The Homes of the New World/Letter XXIII.
LETTER XXIII.
Albany on the Hudson, Sept 2nd.
Here, my little heart, amid a regular deluge of rain, which prevents me from seeing anything of the Capital of the Emperor State and its Senate House, I continue my conversation with you, that is to say, in writing, for the silent communion went on all the same.
In my last letter from Brooklyn, I told you, I think, how that my friends, the S.'s, would go with me as far as the Shaker Community at New Lebanon. And on an unspeakably fine day I again ascended that beautiful Hudson, again saw its wild romantic highlands, its rich populated shores; saw the turrets of the Downings' house glancing forth from amid its wooded grounds, cast towards it a look of love, and—enjoyed the life with nature and Marcus, Rebecca and Eddy, as we progressed in that magnificent, comfortable steamboat. Towards evening we reached the little city of Hudson, where we landed, and then took the stage, which in about two hours' time brought us to the Springs of New Lebanon, a celebrated watering-place, half an English mile from the Shaker village, and Marcus and I walked in the beautiful evening to look at it. We saw some pale yellow, two-storied wooden houses, built in good proportion, and with tiled roofs, standing on green slopes, surrounded at some distance by yet higher hills, all covered with wood. It was a very lovely and romantically Idyllian scene. The views from the houses were extensive, and the glass panes in the windows were large. Life at New Lebanon did not look to me so gloomy or so contracted as I had imagined. We saw some of the Shaker brothers out in the fields making hay, and others again reaping, as I supposed.
Yesterday, Sunday, we were present at divine service in the Shaker church together with many other strangers. The church is a large hall which would easily accommodate from two to three thousand persons; it has very large windows, but not the slightest ornament; it is very lofty and light. I was, on entering it, astonished by the sight of a number of corpse-like female figures, attired almost like shrouded-corpses, sitting on benches placed along the wall, rigid and immovable as mummies; they were the Shaker women. The sight of them was really sad, and would have been much more so had not there been a certain refreshment in the very novelty of the scene. Where all ladies are dressed according to the same mode, any who may vary from it become interesting from that very cause.
The Shaker sisters were however all dressed alike, in white or grey striped petticoats, high-heeled shoes, white handkerchiefs so pinned over the bosom as to conceal its natural form, and indeed the style of the attire seemed intended to make the whole body look like a tree-stem, without any curved outlines. They wore on their heads a little cap like that of the Quaker women, the plain border of which sat close to the face. I observed that these caps were very much blued, which still more increased the death-like hue of the countenance. The costume, at least the head-gear, was not unlike that of the peasant women and girls of our Stockholm district. From the other side of the hall marched in the Shaker brothers, all in knee-breeches, stockings and high-heeled shoes, in waistcoats and shirt-sleeves, and with uncovered heads, their hair cut straight across their foreheads, and hanging down behind; the whole costume very like that of the Swedish peasant in his everyday dress.
The congregation, consisting of about one hundred persons of each sex, sat upon benches which they carried forward, the men for themselves, the women for themselves, but opposite to each other. Two Shaker sisters came kindly and silently forward, carrying one bench after another to the spectators, who occupied the whole of one long side of the hall, and considerably exceeded in number the Shakers themselves.
All at once the Shakers rose up quickly, the benches were put out of the way; brother and sister stood for a moment opposite each other, after which an elderly man came forward and spoke for awhile, but I could not hear what he said. After that the congregation began to sing and dance, tripping forward and backward each one by himself, but in symmetrical lines and figures, to a measure, the principle of which seemed to me to be—
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Amid all variations of the air constantly recurred the figure _ _ _ _, almost always marked by very energetic stamping of the heels, and during the whole the hands were moved in time, somewhat as a child is lulled to sleep. All at once the dancing and singing ceased. The congregation stood immovable for a moment, and then another preacher stepped forth, after which singing and dancing began afresh. Thus it went on for an hour in an uninspired and mechanical way, as it seemed to me. And these pale women, all attired alike, tripping, and see-sawing up and down, and swinging about with downcast eyes, and without any sign of joy or natural life, appeared to me in a high degree unnatural. They had gentle but unmeaning countenances; I did not see one among them which was beautiful. The men looked better and more natural, both body and soul, and danced with more life, although the effect was often ludicrous. Again all was still in the assembly, and all resumed their seats on the benches. And now a Shaker brother of about forty stood up; he was a man with a narrow forehead, and deep-set, dark, glimmering eyes, whose whole exterior indicated the dominance of one idea, fanatically held. He placed himself before the spectators, and addressed them somewhat in this style—
“You behold us here assembled in a room which we have built by our own labour, in which we may worship God according to the law of our own conscience. If you are come here to see us, and you desire to feel esteem for our community and our mode of worship, and to behave in accordance with it, then you are welcome; if not, then you are not welcome here. But I hope the former. And let us now talk one with another, and let us see what it is which lies between you and us, what it is which separates us. Let us understand one another.”
He then proceeded to describe the Shaker community in opposition to the worldly community; the former as renouncing the world and living only for heaven, the latter as living merely for selfish enjoyment and earthly advantage. We had, every one of us, a very severely condemnatory sermon from Brother Evans (for such was the name of the Shaker brother), on account of our sins and our frailties, interrupted merely by such admonitions as, “Come, let us consider the matter together! Answer me!” and so on. It would have been extremely easy to have answered the good brother and to have retorted a great many of his accusations, and in particular his Shaker-self-commendation, and I wondered that no voice was raised to do so from the so-much censured audience. But they took it all in good part and were silent. After this chiding sermon the dancing recommenced with new vigour; a circle was formed which constituted the quire, and around it moved in a dancing ring, which seemed continually to extend itself (and evidently did so with method and art), the whole Shaker congregation, two and two, and finally three and three in a line, amid an incessant measured stamping and striking with the feet, and waving with the hands, and singing to a livelier tune than hitherto:—
| Oh, how I love this living way, |
| Where peace doth spread its cheering ray, |
| And like the brilliant orb of day |
| The truth of heaven is shining; |
| Where souls in union daily meet, |
| Their vows and offerings to repeat, |
| Pure love makes their communion sweet, |
| 'Tis like the dew of Hermon. |
The dancing and the movements became more and more animated the longer they continued, although it never exceeded a jog-trot measure, and I saw sweat-drops stand on many a countenance. The eyes of the women, however, still continued cast down, and their expression inanimate. The men appeared more lively, and their dancing, especially the action of the hands, which in their increasing zeal, resembled that of a harp-player, seemed easy and becoming, or at all events, not unbecoming their costume, and not at all unnatural. It was not difficult to understand that this circular dance might be intended as a symbolic representation of the path of life, and I have since been told that it represented the progress of the soul on its journey through life. The quire in the middle of the hall sang during the whole time, making a fanning movement with their hands.
I, for my part, do not see why dancing might not constitute divine worship as well as singing and other modes of action, and why it might not be a natural expression for certain phases of the religious life. When King David danced for joy before the ark, and played upon his harp as he sang songs of praise unto the Lord, he followed a true inspiration, nor have I anything against this dancing of the Shaker congregation, excepting that this is precisely the inspiration which it lacks. It is now merely a work of tradition, of custom, and calculation. A few years since it was different, and then, as I have heard from Miss Sedgewick, extraordinary phenomena were exhibited, as for instance, people spinning round like the Fakirs of the East, till they fell down from sheer fatigue, or in convulsive extacies. Such exhibitions are of rare occurrence now, or care is taken that they do not occur in public. The element of practical economy which, as well as religious enthusiasm, distinguishes the Shaker sect, seems latterly to have taken the lead.
