We left London on the 5th of August to go via Folkestone and Boulogne. The passage across the Channel was a very smooth one, and neither of us suffered any inconvenience. Boulogne as seen from the landing did not show to great advantage. I fell to thinking of Brummel, and what a satisfaction it would have been to treat him to a good dinner, and set him talking about the days of the Regency. Boulogne was all Brummel in my associations, just as Calais was all Sterne. I find everywhere that it is a distinctive3 personality which makes me want to linger round a spot, more than an important historical event. There is not much worth remembering about Brummel; but his audacity4, his starched5 neckcloth, his assumptions and their success, make him a curious subject for the student of human nature.
Leaving London at twenty minutes before ten in the forenoon, we arrived in Paris at six in the afternoon. I could not say that the region of France through which we passed was peculiarly attractive. I saw no fine trees, no pretty cottages, like those so common in England. There was little which an artist would be tempted6 to sketch7, or a traveller by the railroad would be likely to remember.
The place where we had engaged lodgings8 was H?tel d'Orient, in the Rue9 Daunou. The situation was convenient, very near the Place Vendome and the Rue de la Paix. But the house was undergoing renovations which made it as unpresentable as a moulting fowl12. Scrubbing, painting of blinds, and other perturbing13 processes did all they could to make it uncomfortable. The courtyard was always sloppy14, and the whole condition of things reminded me forcibly of the state of Mr. Briggs's household while the mason was carrying out the complex operations which began with the application of "a little compo." (I hope all my readers remember Mr. Briggs, whose adventures as told by the pencil of John Leech15 are not unworthy of comparison with those of Mr. Pickwick as related by Dickens.) Barring these unfortunate conditions, the hotel was commendable16, and when in order would be a desirable place of temporary residence.
It was the dead season of Paris, and everything had the air of suspended animation17. The solitude18 of the Place Vendome was something oppressive; I felt, as I trod its lonely sidewalk, as if I were wandering through Tadmor in the Desert. We were indeed as remote, as unfriended,--I will not say as melancholy19 or as slow,--as Goldsmith by the side of the lazy Scheldt or the wandering Po. Not a soul did either of us know in that great city. Our most intimate relations were with the people of the hotel and with the drivers of the fiacres. These last were a singular looking race of beings. Many of them had a dull red complexion20, almost brick color, which must have some general cause. I questioned whether the red wine could have something to do with it. They wore glazed21 hats, and drove shabby vehicles for the most part; their horses would not compare with those of the London hansom drivers, and they themselves were not generally inviting22 in aspect, though we met with no incivility from any of them. One, I remember, was very voluble, and over-explained everything, so that we became afraid to ask him a question. They were fellow-creatures with whom one did not naturally enter into active sympathy, and the principal point of interest about the fiacre and its arrangements was whether the horse was fondest of trotting23 or of walking. In one of our drives we made it a point to call upon our Minister, Mr. McLane, but he was out of town. We did not bring a single letter, but set off exactly as if we were on a picnic.
While A---- and her attendant went about making their purchases, I devoted24 myself to the sacred and pleasing task of reviving old memories. One of the first places I visited was the house I lived in as a student, which in my English friend's French was designated as "Noomero sankont sank Roo Monshure ler Pranse." I had been told that the whole region thereabout had been transformed by the creation of a new boulevard. I did not find it so. There was the house, the lower part turned into a shop, but there were the windows out of which I used to look along the Rue Vaugirard,--au troisième the first year, au second the second year. Why should I go mousing about the place? What would the shopkeeper know about M. Bertrand, my landlord of half a century ago; or his first wife, to whose funeral I went; or his second, to whose bridal I was bidden?
I ought next to have gone to the hospital La Pitié, where I passed much of my time during those two years. But the people there would not know me, and my old master's name, Louis, is but a dim legend in the wards25 where he used to teach his faithful band of almost worshipping students. Besides, I have not been among hospital beds for many a year, and my sensibilities are almost as impressible as they were before daily habit had rendered them comparatively callous26.
How strange it is to look down on one's venerated27 teachers, after climbing with the world's progress half a century above the level where we left them! The stethoscope was almost a novelty in those days. The microscope was never mentioned by any clinical instructor28 I listened to while a medical student. Nous avons changé tout29 cela is true of every generation in medicine,--changed oftentimes by improvement, sometimes by fashion or the pendulum30-swing from one extreme to another.
