Journal of a Residence in America - Fanny Kemble

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of rock at the water's edge, whence we looked out over river and land—a fair sight. "Oh!" I exclaimed, pointing to the highlands on our left, through whose rich foliage the rifted granite looked cold and grey, "what a place for a scramble! there must be lovely walks there." "Ay," returned my companion, "and a few rattle-snakes too."[13] We found D——, my father, and my bonnet buffeting with a swarm of musquitoes; this is a great nuisance. We turned our steps homeward. I picked up a nut enclosed like a walnut in a green case. I opened it; it was not ripe; but in construction exactly like a walnut, with the same bitter filmy skin over the fruit, which is sweet and oily, and like a walnut in flavour also. Mr. ——told me it was called a marrow-nut. The tree on which it grew had foliage of the acacia kind. We had to rush to meet the steam-boat, which was just going across. The whole walk reminded me of that part of Oatlands which, from its wild and tangled woodland, they call America.

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      There must have been something surpassingly beautiful in our surroundings, for even Mr. ——, into whose composition I suspect much of the poetical element does not enter, began expatiating on the happiness of the original possessors of these fair lands and waters, the Indians—the Red Children of the soil, who followed the chase through these lovely wildernesses, and drove their light canoes over these broad streams—"great nature's happy commoners,"—till the predestined curse came on them, till the white sails of the invaders threw their shadow over these seas, and the work of extermination began in these wild fastnesses of freedom. The destruction of the original inhabitants of a country by its discoverers, always attended, as it is, with injustice and cruelty, appears to me one of the most mysterious dispensations of Providence.

      The chasing, enslaving, and destroying creatures, whose existence, however inferior, is as justly theirs as that of the most refined European is his; who for the most part, too, receive their enemies with open-handed hospitality, until taught treachery by being betrayed, and cruelty by fear; the driving the child of the soil off it, or, what is fifty times worse, chaining him to till it; all the various forms of desolation which have ever followed the landing of civilised men upon uncivilised shores; in short, the theory and practice of discovery and conquest, as recorded in all history, is a very singular and painful subject of contemplation.

      'Tis true that cultivation and civilisation, the arts and sciences that render life useful, the knowledge that ennobles, the adornments that refine existence, above all, the religion that is the most sacred trust and dear reward, all these, like pure sunshine and healthful airs following a hurricane, succeed the devastation of the invader; but the sufferings of those who are swept away are not the less; and though I believe that good alone is God's result, it seems a fearful proof of the evil wherewith this earth is cursed, that good cannot progress but over such a path. No one beholding the prosperous and promising state of this fine country, could wish it again untenanted of its enterprising and industrious possessors; yet even while looking with admiration at all that they have achieved, with expectation amounting to certainty to all that they will yet accomplish, 'tis difficult to refrain from bestowing some thoughts of pity and of sadness upon those whose homes have been overturned, whose language has passed away, and whose feet are daily driven further from those territories of which they were once sole and sovereign lords. How strange it is to think, that less than one hundred years ago, these shores, resounding with the voice of populous cities—these waters, laden with the commerce of the wide world—were silent wildernesses, where sprang and fell the forest leaves, where ebbed and flowed the ocean tides from day to day, and from year to year, in uninterrupted stillness; where the great sun, who looked on the vast empires of the East, its mouldering kingdoms, its lordly palaces, its ancient temples, its swarming cities, came and looked down upon the still dwelling of utter loneliness, where nature sat enthroned in everlasting beauty, undisturbed by the far off din of worlds "beyond the flood."[14]

      Came home rather tired: my father asked Mr. ——to dine with us, but he could not. After dinner, sat working till ten o'clock, when——came to take leave of us. He is going off to-morrow morning to Philadelphia, but will be back for our Tuesday's dinner. The people here are all up and about very early in the morning. I went out at half-past eight, and found all Broadway abroad.

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      Forget all about it, except that I went about the town with Colonel——.

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      went to see his Quaker wife, whom I liked very much.

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      Drove all about New-York, which more than ever reminded me of the towns in France: passed the Bowery theatre, which is a handsome finely-proportioned building, with a large brazen eagle plastered on the pediment, for all the world like an insurance mark, or the sign of the spread eagle: this is nefarious! We passed a pretty house, which Colonel—— called an old mansion; mercy on me, him, and it! Old! I thought of Warwick Castle, of Hatfield, of Chequers, of Hopwood—old! and there it stood, with its white pillars and Italian-looking portico, for all the world like one of our own cit's yesterday-grown boxes. Old, quotha! the woods and waters and hills and skies alone are old here; the works of men are in the very greenness and unmellowed imperfection of youth: true, 'tis a youth full of vigorous sap and glorious promise; spring, laden with blossoms, foretelling abundant and rich produce, and so let them be proud of it. But the worst of it is, the Americans are not satisfied with glorying in what they are—which, considering the time and opportunities they have had, is matter of glory quite sufficient—they are never happy without comparing this their sapling to the giant oaks of the old world—and what can one say to that? Is New-York like London? No, by my two troths it is not; but the oak was an acorn once, and New York will surely, if the world holds together long enough, become a lordly city, such as we know of beyond the sea.

      Went in the evening to see Wallack act the Brigand; it was his benefit, and the house was very good. He is perfection in this sort of thing, yet there were one or two blunders even in his melo-dramatic acting of this piece; however, he looks very like the thing, and it is very nice to see—once.

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      Sat stitching all the blessed day. So we are to go to Philadelphia before Boston. I'm sorry. The H——s will be disappointed, and I shall get no riding, che seccatura! At five dressed, and went to the——, where we were to dine. This is one of the first houses here, so I conclude that I am to consider what I see as a tolerable sample of the ways and manners of being, doing, and suffering of the best society in New York. There were about twenty people; the women were in a sort of French demi-toilette, with bare necks, and long sleeves, heads frizzed out after the very last Petit Courier, and thread net handkerchiefs and capes; the whole of which, to my English eye, appeared a strange marrying of incongruities. The younger daughter of our host is beautiful; a young and brilliant likeness of Ellen Tree, with more refinement, and a smile that was, not to say a ray, but a whole focus of sun rays, a perfect blaze of light; she was much taken up with a youth, to whom, my neighbour at dinner informed me, she was engaged.

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      The women here, like those of most warm climates, ripen very early, and decay proportionably soon. They are, generally speaking, pretty, with good complexions, and an air of freshness and brilliancy, but this, I am told, is very evanescent; and whereas, in England, a woman is in the full bloom of health and beauty from twenty to five-and-thirty, here they scarcely reach the first period without being faded and looking old.[15] They marry very young, and this is another reason why age comes prematurely upon them. There was a fair young thing at dinner to-day who did not look above seventeen, and she was a wife. As for their figures, like those of French women, they are too well dressed for one to judge exactly what they are really like: they are, for the most part, short and slight, with remarkably pretty feet and ankles; but there's

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