This religious service concluded as silently as it had begun. The brothers and sisters carried away their benches in the same way that they had brought them forward, and then left the hall, each by their own entrance. I was determined, however, to know more of this sect and of its intention. I sought out therefore two leaders of the congregation, told them my wishes, and requested to see them again and to converse with them. They kindly consented, and invited me at once to dine with them and to remain over the next day. I could not do that, as I expected my young friends the Lowells; but in the afternoon, after I and the S.'s had dined at Lebanon Wells, we returned alone to the Shaker village. A deep silence now prevailed there. All the congregation were away, and those cheerful yellow houses lay solitary upon their green, sunlit hills.
We were received by two of the sisters, who conducted us into a room where two elderly men and two elderly women, as well as a few young girls, were present. The cheeks of the latter bloomed like roses beneath blue-white linen caps, and I now saw that the Shaker community did not send its handsomest members into the dance. These elderly men and women were elders, as they are here called, and superintendents of the family in which we found ourselves. The community of New Lebanon is divided into two families, the “North Family” and the “South Family.” Each family has its separate house, overseers, and household management. I propounded my questions to the elders, but it was soon clear to me that they could hardly answer them. One of the men was a wealthy man who had left his wife and his family to unite himself to the Shakers, to whom he had given a part of his property. Afterwards one of his daughters followed his example, and she was one of the pretty young girls now present. He was an elderly, strong-built man, with a good exterior and a countenance which indicated feeling to be stronger than intellect. The other elder had a noble, ascetic, and patriarchal appearance. Neither of them had much to say. The women seemed gentle but of circumscribed minds. They had sought for, and had found a haven amid the storms of life. More they did not desire.
But now Brother Evans entered, with the narrow, high forehead, the dark, fanatically gleaming eyes, and with him the conversation became animated. I was astonished to find in that fanatical preacher a very intelligent, and, upon the whole, a man of a liberal, although not of a profound mind, who understood the foundation and the vital intention of the sect, and could render a reason for all. The conversation with him became really interesting to me, and we both grew very earnest.
Of the questions and replies that passed between us I shall merely give the following:—
Question.—What is the meaning of your dancing? Is it symbolical or is it for discipline?
Answer.—Both one and the other. We dance because we cannot help it; because we cannot otherwise give expression to the feelings of our hearts. Our dance is so arranged that it may represent to us our duty and our faith, and thus become to us a vitalising sermon both to soul and body.
Question.—You say you represent something quite new in the world; nevertheless, I must observe, that sects which separated themselves from the world, forsaking all its pleasures, in order to lead a holy life, may be found in all ages. How do you distinguish your community from those orders of monks and nuns which were formed immediately after the introduction of Christianity, and which are yet to be met with in many countries?
Answer.—There is the greatest difference in the world. These orders will that the human being shall attain perfection by the separation of man and woman, whom God created for a spiritual oneness. We, on the contrary, maintain that it is only through this spiritual union between man and woman, that the perfected human being can be produced.
Question.—The fundamental idea of your community is then that of spiritual marriage?
Answer.—We do not call it marriage. We merely say that men and women cannot become good and perfected human beings, excepting by means of reciprocal spiritual union and daily intercourse, conformably with the intention of God, whereby they aid each other in the attainment of a perfect life.
Question.—But if all the world were to be of your way of thinking; and all the world, that is to say, our world, were to become a community such as yours, without marriage and without children, there would soon be an end of the world—it would then die out.
Elder Evans bethought himself for a little while and then said, that if the world came to an end in a good way, if it made a good and a holy end, then it might just as well happen soon as late, for that we, every one of us, looked towards our transformation, and hoped that it might be for the better.
On this I too bethought me for awhile, and then found nothing to reply, excepting that it seemed to me that the brother was not so far wrong. I had indeed, and still have, my suspicion that we human beings have a greater work to perform on this earth, than we should have time for if we all of us devoted ourselves to the life and death of the Shaker community; but I would not now agitate the ocean, in which neither Brother Evans nor I could very well swim, but would content myself with endeavouring to acquire a better knowledge of the organisation of the life and institution of the Shaker sect.
Its object is, the spiritual development of the human being by means of a spiritual, holy, social life; the main springs of this are Christian and kindly intercourse in spirit and action, of men and women, in prayer and in labour, for and with each other. The subjection of worldly pleasures, and a physically ascetic life being the means which are to remove all impediments from the former.
“Are you really very fond of one another here?” I inquired from one of the young girls.
“Oh yes, indeed, that we are!” replied she, and her beautiful, large, dark blue eyes beamed with a confirmation of her words.
The feeling which seemed to exist between these young girls and those elderly men, as I observed on two occasions, seemed to me to be especially beautiful and affectionate, such as that between good daughters and their fathers.
In the midst of our conversation young Lowell came bounding up the stairs and into the room where I sate with the Shaker company, and his handsome, fresh, and animated countenance, beaming with life and cordiality, shone like a May sun in upon that pale, although kind assembly. He and Maria were just arrived, and we had a cordial meeting in the midst of the Shaker sisters, who smiled gently and watched us, not without sympathy. They now invited us all to come and take supper with them, but the Lowells were going to the Lebanon Wells, because Maria required rest. The S.'s and I, therefore, went down with our Shaker friends into a hall, where a table was spread for us, with tea, milk, bread and butter, cakes, and preserves, and of all a great abundance. We were waited upon by the sisters; two of the brothers sate down to table with us, but without partaking of anything. Rebecca S. said to one of the sisters who waited upon us as she bent down to offer her something, “You look so good that I must kiss you!” Many sisters came in to see us. I observed some middle-aged women with remarkably good and noble countenances. A calm and mild gravity distinguished them all. They made me feel as during a mild but dull September day in Sweden. The air is then pure, the fields still green, it is agreeable, and it is calm, but a certain air of melancholy rests upon the landscape; it is wanting in sun, flowers, and the song of the birds; nothing grows, all stands still, and it by chance a bird utters a little twittering song, it is soon at an end. That mild, calm, September atmosphere suits me very well nevertheless, and the Shaker sisters seemed to see with satisfaction the evident interest which we felt for them and their society. They were heartily kind and agreeable, much more so than I could have believed as I saw them during the occurrences of the forenoon.
When we took leave of them I said, “I salute you all with a spiritual kiss, because, I presume, that you will not allow any other.”
“Oh, we are not so particular as that,” said a young girl, who smiling and bending forward her pretty head, kissed me, and with that came forward the rest, and we had a hearty kissing all round, Rebecca and I and the Shaker sisters, and as they laughed at this, I said to them:
“I fancied that you could not laugh.” And that made them all laugh again, and one of the elder women said, “Oh, I would not, for a great deal, be without my good laugh!”
They were regularly charming and delightful, a thousand times more so than some worldly and thoughtless ladies at the hotel at Lebanon Wells, who set themselves very high above “the poor Shakers.”