On my way back from the hospital I used to stop at the beautiful little church St. Etienne du Mont, and that was one of the first places to which I drove after looking at my student-quarters. All was just as of old. The tapers31 were burning about the tomb of St. Genevieve. Samson, with the jawbone of the ass2, still crouched32 and sweated, or looked as if he did, under the weight of the pulpit. One might question how well the preacher in the pulpit liked the suggestion of the figure beneath it. The sculptured screen and gallery, the exquisite33 spiral stairways, the carved figures about the organ, the tablets on the walls,--one in particular relating the fall of two young girls from the gallery, and their miraculous34 protection from injury,--all these images found their counterpart in my memory. I did not remember how very beautiful is the stained glass in the charniers, which must not be overlooked by visitors.
It is not far from St. Etienne du Mont to the Pantheon. I cannot say that there is any odor of sanctity about this great temple, which has been consecrated35, if I remember correctly, and, I will not say desecrated36, but secularized from time to time, according to the party which happened to be uppermost. I confess that I did not think of it chiefly as a sacred edifice37, or as the resting-place, more or less secure, of the "grands hommes" to whom it is dedicated38. I was thinking much more of Foucault's grand experiment, one of the most sublime39 visible demonstrations40 of a great physical fact in the records of science. The reader may not happen to remember it, and will like, perhaps, to be reminded of it. Foucault took advantage of the height of the dome11, nearly three hundred feet, and had a heavy weight suspended by a wire from its loftiest point, forming an immense pendulum,--the longest, I suppose, ever constructed. Now a moving body tends to keep its original plane of movement, and so the great pendulum, being set swinging north and south, tended to keep on in the same direction. But the earth was moving under it, and as it rolled from west to east the plane running through the north and south poles was every instant changing. Thus the pendulum appeared to change its direction, and its deviation41 was shown on a graduated arc, or by the marks it left in a little heap of sand which it touched as it swung. This experiment on the great scale has since been repeated on the small scale by the aid of other contrivances.
My thoughts wandered back, naturally enough, to Galileo in the Cathedral at Pisa. It was the swinging of the suspended lamp in that edifice which set his mind working on the laws which govern the action of the pendulum. While he was meditating42 on this physical problem, the priest may have been holding forth43 on the dangers of meddling44 with matters settled by Holy Church, who stood ready to enforce her edicts by the logic45 of the rack and the fagot. An inference from the above remarks is that what one brings from a church depends very much on what he carries into it.
The next place to visit could be no other than the Café Procope. This famous resort is the most ancient and the most celebrated46 of all the Parisian cafés. Voltaire, the poet J. B. Rousseau, Marmontel, Sainte Foix, Saurin, were among its frequenters in the eighteenth century. It stands in the Rue des Fossés-Saint Germain, now Rue de l'Ancienne Comédie. Several American students, Bostonians and Philadelphians, myself among the number, used to breakfast at this café every morning. I have no doubt that I met various celebrities47 there, but I recall only one name which is likely to be known to most or many of my readers. A delicate-looking man, seated at one of the tables, was pointed48 out to me as Jouffroy. If I had known as much about him as I learned afterwards, I should have looked at him with more interest. He had one of those imaginative natures, tinged49 by constitutional melancholy and saddened by ill health, which belong to a certain class of poets and sentimental50 writers, of which Pascal is a good example, and Cowper another. The world must have seemed very cruel to him. I remember that when he was a candidate for the Assembly, one of the popular cries, as reported by the newspapers of the time, was A bas le poitrinaire! His malady51 soon laid him low enough, for he died in 1842, at the age of forty-six. I must have been very much taken up with my medical studies to have neglected my opportunity of seeing the great statesmen, authors, artists, orators52, and men of science outside of the medical profession. Poisson, Arago, and Jouffroy are all I can distinctly recall, among the Frenchmen of eminence53 whom I had all around me.
The Café Procope has been much altered and improved, and bears an inscription54 telling the date of its establishment, which was in the year 1689. I entered the cafe, which was nearly or quite empty, the usual breakfast hour being past.
