Philosophical Society at New York, 328-Journey from New York to Philadelphia, 335-Wistar Parties, 339-Institutions at Phila- TRAVELS IN NORTH AMERICA. CHAPTER I. On the 7th of September, 1827, we recrossed the Canadian frontier, and found ourselves once more in the United States. Our route lay along Lake Champlain, in a very crowded steam-boat, filled with tourists on their return from the North, men of business proceeding to New York, and a large party of Irish emigrants, who, for reasons best known to themselves, had not chosen to settle in the Canadas, but to wander farther south in quest of fortune. There is always, more or less, an air of sadness in the look of newly arrived emigrants. They have abandoned one country, without having as yet gained a new one-they have no home-they are uncertain as to the future, and have probably few pleasurable recollections of the past-and therefore, at such moments, they are little sustain ed under privations and cares, by reflections removed from the scenes round about them. I was much struck by the appearance of a female, better dressed than the rest of the group of strangers, sitting apart from all the others, on a bundle containing her scanty store of worldly goods and gear, tied up in a threadbare handkerchief. Her face, which was covered with a much-worn black lace veil, was sunk between her knees, so that her brow seemed to rest upon her open hands, which, however, I could not well distinguish behind the veil, as it hung down to the deck, while every part of her dress fell so gracefully about her, that I was reminded of a weeping figure, in a similar attitude, in Raphael's celebrated Loggie. This casual association immediately carried my thoughts back to the countries I had left beyond the Atlantic, and I could not help suspecting, from the appearance of grief in this desolate exile, that her mind's eye, and with it the best feelings of her breast, might be equally far from the present scene, but alas! probably without one ray of hope to lighten her path back again. On the 8th of September, we made a delightful voyage along Lake George, freely acknowledging that we had come at last to some beautiful scenery in the United States-beautiful in every respect, and leaving nothing to wish for. I own that Lake George exceeded my expectations as far as it exceeds the power of the Americans to overpraise it, which is no small compliment. I began now to suspect, however, that they really preferred many things which have no right to be mentioned in the same day with this finished piece of Lake scenery. At all events, I often heard Lake George spoken of by them, without that degree of animation of which they were so lavish on some other, and as I thought, very indifferent topics of admiration. It is difficult, I must confess, to discover precisely what people feel with respect to scenery ; and I may be wrong in supposing so many of my Transatlantic friends insensible to its influence. But certainly during our stay in the country, while we heard many spots lauded to the utmost length that words could go, we had often occasion to fancy there was no genuine sentiment at the bottom of all this praise. At the time I speak of, this was a great puzzle to me; and I could not understand the apparent indifference shown to the scenery of this beautiful Lake by most of our companions. Subsequent experience, however, led me to see that where the fine arts are not steadily cultivated -where in fact there is little taste for that description of excellence, and not very much is known about it, there cannot possibly be much hearty admiration of the beauties of nature. Of all kinds of navigation that by steam is certainly the most unpleasant. There is, I fear, but a choice of miseries amongst the various methods of travelling by water, while that which is present, like pains in the body, seems always the very worst. The only way to render the sea agreeable, is to make it a profession, to live upon it, and to consider all its attendant circumstances as duties. Then, certainly, it becomes among the most delightful of all lives. I can answer, at least, for my own feelings in the matter, for I have gone on liking it more and more every day, since I first put my foot on board ship, more than six and twenty years ago. But it is a very different story when the part of a passenger is to be enacted- -a miserable truth which holds good whether the water be salt or fresh, or whether the vessel be moved by wind, or steam, or oars. Fortunately our passage down Lake George was in the day-time, for just as we had reached almost the end of this splendid piece of water, we heard a fearful crash-bang went the walking beam of the engine to pieces, and there we lay like a log on the water. But the engineer had no sooner turned off the steam, than the prodigious fizzing, together with the sound of the bell, which was instantly set a-ringing, aided by the shouts of the crew, gave alarm to those on shore. |