Their society left a very good impression upon me; and I have heard from persons who have had intercourse with the Shakers for many years, a great deal of good respecting them, in particular of their mutual life of Christian love, as well as of their kindness to the poor; their tender care of such children as are entrusted to them, sometimes those of poor people who do not belong to their society, sometimes of the families of members, but who live without acknowledging more than the spiritual connection with the society. The care which is taken also of the old and the sick of the community is said to be excellent. I heard the same from my little lady-doctor in Boston, Miss H., who is the physician of two or three Shaker establishments. She also told me of many an unhappy human life in the world which has found a peaceful asylum among the Shakers, of miserably married people, of lonely women, of men who have been severely tried by affliction, who have here found a haven from the tempests of the day, who have found friends, protection, the comforts of life, and the peace of life which they never could have found in the world. These societies are conventual associations in a milder form, and upon the whole, as it appears to me, the most rational institutions, and the best adapted for their purpose of any of this class, in everything, excepting the dancing, which might be made considerably more rational, and much more accordant with its object.
The Elder Richard Bushrell gave me, at parting, a book containing the history of the origin and organisation of the Millennium Church, or United Society of Believers called Shakers. I see by it that the sect originated in France, where, during a religious revival in Dauphiné, about the close of the fifteenth century, a number of men and women were attacked by religious extacies, both of soul and body, which they regarded as the operations of the Holy Spirit, they being accompanied by visions and powerful inward admonitions to a holy, God-dedicated, ascetic life. Disquieted and persecuted in France, some of them fled to England. Anne Lee, the daughter of a smith, who seems, from her earliest years, to have had visions and inspirations like those which are related in the history of the Swedish saint, St. Brigitta, became known to these pious French exiles; though she could neither read nor write, yet she soon distinguished herself by her Biblical and other sacred knowledge. After long spiritual sufferings which had emaciated her body, she fell into a state of religious extacy, by which both soul and body re- gained new life, and during which she became the centre, the teacher and leader, of that little flock of scattered believers who had faith in the higher inspiration of this extatic condition. Strong faith and natural genius enabled this woman, devoid of all ordinary education, to reduce to a system that which had hitherto been merely isolated phenomena, and mere conjecture. Through her, and under her influence, the doctrines took a definite form, as thus. That as the world fell by the first Eve, so would it reinstate itself by the second Eve. Christ's second appearance should be through the influence of the Holy Spirit in this second Eve, in the woman, who would lead to life in God that race, which she had formerly led to its fall from him. Perfect chastity is the principal condition of this state, together with the devotion of the whole life to God during labour for the brethren. The Shakers saw in Anne Lee, this second Eve, this new revelation of God upon earth. They called her Mother Anne Lee, and guided themselves by her inspirations. They danced to the service of God as she ordained, and when their extatic excitement became vehement—as is always the case in the youthful life of religious excitement—they were attacked by the mob, and Mother Lee and many of her adherents were thrown into prison; but in vain. Again they met together to sing and to utter praise, and the song became the dance, and the songs of praise lifted them in jumps and bounds from the earth. Disquieted and threatened in England, the Shakers, like all the other persecuted enthusiasts of Europe, cast their eyes across the sea to the New World. Mother Anne Lee became inspired to found there the association of New Lebanon. Accordingly, in the year 1774, Anne Lee, with a small company of her adherents, commenced their voyage; and as they were swayed by the motion of the sea, they sang and danced in their extatic worship of God. The captain of the vessel, who could not understand such an extraordinary mode of worship, threatened them that, if they would not desist, he would have them thrown overboard. A storm arose; a plank was torn loose from the ship's side, and the water poured in. The captain, now desperate against the Shaker company, and regarding their ungodly proceedings as the cause of this misfortune, was just about to execute his threat when Mother Anne Lee exclaimed, “Be of good courage, captain, for not a hair of your head shall suffer: I see two angels by the mast of your vessel!”
“And at that very moment,” continues the narrative, “came a wave and struck the plank again into the ship's side, so that the water flowed in no longer, and the people at the pumps could make head against it.”
The storm also soon abated, and the captain from this time left the Shakers at peace. They continued to sing and dance. Singing praises and dancing upon the wild waves of the sea, they arrived at the New World.
Mother Anne Lee and her disciples purchased land not far from the banks of the Hudson, cultivated the wilderness, built a house, and founded there in September of the year 1776 their first evangelical community, under the name of New Lebanon. Mother Anne Lee's wedded husband, poor man, whom she had married before the time of her religious awakening, and who, in the beginning, also belonged to her believers, became unfaithful, separated himself from her, and fell into drunkenness and other vices. The Shaker establishment at New Lebanon, however, flourished and prospered under the guidance of Mother Anne Lee, and gave birth to new Shaker communities in other States, which Anne Lee visited, in order to diffuse there her doctrines. She died in extreme old age, universally esteemed and beloved.
Such of her expressions and teachings as are preserved in the book, show a God-fearing and gentle disposition—not without some little arrogance in the belief that she was another Christ;—as well as of a very prudent, managing, and practical turn of mind. In the meantime she referred all rules of labour and frugality to God, as the giver of all good. “It is,” said she, “through the blessing of God that every article of food is given, and therefore we must not be careless even of the smallest things.”
Of her exterior it is said, “Mother Anne Lee was somewhat below the middle height of woman; she was tolerably stout, but upright and well formed, both in person and in features. Her complexion was fair and clear; her eyes blue and penetrating; the expression of her countenance mild and full of soul, but at the same time solemn and grave. Many persons in the world called her beautiful, and in the eyes of her faithful children she seemed to be possessed of a high degree of beauty and celestial amiability, such as they had never before seen in any mortal being. And when she was under the influence of the Holy Spirit, her countenance beamed with the glory of God, and her form and her actions seemed divinely beautiful and angelic. The power and influence of her spirit at such times surpassed all description; no one then could contradict her, or oppose the power through which she spoke.”
At the present time there are in the United States eighteen Shaker communities, scattered over several States, from New Hampshire to Ohio and Indiana. The sect is said however not to exceed four thousand members in number. The society of New Lebanon consists of from seven to eight hundred persons. Each community has its separate two or three families, and among these its Church family or “Ministry,” of elected, spiritually-gifted men and women, who conduct the spiritual affairs of the society; the temporal affairs are under the government of deacons and elders elected for that purpose. All the various communities stand in a certain subordinate relationship to that of New Lebanon, which is called the mother-community. All property is in common; no one in the community possesses anything for himself. All division of property is objected to. Any person who, on entering the community, brings in with him property may, after a time, draw it out again if he wishes to leave the community. But if it is given to the community after calm reflection and with full consciousness of the act, it cannot again be resumed. Most of the Shaker associations are in good circumstances, and that at New Lebanon is said to be wealthy, and to be still more and more extending its possessions. It is maintained by agriculture and the rearing of cattle. Everything which is made by the Shakers is substantial, but has something odd and devoid of taste in form and colour. The Shakers live well and work leisurely, because they have neither pleasures nor superfluity, and they work equally, and they work all. The sect increases slowly; you hear no scandalous stories told of these communities. Yet will it now and then happen that a young couple there, a brother and sister, will elope in order to unite themselves as man and wife, beyond the pale of the society. Nobody pursues them; they are merely considered as lost.
On one occasion, I have heard that a new-born child was laid at the door of a Shaker house. It caused a great excitement when it was found there the next morning, and all the Shakers, men and women, young and old, went forth to see that wonderful little thing, a baby! “The baby” became the object of curiosity and interest to the whole Shaker community; and “the baby's” well-being, its growth and progress, the subject of general conversation and general attention. “The baby” was for a long time the chief personage in the Shaker community.
And now you must indeed have had enough of the Shakers. I wish, however, to see more of them and of their commonwealth, and hope yet to have an opportunity of doing so. Mother Anne Lee, how many of Eve's daughters, and sons too, are there who might very well go to school—if not exactly into the dancing-school—with thee!