Gar?on! Une tasse de café.
If there is a river of mneme as a counterpart of the river lethe, my cup of coffee must have got its water from that stream of memory. If I could borrow that eloquence55 of Jouffroy which made his hearers turn pale, I might bring up before my readers a long array of pallid56 ghosts, whom these walls knew well in their earthly habiliments. Only a single one of those I met here still survives. The rest are mostly well-nigh forgotten by all but a few friends, or remembered chiefly in their children and grandchildren.
"How much?" I said to the gar?on in his native tongue, or what I supposed to be that language. "Cinq sous," was his answer. By the laws of sentiment, I ought to have made the ignoble57 sum five francs, at least. But if I had done so, the waiter would undoubtedly58 have thought that I had just come from Charenton. Besides, why should I violate the simple habits and traditions of the place, where generation after generation of poor students and threadbare Bohemians had taken their morning coffee and pocketed their two lumps of sugar? It was with a feeling of virile59 sanity60 and Roman self-conquest that I paid my five sous, with the small additional fraction which I supposed the waiter to expect, and no more.
So I passed for the last time over the threshold of the Café Procope, where Voltaire had matured his plays and Piron sharpened his epigrams; where Jouffroy had battled with his doubts and fears; where, since their time,--since my days of Parisian life,--the terrible storming youth, afterwards renowned61 as Léon Michel Gambetta, had startled the quiet guests with his noisy eloquence, till the old habitués spilled their coffee, and the red-capped students said to each other, "Il ira loin, ce gaillard-là!"
But what to me were these shadowy figures by the side of the group of my early friends and companions, that came up before me in all the freshness of their young manhood? The memory of them recalls my own youthful days, and I need not go to Florida to bathe in the fountain of Ponce de Leon.
I have sometimes thought that I love so well the accidents of this temporary terrestrial residence, its endeared localities, its precious affections, its pleasing variety of occupation, its alternations of excited and gratified curiosity, and whatever else comes nearest to the longings62 of the natural man, that I might be wickedly homesick in a far-off spiritual realm where such toys are done with. But there is a pretty lesson which I have often meditated63, taught, not this time by the lilies of the field, but by the fruits of the garden. When, in the June honeymoon64 of the seasons, the strawberry shows itself among the bridal gifts, many of us exclaim for the hundredth time with Dr. Boteler, "Doubtless God could have made a better berry, but doubtless God never did." Nature, who is God's handmaid, does not attempt a rival berry. But by and by a little woolly knob, which looked and saw with wonder the strawberry reddening, and perceived the fragrance65 it diffused66 all around, begins to fill out, and grow soft and pulpy67 and sweet; and at last a glow comes to its cheek, and we say the peach is ripening68. When Nature has done with it, and delivers it to us in its perfection, we forget all the lesser69 fruits which have gone before it. If the flavor of the peach and the fragrance of the rose are not found in some fruit and flower which grow by the side of the river of life, an earth-born spirit might be forgiven for missing them. The strawberry and the pink are very delightful70, but we could be happy without them.
So, too, we may hope that when the fruits of our brief early season of three or four score years have given us all they can impart for our happiness; when "the love of little maids and berries," and all other earthly prettinesses, shall "soar and sing," as Mr. Emerson sweetly reminds us that they all must, we may hope that the abiding71 felicities of our later life-season may far more than compensate72 us for all that have taken their flight.
I looked forward with the greatest interest to revisiting the Gallery of the Louvre, accompanied by my long-treasured recollections. I retained a vivid remembrance of many pictures, which had been kept bright by seeing great numbers of reproductions of them in photographs and engravings.
The first thing which struck me was that the pictures had been rearranged in such a way that I could find nothing in the place where I looked for it. But when I found them, they greeted me, so I fancied, like old acquaintances. The meek-looking "Belle73 Jardinière" was as lamb-like as ever; the pearly nymph of Correggio invited the stranger's eye as frankly74 as of old; Titian's young man with the glove was the calm, self-contained gentleman I used to admire; the splashy Rubenses, the pallid Guidos, the sunlit Claudes, the shadowy Poussins, the moonlit Girardets, Géricault's terrible shipwreck75 of the Medusa, the exquisite home pictures of Gerard Douw and Terburg,--all these and many more have always been on exhibition in my ideal gallery, and I only mention them as the first that happen to suggest themselves. The Museum of the H?tel Cluny is a curious receptacle of antiquities77, many of which I looked at with interest; but they made no lasting78 impression, and have gone into the lumber-room of memory, from which accident may, from time to time, drag out some few of them.
