm!” It is now more than thirty years since!
I shall, my dear heart! write no more this time. But as soon as I reach New York I shall again write to you. And that which I long for there, is to hear from home. It is now so long since I had a letter.
Many feelings stir within me as I thus approach the end of my voyage, feelings not easy to describe. What will be the end of it? That I do not know. One thing, however, I know: that I shall see something new; learn something new; forget that which was of old; and press onward to that which lies before me. There is much for me to forget, and to be renewed. And this, also, I know: that friends will meet me in that foreign land; and that one faithful friend comes to meet me on the shore. That is good!
Good night, dear little sister. I embrace you and mamma; kind greetings to relations and friends—and may she live in the new world, as in the old,
Your
FREDRIKA.