I passed the evening at Lebanon Wells with my friends the S.'s and L.'s, and bathed also in its crystalline, sulphur-impregnated bath. Finally, I contended with the S.'s, because, we had the old story over again, I wished to pay my share of the expenses both of the journey and our stay at the hotel, to which they would not consent. They have a thousand amiable ways and expressions by which to silence me and to compel me to let them defray travelling expenses. They are of a thoroughly kind and liberal nature, and the sense of their pleasure in giving caused me in the end to be silent, but with tears in my eyes; and they carried their point without my being able to thank them. But I know that they understand my feelings. I cannot describe to you how amiable they are, how careful they are of me, and how kindly anxious! And all is done in such a simple and natural manner, as though they were my brother and sister. I am sincerely attached to them, and am happy in having become acquainted with such people.
They returned to New York, and I continued my journey with the Lowells, part of the way by the Hudson, and the rest by railway; but it rained terrifically, and in our transit from one mode of conveyance to the other we, as well as our carpet-bags, got wet through. Drenched, and amid pouring rain which rushed in torrents through the streets of Albany, we arrived at our hotel, where they refused to receive us. The agricultural fair was to be held in two days in the city, and every room was engaged by people coming to the fair. On our promising, however, merely to remain there for one night, they gave us accommodation; and how charming it was to be able to dry ourselves before good fires, and to have warm and refreshing tea!
I am now in the centre of the most powerful State of North America, with its population equal to that of the whole of Sweden, and much richer; but Sweden has a wealth which the Emperor State can never obtain, let it be as rich as it may; and yet it is not nearly so powerful as it might and certainly will become.
New York State has no old memories, no origin of an interest equal to that of Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, and Georgia. It was trade which first populated this country. Its earliest founders proceeded thence from Holland; and the country was called by them New Netherlands, and the peninsula upon which New York stands was then called Manhatten, a grand Indian name, by which I could wish that New York might be rebaptised. It was at the expense of the Dutch Company that Hudson went to America and discovered the glorious river which bears his name, and the country around it he described as “Het shoonste land det men met voeten betreden kon.” Even to this day the State is full of the Dutch, who live in a clan-like manner, and will not avail themselves of schools or other great institutions which have been established by the present law-giving and dominant people. The State of New York does not appear to have contributed to the spiritual treasury of great ideas in the New World. Nevertheless, the idea of a federal republic seems to have been carried over to New York from the general States of Holland.
And now, good-bye, my sweet sister! I am tired and sleepy.
Niagara, Sept. 7th.
I now write to you with the rivers from this grand, renowned New World's wonderful waterfall, roaring and murmuring around me. And it is grand, and worthy to be renowned and wonderfully beautiful, and yet, at the same time, so simple and comprehensible in its grandeur, that one at once receives the impression both into soul and sense, and retains its indelibly. It astonished me less than I expected, but it has become more to me. It has grown with me, and—but I shall talk to you about it another time.
It is now evening, and dark without. And now, by lamplight, with the music of the rivers' roar beneath my window, nay, almost beneath my feet, for we have our rooms in the hotel, “Cataract House,” above the rapids, which with the speed of lightning shoot foaming past on their way to the great fall,—now then will I have a little chat with you and give you an account of the events of the last few days.
I wrote last to you from Albany. The rain kept us prisoners the whole afternoon and evening. The morning rose grey and cloudy. I looked like a turkey-hen, up to the sky in fear of rain; but when I saw the grey clouds breaking, the blue peeping through them, I knew that all was right, and the day became glorious, and the journey was glorious through the beautiful fertile Mohawk valley, along the river of that name, a lively, roaring little river, with bright red-tinged waters, which went speeding along through verdant and rich meadows. The clouds had taken to themselves wings, and flown far aloft into that blue vault, and there vanished like the small wings of the cherubim, leaving the firmament brilliant in its deep blue. The fields were brilliant with sunflowers, partly wild and partly planted around the small farm-houses. I never saw such an abundance of them, nor of such a size. Many of them had heads of flower, and were as tall as young trees. At one place I saw a little house quite surrounded by tall sunflowers as by a wood; they were higher than the house: but that, certainly, was not very tall for a house. On all hands the land appeared well laid out and cultivated. The sun shone brilliantly over that beautiful rich landscape, and the landscape shone brilliantly back again after the rain; everything looked fresh and rejoicing. And we flew along that excellent railroad, reposing in excellent arm-chairs, flew towards the West, that rich land of promise, the evening land of the sun! Thus sped we along through many infant cities, such as Syracuse, Rome, Oswego, Auburn, Vienna, Amsterdam, Schenectady, Oneida, Seneca Falls, Genoa, and so on; all pretty, all increasing, all abounding in lovely houses and gardens, with many churches, built in a decorative style, and town-houses lording it over the cities, both in situation and character,—all testifying to good order and prosperity, and each one very much like another, spite of the dissimilar character which is suggested by their appellations. I, for my part, like this appropriation of all the celebrated names of the Old World by the New, because I perceive in it an unconscious prophecy to the people of that higher metamorphosis which is to be produced by this country and this people, through which the life of the Old World shall again come forth anew, but with a higher or more spiritual significance. In these names from all lands and all peoples, I hear the prediction of that great popular assembly of all the nations of the earth, which is to take place in this country.
We sped on, and past many lakes with their romantic shores, Cayuga, Seneca, Canandaigun, Oneida, and many others. The scenery was not of a grand character, but was infinitely pleasing and fertile. The orchards, which surrounded the well-built country houses and farms, were brilliant with their splendid apples and peaches. I had heard it said that the journey through the western valley of New York was interesting by the spectacle which it presented of luxuriant and flourishing vegetable life. And it is so. It is a rural festival from one end to the other. My young friends, James and Maria, enjoyed it as much as I did. And as the day declined, the sun descended to the western horizon towards which we were directing our course, and the lower it sunk the more glowing became its colour, the more warm and the deeper at the same time, and we sped on directly towards the sun. I gazed towards it as one of the daughters of Peru might have done; I gazed towards it like the sunflowers on our way, and felt myself inwardly to stand in kinship to it.
In the evening we arrived at Utica, where we were to remain one night. And whilst Maria rested, and James made arrangements for our next day's journey to Trenton Falls, I went out on an exploratory journey into the little city with the old republican name. “I will go and look after Cato,” thought I to myself; “perhaps he walks here once more.”
And that he does, although in the metamorphosis; that is to say, I saw upon the corners of two houses a printed placard, upon which I read—“The tailoresses of the city of Utica call a meeting at , next Wednesday, to consider what means can be taken to remove the oppressions under which we labour, and also how we can best obtain our rights.”
Stern old advocate of the rights of the people, who wouldst not live where thou sawst them destroyed by the hands of Caesar! old magnanimous Cato, who didst die for republican freedom—thou art the victor after all! That which thou desiredst, that for which thou foughtest, is here, in this new republic, a living reality two thousand years afterwards. I see and read it here; even the lowest of the people may stand up for their rights, may make their speeches in the state's forum, equally with the most powerful, and obtain justice. Old Republican, thou hast conquered! and thy spirit lives here mightier than in that ancient Rome. “The tailoresses of the city of Utica” prove this in the city which bears the name of thy birthplace. Pity only that they had not drawn up their advertisement better! But that is of less consequence, as its purport is clear.