After the poor unsatisfactory towers of Westminster Abbey, the two massive, noble, truly majestic79 towers of Notre Dame80 strike the traveller as a crushing contrast. It is not hard to see that one of these grand towers is somewhat larger than the other, but the difference does not interfere81 with the effect of the imposing82 front of the cathedral.
I was much pleased to find that I could have entrance to the Sainte Chapelle, which was used, at the time of my earlier visit, as a storehouse of judicial83 archives, of which there was a vast accumulation.
With the exception of my call at the office of the American Legation, I made but a single visit to any person in Paris. That person was M. Pasteur. I might have carried a letter to him, for my friend Mrs. Priestley is well acquainted with him, but I had not thought of asking for one. So I presented myself at his headquarters, and was admitted into a courtyard, where a multitude of his patients were gathered. They were of various ages and of many different nationalities, every one of them with the vague terror hanging over him or her. Yet the young people seemed to be cheerful enough, and very much like scholars out of school. I sent my card in to M. Pasteur, who was busily engaged in writing, with his clerks or students about him, and presently he came out and greeted me. I told him I was an American physician, who wished to look in his face and take his hand,--nothing more. I looked in his face, which was that of a thoughtful, hard-worked student, a little past the grand climacteric,--he was born in 1822. I took his hand, which has performed some of the most delicate and daring experiments ever ventured upon, with results of almost incalculable benefit to human industries, and the promise of triumph in the treatment of human disease which prophecy would not have dared to anticipate. I will not say that I have a full belief that hydrophobia--in some respects the most terrible of all diseases--is to be extirpated84 or rendered tractable85 by his method of treatment. But of his inventive originality86, his unconquerable perseverance87, his devotion to the good of mankind, there can be no question. I look upon him as one of the greatest experimenters that ever lived, one of the truest benefactors88 of his race; and if I made my due obeisance89 before princes, I felt far more humble90 in the presence of this great explorer, to whom the God of Nature has entrusted91 some of her most precious secrets.
There used to be--I can hardly think it still exists--a class of persons who prided themselves on their disbelief in the reality of any such distinct disease as hydrophobia. I never thought it worth while to argue with them, for I have noticed that this disbelief is only a special manifestation92 of a particular habit of mind. Its advocates will be found, I think, most frequently among "the long-haired men and the short-haired women." Many of them dispute the efficacy of vaccination93. Some are disciples94 of Hahnemann, some have full faith in the mind-cure, some attend the séances where flowers (bought from the nearest florist) are materialized, and some invest their money in Mrs. Howe's Bank of Benevolence95. Their tendency is to reject the truth which is generally accepted, and to accept the improbable; if the impossible offers itself, they deny the existence of the impossible. Argument with this class of minds is a lever without a fulcrum96.
I was glad to leave that company of--patients, still uncertain of their fate,--hoping, yet pursued by their terror: peasants bitten by mad wolves in Siberia; women snapped at by their sulking lap-dogs in London; children from over the water who had been turned upon by the irritable97 Skye terrier; innocent victims torn by ill-conditioned curs at the doors of the friends they were meaning to visit,--all haunted by the same ghastly fear, all starting from sleep in the same nightmare.
If canine98 rabies is a fearful subject to contemplate99, there is a sadder and deeper significance in rabies humana; in that awful madness of the human race which is marked by a thirst for blood and a rage for destruction. The remembrance of such a distemper which has attacked mankind, especially mankind of the Parisian sub-species, came over me very strongly when I first revisited the Place Vend10?me. I should have supposed that the last object upon which Parisians would, in their wildest frenzy100, have laid violent hands would have been the column with the figure of Napoleon at its summit. We all know what happened in 1871. An artist, we should have thought, would be the last person to lead the iconoclasts101 in such an outrage102. But M. Courbet has attained103 an immortality104 like that of Erostratus by the part he took in pulling down the column. It was restored in 1874. I do not question that the work of restoration was well done, but my eyes insisted on finding a fault in some of its lines which was probably in their own refracting media. Fifty years before an artist helped to overthrow105 the monument to the Emperor, a poet had apostrophized him in the bitterest satire106 since the days of Juvenal:--
"Encor Napoléon! encor sa grande image!