Thus I returned home, glad to have met the spirit of Cato, and to have seen in Utica many pretty and tastefully-built houses surrounded by plantations. The streets in the lesser cities of America are a succession of small detached villas, with their grass plots, elegant iron palisading, and fine trees in front of the houses. It is only in those portions of the towns in which shops are to be found that the houses are built close together, and rather with an eye to the advantage of business than for beauty. Still a handsome appearance and good proportion are never lost sight of, and everywhere prevail order and neatness.
“Do you live happily and contentedly here in this city?” inquired I from a young shopman, who looked particularly agreeable.
“Oh, yes, indeed!” replied he, frankly and cordially, “we have good friends, good neighbours, and everything good! We could not wish it better!”
An unusual state of happiness and contentment!
The next day we went with a carriage and horses—a mode of travelling which is beginning to be uncommon here—to Trenton, in order to see the waterfall, which is cousin to Niagara in reputation. It is a wild and violent fall, hurling itself through an immense chasm of rock, directly down a height of certainly a quarter of an English mile. The water, which has the colour of clear sherry, leaps from between the lofty dark walls of rock, like a Berserk, from ledge to ledge in the wildest tumult, gleaming in the sun, tumbling into abysses, leaping up over masses of rock and trunks of trees, rending down and overwhelming everything in its career, flinging forth cascades of spray right and left into the wood, which stands as if dumb and trembling while the mighty giant-hero passes by. It is magnificent; but too violent, too headlong. One is deafened by the thundering roar, and almost blinded by the impetuosity with which the masses of water are hurled forward. One becomes wearied by it, as one does by anything extravagant, let it be as grand as it may; one cannot hear one's own thoughts, much less those of others, even if they are shouted into one's ear. One is out-talked, out-done, out-maddened by the giant's Berserker-madness. Alone in its clear and glowing colour could I see the divine fire, and when standing on a rocky terrace by the side of the fall, I took off my bonnet, and let the spray rain over me, as it was flung down from the water like a mist; I then felt that the Mighty One could be even gentle and refreshing.
The scenery at Trenton is wild and picturesquely beautiful, but circumscribed. It is of a Berserker character. We spent the whole day at Trenton, in company with the giant and the scenery around. The inn was a good and comfortable one, as are nearly all the inns in this country, and was situated in a romantic stretch of dale scenery. We ate well and we slept well, and the next day we returned to Utica and thence pursued our way still farther West. The sun was still with us, and the country rich and fertile as before. During our rapid journey, however, something took fire in the train in consequence of the friction of wood and iron, and we were obliged to wait that it might be extinguished. We took it all very coolly, enjoyed ourselves sitting in our luxurious arm-chairs, with the sense of something like adventure, and watched how expertly and with how much calmness they set about to avert the danger. The train had stopped just beside a large and beautiful orchard, which was separated from the rail-road by a rather low wooden fence. I had just called Maria Lowell's attention to the really paradisaic beauty and perfection of some young apple-trees, the fruit of which was brilliant with the most vivid red and golden yellow-colour, when, to my astonishment—and I must confess to my grief also—I saw a number of young men, passengers of the train, from twenty to thirty years of age, well-dressed and well-looking in all respects, leap over the fence into the orchard, and in the most merciless manner, fall upon and despoil those beautiful fruit-trees. Precisely those young, beautiful trees which I had remarked, became the prey of this robber-greed, were dragged down, their branches broken, plucked off amid the laughter and talk of the company, and then came many others from the train and leapt over the fence and into the orchard. But now a voice was heard in the distance, and that voice must have sounded to those apple-covetous sons of Adam, something like the voice of the Lord when it was heard in the Garden of Eden by the first Adam, after that first eating of the forbidden fruit, although not perhaps quite so awfully. Certain however it is that they took to their heels, and threw over the fence, on to the road, all the apples they could snatch from the tree, and sprang laughing, and still throwing apples before them over the fence and into the carriages, leaving the owner of the orchard to contemplate his despoiled and injured trees. I confess that this apple-scene and the spirit in which it was done very much astonished me.
“Is it possible,” said I to James Lowell, “that gentlemen can act in this manner?”
He shook his head silently; “And yet,” said I, “these young men looked like gentlemen. Many of them were handsome besides being well-dressed.”
I had many times heard of garden-robberies of fruit and flowers by young fellows, in the neighbourhood of great cities, especially around Philadelphia, and I had even asked my friends how this might be prevented. They confessed that it was so, but excused it by saying, that fruit was so plentiful and so cheap in this country, that nobody considered the taking of it as anything very important. And yet these young men, on this occasion, had ran away at the sound of the proprietor's voice, like any ordinary fruit-thieves. The only difference between the fruit-thieves of Europe and those of the New World seemed to be that the latter were not ashamed. Stealing fruit and destroying trees, as well as fleeing away from the owner of the orchard, all were equally signs of a low state of feeling.
About noon we arrived at Rochester, one of those great arteries through which the trade and traffic of the West flows into the Eastern States, and from these into the West. The city is situated between Lake Ontario and the River Genesee, the many falls of which turn its celebrated flour-mills. By means of the great lakes Rochester has communication with all the States which are situated round them as well as with Canada, and by means of the Genesee and Hudson, the Erie canal and innumerable railroads, it is connected with the Eastern States. Rochester is one of the children of the Great West in respect to growth. It was founded in 1812, by Nathaniel Rochester, and some other emigrants from Maryland, and in the year 1820, it contained 1500 inhabitants; now, in the year 1850, it contains 40,000. That may well be called progress. Its staple trade is the grinding of flour: its mills are said to grind daily five thousand barrels of flour, which is said to be of a magnificent quality.
We were received at Rochester by some friends of the Lowells, kind and agreeable people, who drove us in their carriage to see the lions of the place. First, we went to the factories which are situated upon the high banks of the Genesee river. The water which turns these wheels of labour is brought from the higher part of the river, and again flows into it from the mills after it has perfectly accomplished its labour. It rushes merrily along, in foaming cascades over the flat rocks, like wild schoolboys who, now that school is over, bound forth full of the joy of life into the open air; but if they had not done their work they could not have played. The opposite banks, equally lofty with that upon which the mills stood, were laid out in pleasure grounds, by some Germans, as we were told; there were swings, a shooting ground, and other means of amusement, and as a festival for eye and mind, a landscape of prairie-like extent and character. On the verdant, open meadows, which were undivided by fences, grazed peaceful flocks and herds. The descending sun shone brilliantly over that cheerful scene. How good was the thought, or how fortunate was the accident, which introduced pleasure in the midst of labour, and furnished for both this glorious open space. Maria Lowell and I walked by the river side for an hour alone, she as much affected as I was by the peculiar beauty and significant life of the place, and I listening with delight to her intelligent remarks on the honour of labour, and the happiness which is attendant upon it. Farther down we came to yet wilder falls, too wild and too beautiful to turn mills. They were neither very large nor powerful, but of great picturesque beauty, and leafy trees and shrubs grow around them. Thus we proceeded till we came to a flour mill, which I saw from top to bottom, and shook hands with the men of the mill, and became very dusty with flour.
The streets of Rochester were animated with buyers and sellers; with those who were driving, and those who were walking, and amid the crowd of the European race Indians might be seen in their white blankets, and with their uncovered long, black, shaggy hair, passing in and out of the shops.
The following day I made acquaintance with the so-called “Rochester knockings,” or that species of witchcraft which has so long revealed itself here and there in the West, the goblin of the West, as I call it, and which has now for some time been heard in Rochester, or wherever the young women of the name of Fish may chance to be. It is given out that these knockings are the operation of spirits who attend these sisters and who are in communication with them. A number of persons in the city had visited the sisters, heard the knockings seen tables walk off by themselves over the floor, and many other wonderful things performed by these spirits. Some believed in them, but the greater number did not, considering the young women to be cunning impostors who themselves produced these noises and strange occurrences.
As these sisters, the Misses Fish, received payment for letting the public see and hear them, it appears all the more probable that this may be the case. Nevertheless they had themselves solicited investigation, had consented to be bound hand and foot in the presence of a committee, consisting of some of the most respectable people of the city; and during the whole time the noises and knockings were heard around them, and the committee published in the newspaper a declaration, signed by their names, stating that nothing had been discovered which gave reason to suspect these young women of imposture. Since then they have been left at peace; but the better class of townspeople seem to regard it as a proof of bad taste and want of judgment to visit these ghostly ladies. I have, from my earliest youth, heard so much about spectral affairs, and have myself heard such things as I cannot explain by the ordinary, well-known powers of nature,—and I had so frequently, during my travels in America, heard and read in the newspapers of “The Western Knockings and Rappings,” that I was very curious to hear them with my own ears. The young Lowells partook of my curiosity, and our friends in Rochester conducted us therefore to the place where, for the present, they were to be heard. The first glance however of the two sisters convinced me that whatever spirits they might be in communication with, they were not of a spiritually respectable class. Very different must be the appearance of such persons as have communion with the higher spiritual beings. For the rest, I came to the conclusion, from what occurred during this visit, and which in certain respects was extraordinary enough, that the spirits did not understand Swedish, for they ought not in any case to have permitted themselves to be defied and threatened in Swedish as they were by me; that these wonderful knockings and tricks were either effected by these young sisters themselves, and they looked to me quite capable of it, however incomprehensible it might seem that they could manage to perform some of the tricks, or that they were the work of spirits of a similar disposition to these sisters, and in rapport with them. I may call these spirits, the little Barnums of the spiritual world who, like the great Barnum of America, amuse themselves with leading by the nose any persons who will be so led, and who receive their pranks in serious earnest. I do not doubt but that the spiritual world has its “humbugs,” even as our world has, and it does not seem to me extraordinary that they endeavour to make fools of us. I am however surprised that intelligent people can be willing to seek for intercourse with their beloved departed through the medium of these knocking spirits, as is often the case. The sorrow of my heart and doubt of my mind might do a great deal; but it seems to me that rather would I never hear upon earth any tidings of my beloved dead, than hear them through these miserable knockings. The intercourse of spirits, angelic communion, is of a higher and holier kind.
From this scene, which produced a disquieting uncomfortable impression (the young Lowells were extremely angry with it), we drove to call on Frederick Douglas, a fugitive slave from Maryland, who has become celebrated by his natural genius, his talent as a public speaker, and the eloquence with which he pleads the cause of his black brethren. He is the editor of a paper called the “North Star,”[1] which is published at Rochester: he was now here, but confined to the house by bronchitis, which prevented his calling on me.
I had great interest in him, principally from his autobiography, which I had read, and which bears evidence of a strong and profoundly sensitive spirit, as well as of truth. And this is not always the case with some other autobiographies of fugitive slaves, which are a mixture of truth and fiction, and greatly overdrawn.
There is one part of this narrative which deeply affected me by its beauty, and I will translate it for you. It will give you some idea of the man and his condition as a slave, during the severest period of his slave-life. He was then a youth of seventeen.
“I was somewhat intractable when I came first to Mr. Covey. But a few months of this discipline quite subdued me. Mr. Covey succeeded in breaking me in. I was broken both body, soul, and spirit. My natural elasticity of mind was crushed; my intelligence was dulled; the desire to read died within me; the cheerful sparkle of my eye was gone; the dark night of slavery lay heavy upon me, and—behold a human being changed into a mere chattel!
“Sunday was my only free time. I spent it in a sort of animal stupidity, between sleeping and waking, under a large tree. Sometimes I rose up; a flash of energetic life—the life of freedom, passed through my soul, accompanied by a gleam of hope, which lit it up for a moment, and then again vanished. And again I sank down, sorrowing over my condition. Sometimes I was tempted to put an end to my life and to Covey's at the same time, but I was withheld by a feeling both of hope and fear.
“Our house stood merely a few steps from Chesapeak Bay, upon whose broad bosom always shone white sails from all the countries of the habitable world. These beautiful vessels, in their shining white garments, so enchanting to the eye of the freeman, seemed to me like shrouded spectres, who came to terrify and torment me with the thought of my wretched state.
“Often in the profound silence of a summer Sunday have I stood alone upon the lofty shores of this magnificent bay, and with a heavy heart and tearful eyes followed the innumerable crowd of sail floating out towards the great ocean. The sight of these affected me powerfully. My thoughts sought for expression, and there in the ear of the one Almighty Auditor did my soul pour forth her lament, though in a rude and untaught manner, as if addressing the sailing ships: ‘You are released from your bonds, and are free. I am enchained by my fetters, and am a slave! You speed on joyfully before the wind. I am driven on painfully by the bloody whip. You are the swift-winged angels of freedom, who fly around the world. I am fettered by an iron chain. Oh, that I were but free! Oh, that I were but standing on one of your stately decks, beneath the shadow of your protecting wings. Ah! between you and me rolls the pitiless sea! Go! go! Oh, that I also could go! If I could only swim. If I could but fly! Oh, why was I born a man to become a chattel! That glad ship is gone; it is losing itself in the dim distance. I am left in the burning hell of endless slavery. Oh God, save me! God release me! Let me become free! Is there a God? Why am I a slave? I will fly. I will not endure it! Free or in bondage—I will attempt it—I have only life to lose. I may as well die running as standing. Only think—one hundred miles directly north, and I am free. Attempt it? Yes! so help me God! I will do it. It cannot be intended that I should die a slave. I will trust myself to the sea. This very creek shall bear me to liberty! A better day is in the future!’ ”
And he became free, although several years later. Thank God, he succeeded in saving himself, in becoming free! His autobiography is one of the most interesting books which any one can read. Douglas has entirely maintained himself for some years as a literary man, always working for his great object—the emancipation of the slaves and the improvement of the free coloured people.
I found him to be a light Mulatto of about thirty, with an unusually handsome exterior, such as I imagine should belong to an Arab chief. Those beautiful eyes were full of a dark fire. He suffered much from that affection of the throat, and could speak only with difficulty. Some bitter words were vehemently expressed against the custom prevalent under the system of slavery, of robbing the labourer of the wages which he earns. The case is this; slaves are hired out by their owners to work for certain wages, perhaps for a dollar a day, or seven or nine dollars a week, and this wage they must, at the end of the week or the month, whichever it may be, take to their masters. Many slave-holders maintain themselves by money thus acquired by their slaves. On the other side, the master generally provides clothes for the slaves, and is bound to take care of them in sickness and old age. Many slaves, however, earn so much by their labour that they could very well do more than maintain themselves, if they might but have that which they earn.
The wife of Douglas is very dark, stout and plain, but with a good expression; his little daughter, Rosetta, takes after her mother. The governess is a white lady, who lives in the family. I cannot but admire that force of character which enables her to bear those trials which, in such circumstances, she must have to bear from the prejudiced white people; and they are legion even in the free states. But possibly has that former slave, now the apostle-militant of freedom, that greatness of character which makes such a sacrifice easy to an ardent soul. I saw too little of him, and under circumstances too unpropitious for me to obtain a clear impression. And if, in his case, bitterness of spirit were more conspicuous than magnanimity, who can wonder?