Ah! que ce rude et dur guerrier
Nous a couté de sang et de pleurs et d'outrage
Pour quelques rameaux de laurier!
"Eh bien! dans tous ces jours d'abaissement, de peine,
Pour tous ces outrages107 sans nom,
Je n'ai jamais chargé qu'un être de ma haine,...
Sois maudit, O Napoléon!"
After looking at the column of the Place Vend?me and recalling these lines of Barbier, I was ready for a visit to the tomb of Napoleon. The poet's curse had helped me to explain the painter's frenzy against the bronze record of his achievements and the image at its summit. But I forgot them both as I stood under the dome of the Invalides, and looked upon the massive receptacle which holds the dust of the imperial exile. Two things, at least, Napoleon accomplished108: he opened the way for ability of all kinds, and he dealt the death-blow to the divine right of kings and all the abuses which clung to that superstition109. If I brought nothing else away from my visit to his mausoleum, I left it impressed with what a man can be when fully110 equipped by nature, and placed in circumstances where his forces can have full play. "How infinite in faculty111! ... in apprehension112 how like a god!" Such were my reflections; very much, I suppose, like those of the average visitor, and too obviously having nothing to require contradiction or comment.
Paris as seen by the morning sun of three or four and twenty and Paris in the twilight113 of the superfluous114 decade cannot be expected to look exactly alike. I well remember my first breakfast at a Parisian café in the spring of 1833. It was in the Place de la Bourse, on a beautiful sunshiny morning. The coffee was nectar, the flute115 was ambrosia116, the brioche was more than good enough for the Olympians. Such an experience could not repeat itself fifty years later. The first restaurant at which we dined was in the Palais Royal. The place was hot enough to cook an egg. Nothing was very excellent nor very bad; the wine was not so good as they gave us at our hotel in London; the enchanter had not waved his wand over our repast, as he did over my earlier one in the Place de la Bourse, and I had not the slightest desire to pay the gar?on thrice his fee on the score of cherished associations.
We dined at our hotel on some days, at different restaurants on others. One day we dined, and dined well, at the old Café Anglais, famous in my earlier times for its turbot. Another day we took our dinner at a very celebrated restaurant on the boulevard. One sauce which was served us was a gastronomic117 symphony, the harmonies of which were new to me and pleasing. But I remember little else of superior excellence118. The gar?on pocketed the franc I gave him with the air of having expected a napoleon.
Into the mysteries of a lady's shopping in Paris I would not venture to inquire. But A---- and I strolled together through the Palais Royal in the evening, and amused ourselves by staring at the glittering windows without being severely119 tempted. Bond Street had exhausted120 our susceptibility to the shop-window seduction, and the napoleons did not burn in the pockets where the sovereigns had had time to cool.
Nothing looked more nearly the same as of old than the bridges. The Pont Neuf did not seem to me altered, though we had read in the papers that it was in ruins or seriously injured in consequence of a great flood. The statues had been removed from the Pont Royal, one or two new bridges had been built, but all was natural enough, and I was tempted to look for the old woman, at the end of the Pont des Arts, who used to sell me a bunch of violets, for two or three sous,--such as would cost me a quarter of a dollar in Boston. I did not see the three objects which a popular saying alleges121 are always to be met on the Pont Neuf: a priest, a soldier, and a white horse.
The weather was hot; we were tired, and did not care to go to the theatres, if any of them were open. The pleasantest hours were those of our afternoon drive in the Champs Elysées and the Bois de Boulogne,--or "the Boulogne Woods," as our American tailor's wife of the old time called the favorite place for driving. In passing the Place de la Concorde, two objects in especial attracted my attention,--the obelisk122, which was lying, when I left it, in the great boat which brought it from the Nile, and the statue of Strasbourg, all covered with wreaths and flags. How like children these Parisians do act; crying "à Berlin, à Berlin!" and when Berlin comes to Paris, and Strasbourg goes back to her old proprietors123, instead of taking it quietly, making all this parade of patriotic124 symbols, the display of which belongs to victory rather than to defeat!