I must now say a few words about some knockings in Rochester, which entertained me more than the so-called spiritual;—these I heard in the Telegraph Office of the city. I wished to know whether the former American minister in Stockholm, Mr. Lay, who now lived in Batavia, a little city in Western New York, was at home, in which case I wished to pay a visit to him and his wife on my way back to Niagara. Mr. Lay, who is still in a very suffering state after an apoplectic attack, had immediately on my arrival in America written to me very kindly, and sent a confidential person to take me to his house; but as I was then with the Downings, I was not able to avail myself of his kindness. Now, however, I was come into the neighbourhood of the Lays, and should be glad to see these amiable people, my former friends in Sweden, if it were merely to thank them. I wished therefore to send a message and make inquiries at Batavia, about sixty miles distant from Rochester.
I was taken to the Telegraph Office, a handsome, well-lighted room in a large covered arcade, in which were ornamental shops like those arched bazaar-arcades in Paris and London. I gave my message to one of the gentleman officials. He immediately caused some mystical knockings to take place, by means of which my message was sent to Batavia. In a few seconds it knocked again. This was the answer from Batavia, which said, “There is no person here of that name.” I requested it to knock back again, “Yes, there certainly is. Mr. George W. Lay was two years ago American envoy in Sweden, and now lives in Batavia.” In a few seconds more it was knocked back from Batavia, “Wait a little; we will inquire.” I waited now about five minutes, when again it knocked from Batavia, and said, “Quite right. Mr. George Lay lives here; but is at the present time with his wife in New York. Miss Bremer will be gladly welcomed by such of the family as are now at home.”
As my friends saw how much I was entertained by this telegraphic conversation, a gentleman seated himself at a small harpsichord and played for a few seconds silently upon its keys. He told me that he now sent to a city a hundred miles off, the intelligence, “Miss Bremer is in the office.” The next moment I saw, upon a sort of music-desk, a strip of paper unroll itself, upon which an invisible hand had impressed these words in printed letters, “The operator at Buffalo sends his compliments to Miss Bremer, and hopes she is pleased with the experiment.” Miss Bremer replied through the harpsichord keys that she was greatly pleased.
But I was now obliged to hasten to Ontario, where we were next evening to take the steam-boat. Those amiable friends who had made our visit in Rochester so agreeable, accompanied us to the shore, after having presented us with a great number of flowers and the most beautiful fruits, really Hesperian in beauty and excellence. Rochester, with its varied scenes of mills and knockings of life and lies, its good people and beautiful fruit, left upon us an impression of vigorous life.
In a calm, dark night, with stars glimmering between the clouds above us, we sped along Lake Ontario in a splendid steam-boat, and in the dawn ascended the River Niagara, a little, but romantically lovely daughter of the great fall; and just as the sun rose we stepped on land and into a carriage to proceed thither. It was a glorious morning, somewhat cool, but bright and cheerful. Two hours later we were at the place; heard the mighty thundering voice of the monster long before we saw it, and as there were now but few visitors at this advanced season, we had the best room we could desire in “Cataract House,” and then hastened out to seethe object.
It makes a grand and joyful impression, but has nothing in it which astonishes or strikes the beholder. As you go toward the great fall, which is on the Canada side, you see a broad mass of water which falls perpendicularly from a plane in a horse-shoe or crescent form. One might say that the water comes from an open embrace. The water calm and clear, and of the most beautiful smaragdus-green colour, arches itself over the precipice that breaks it, and it is then that the fury and wild power of the fall first break forth, but even here rather majestically than furiously. Trenton is a young hero, drunken with youthful life and old sherry, which, in blind audacity, rushes forth on its career, violent and terrible. Niagara is a goddess, calm and majestic even in the exercise of her highest power. She is mighty, but not violent. She is calm, and leaves the spectators so. She has grand, quiet thoughts, and calls forth such in those who are able to understand her. She does not strike with astonishment, but she commands and fascinates by her clear, sublime beauty. One sits by her knee and still can hear one's own thoughts and the words of others, yes, even the falling water-drops from the green trees which her waters have besprinkled. She is too great to wish to silence, to wish to rule, excepting by her spirtual power. She isah, she is what human beings are not, and which, if they were, would make them god-like.
But those many thousand people who come hither every year—it is said that the place is visited by 60,000 persons annually—must they not grow a little greater and better by seeing this greatness, and reflecting themselves in it?—I rejoice that so many people see Niagara in the year.
From the unknown fountains of the St. Lawrence, and from the four great inland lakes, Superior, Michigan, Huron, and Erie, which together are said to hold a fourth part of all the fresh-water on the earth—flow the waters of the Niagara fall. The river on its way from Lake Erie encounters, near the fall, an island called Iris, or Goat Island, which divides it into two branches; by the one is formed the Canada fall, by the other, which hurries broad and thundering past our windows, is formed the American fall. Between them are somewhat above twenty feet of flat rock, overgrown with brush-wood. The fall on the Canada side is the richest and the most beautiful. Its breadth is 1500 feet, its height 154 feet. The fall on the New York side is 600 feet wide and 167 feet high. The Canada fall, with its beautiful half-circle, lies just in the middle of the stream. A lofty pyramid of spray-mist ascends from the foaming abyss at its feet, and rises toward heaven high above the level of the fall, like the spirit of Niagara, whose cloudy brow moves itself hither and thither in the wind. The stream from the Canada fall soon joins that of the American side. United they form below what is called “the whirlpool.” The stream there makes a bend and the agitated water is swung round. After that it flows on more calmly as the Niagara river or sound, twenty-five miles, pours itself through Lake Ontario into the magnificent St. Lawrence—the river of a thousand islands—and by it into the Atlantic Ocean. Trollhätten in Sweden has neither the mass of waters of Niagara nor its majesty, but it has more history, more romantic life. Niagara is a grand scene, a sublime action. Trollhätten is a series of scenes and actions. Niagara is a hymn. Trollhätten is a Valasong.
That which most surprised me in Niagara, because I had not expected it, and that which charmed me every day was, besides the smaragdus-green colour of the water, the play of the rainbows over and around the fall, according as the sunbeams fell, or as the wind bore the water-spirit's movable pyramid. This formed a succession of brilliant scenes, continually varying and enchantingly beautiful. There is a something about it which charms and depresses me at the same time, because there is a something in it which I wish to understand better. I feel that Niagara has more to say to me than it has yet said, or more than I have yet comprehended; and nothing can perfectly delight me until it has told me its innermost thought. Even when young, dancing gave me no pleasure, until I understood the meaning of dancing; before then it had been to me an irrational hopping about.
We have been here for three days, and shall remain yet two or three days longer. In the mornings I see the fall from the American shore, that is to say from the New York side, when the sun, in its ascent, throws hundreds of beautiful bridges over the cloud of spray; in the afternoon and evening it ought to be contemplated from the Canadian shore when the sun descends on the British side. In the forenoon I bathe in the stream, in the so-called “Mammoth” stream-bath, where the river rushes with such impetuosity into the bath-house, that one can with difficulty stand against it. It is very refreshing. In the afternoon, directly after dinner, I sit with my young friends in the piazza outside our room, and see the stream rushing by, and listen to its music. I often stand for a long time upon some one of the little bridges over the stream, merely to inhale the fragrance of the water; for the water here has the most delightful freshness, that I can compare to nothing with which I am acquainted. But it feels like the spirit of a delicious, immortal youth. Yes, here it seems to me as if one might become young again in body and in soul.
My young friends however do not enjoy the life here as fully as I do. James is not very lively, and Maria, who expects shortly to become a mother, dreams at night that she sees little Mabel playing with her departed sisters Blanche and Rose; and a telegraphic message regarding her health which was expected yesterday, but which did not arrive, has added to the uneasiness of the affectionate parents on account of their only child, and drawn away their regards from the great Niagara.
September.—My friends are in better heart. Yesterday came the telegraphic intelligence, “Mabel is well.” And after that a long letter from the amiable old father, Dr. Lowell, full of anecdotes of home, and the warm affectionate home-life. Yes, that is more than Niagara. But Niagara is now my best beloved.
Last evening, James and I—Maria had a cold, and could not venture out in the night air—went across to the Canadian side, and walked backwards and forwards as the sun descended. At every new bend or movement of that misty water-spirit it presented new forms of light. Still were the rainbows arched, like the airy bridge of Bifrost in the old Scandinavian mythology, the one over the other; still glowed the light like kisses of fire, brilliant with prismatic colours, upon the green waters in the abyss; it was an unceasing festival of light, perpetually changing and astonishingly beautiful. What life, what variations between earth and heaven! And as the sun sank, those splendid bridges arched themselves higher and higher aloft in the ascending mist. The pyramidal light red cloud floated in the pale blue heaven above the green Niagara, and around it; on the lofty shores stood the forest in its brilliant autumnal pomp, such as is only seen in the forests of America, and all was silent and still excepting the thunder of the waterfall, to the voice of which all things seemed to be listening.
September 9th.—In the morning of time, before man was yet created, Nature was alone with her Creator. The warmth of His love, the light of His eye awoke her to the consciousness of life; her heart throbbed with love for Him of whose life of love she had partaken, and she longed to present Him with an offering, to pour out her feeling, her life, for Him who gave it. She was young and warm with the fulness of primeval life; but she felt nevertheless her weakness in comparison with His power. What could she give to Him from whom she received everything? Her heart swelled with love and pain, with infinite longing, with the fulness of infinite life, swelled and swelled till it overflowed in—Niagara. And the spirit of thanksgiving arose as the smoke of an eternal sacrifice from the depth of the water towards heaven. The Lord of heaven saw it, and His spirit embraced the spirit of Nature with rainbows of light, with kisses of brilliant fire in an eternal betrothal.
Thus was it in the morning of the earth's life. Thus we behold it to this day. Still we behold to-day the spirit of nature ascend from Niagara towards heaven with the offering of its life, as an unspoken yearning and song of praise; and still to-day it is embraced by the light and the flames of heaven, as by divine love.
| Niagara is the betrothal of earth's life |
| With the heavenly life. |
| That has Niagara told me to-day. |
| And now can I leave Niagara. She has |
| Told me her word of primeval being. |
September 10th. In the Morning.—To day we shall proceed on our journey. I am satisfied that it should be so, for I have a little headache, and the unceasing thunder of the fall, the continual restless rushing of the torrent past my window is fatiguing to the nerves. Besides, one gets accustomed to everything, even to the great; and when by the side of this great fall we begin to hear and to be occupied merely with our own little thoughts about everyday things, then we may go away.
I have not told you about the different scenes of life at Niagara, of the steamboat, the “Maid of the Mist,” which advances up to the very fall till it is wetted with its spray, and then only turns back; nor of my botanical rambles around Iris island; nor of the Indians, whom one yet meets roaming about here; nor of the great iron bridge which, strong and light at the same time, has been thrown across the stream a little below the fall; nor of many other remarkable things here;—but all these are petty in comparison with that great water-fall, and that has been to me the essential thing. The Indians who live around Niagara belong to the Seneca tribe. As this is the season when the men are all out on their hunting-grounds, I saw merely some squaws, who offered their work for sale. This consists of embroidery done by hand, of flowers and animals, drawn and finished in a childish manner, but yet well done with dyed fibre of porcupine quills, small mats, baskets, mocassins, and children's rattles, made of a fragrant kind of grass. There are many shops around here full of their work, which is sold at a high price.
Two years ago Marcus and Rebecca S. were present at a great solemnity which took place among an Indian tribe here—the election of a new chief. They assembled in the depths of the forest. The finest incident, however, on this remarkable occasion was, that the young chief knelt down before his old mother, who laid her hands, with a benediction, upon his head. Woman, who is treated in a general way so horribly by the Indians, obtains, nevertheless, respect from them when she is the mother of a distinguished warrior; sometimes also, as among all savage people, from her mystical witch-like attributes, when she is possessed of a powerful character. This, however, can only very seldom be the case, considering the heavy yoke, which, from her very childhood, is laid upon her both spiritually and physically.
I long to see and hear more of these, the New World's aborigines, and hope to have opportunity of doing so during my journey in the West.
It has now become clear and certain to my mind, though I do not know myself rightly how or when, that I shall proceed up the Mississippi as far as St. Anthony's Fall, that is to say, as far as the river is navigable, into Minnesota, a young territory, not yet a state, which, for the most part, is a wilderness, and the home of the wild Indian tribes, and afterwards down the Mississippi to New Orleans. Why I should go to New Orleans I do not know; but one thing I know—I must go there. Something within me tells me so, something which I must call the inward light, the inward voice, and which guides me here like a mysterious but absolute power. I do not hesitate a moment in following its guidance, for it speaks so decidedly and clearly, that I feel glad to obey. I know that to me it is a Star of Bethlehem. From this place I go to Chicago, and thence to the Swedish and Norwegian settlements in the States of Illinois and Wisconsin.
Among the memories of Niagara are some of a most sorrowful character. One of these occurred this last summer, when a young man and his sweetheart, and her sister, a little girl, visited the fall. As they stood beside it the young man took the little girl in his arms, and threatened playfully to throw her into it. The child gave a sudden start of terror, which threw her out of his arms and into that foaming abyss. He sprang in after her. Both vanished, and were only again seen as corpses.
“Oniaagaràh,” or “Ochniagaràh,” was the original name of Niagara, and it is still called so by the Indians. The word signifies “the thunder of the waters.” It has been shortened by the Europeans into Niagara.
I have now taken my farewell look of the great scene and sight. The green colour of the water, its inexpressibly delightful, living odour, charms me as much as ever. I shall always, in recalling it, think of the fountains of eternal youth. I am satisfied to leave it, but would wish to come once more to see the fall in its winter magnificence, when it crowns itself with flowers and fruits and a thousand fantastic adornments of ice; when the full moon shines and spans it with the lunar-bow. We shall see! But I am nevertheless infinitely thankful to have seen Niagara. Its quiet grandeur and power, its colour, its spray, the rainbow's sport in that white cloudy figure—all this is and will remain a clear, living image in my soul. And that eternal fulness of nature's heart here—ah! that the human heart might resemble it, perpetually filled anew, perpetually flowing, never weary, never scanty, never dried up!
My young friends, James and Maria,—it grieved me to part from them; my amiable, lovely, charming Maria, looked at me with mournful glances, and but now we must be off! My young friends accompany me to Buffalo. A kiss, my beloved, from Niagara; the next letter from Chicago.
- ↑ Now called “Frederick Douglas's Paper.”