I was surprised to find the trees in the Bois de Boulogne so well grown: I had an idea that they had been largely sacrificed in the time of the siege. Among the objects which deserve special mention are the shrieking125 parrots and other birds and the yelping126 dogs in the grounds of the Society of Acclimatization,--out of the range of which the visitor will be glad to get as soon as possible. A fountain visited by newly married couples and their friends, with a restaurant near by, where the bridal party drink the health of the newly married pair, was an object of curiosity. An unsteadiness of gait was obvious in some of the feasters. At one point in the middle of the road a maenad was flinging her arms about and shrieking as if she were just escaped from a madhouse. But the drive in the Bois was what made Paris tolerable. There were few fine equipages, and few distinguished127-looking people in the carriages, but there were quiet groups by the wayside, seeming happy enough; and now and then a pretty face or a wonderful bonnet128 gave variety to the somewhat bourgeois129 character of the procession of fiacres.
Place de la Concorde
PLACE DE LA CONCORDE
View larger image
I suppose I ought to form no opinion at all about the aspect of Paris, any more than I should of an oyster130 in a month without an r in it. We were neither of us in the best mood for sight-seeing, and Paris was not sitting up for company; in fact, she was "not at home." Remembering all this, I must say that the whole appearance of the city was dull and dreary131. London out of season seemed still full of life; Paris out of season looked vacuous132 and torpid133. The recollection of the sorrow, the humiliation134, the shame, and the agony she had passed through since I left her picking her way on the arm of the Citizen King, with his old riflard over her, rose before me sadly, ominously135, as I looked upon the high board fence which surrounded the ruins of the Tuileries. I can understand the impulse which led the red caps to make a wreck76 of this grand old historical building. "Pull down the nest," they said, "and the birds will not come back." But I shudder136 when I think what "the red fool-fury of the Seine" has done and is believed capable of doing. I think nothing has so profoundly impressed me as the story of the precautions taken to preserve the Venus of Milo from the brutal137 hands of the mob. A little more violent access of fury, a little more fiery138 declamation139, a few more bottles of vin bleu, and the Gallery of the Louvre, with all its treasures of art, compared with which the crown jewels just sold are but pretty pebbles140, the market price of which fairly enough expresses their value,--much more, rather, than their true value,--that noble gallery, with all its masterpieces from the hands of Greek sculptors141 and Italian painters, would have been changed in a single night into a heap of blackened stones and a pile of smoking cinders142.
I love to think that now that the people have, or at least think they have, the power in their own hands, they will outgrow143 this form of madness, which is almost entitled to the name of a Parisian endemic. Everything looked peaceable and stupid enough during the week I passed in Paris. But among all the fossils which Cuvier found in the Parisian basin, nothing was more monstrous144 than the poissardes of the old Revolution, or the pétroleuses of the recent Commune, and I fear that the breed is not extinct. An American comes to like Paris as warmly as he comes to love England, after living in it long enough to become accustomed to its ways, and I, like the rest of my countrymen who remember that France was our friend in the hour of need, who remember all the privileges and enjoyments145 she has freely offered us, who feel that as a sister republic her destinies are of the deepest interest to us, can have no other wish than for her continued safety, order, and prosperity.
We returned to London on the 13th of August by the same route we had followed in going from London to Paris. Our passage was rough, as compared to the former one, and some of the passengers were seasick146. We were both fortunate enough to escape that trial of comfort and self-respect.
I can hardly separate the story of the following week from that of the one before we went to Paris. We did a little more shopping and saw a few more sights. I hope that no reader of mine would suppose that I would leave London without seeing Madame Tussaud's exhibition. Our afternoon drives made us familiar with many objects which I always looked upon with pleasure. There was the obelisk, brought from Egypt at the expense of a distinguished and successful medical practitioner147, Sir Erasmus Wilson, the eminent148 dermatologist149 and author of a manual of anatomy150 which for many years was my favorite text-book. There was "The Monument," which characterizes itself by having no prefix151 to its generic152 name. I enjoyed looking at and driving round it, and thinking over Pepys's lively account of the Great Fire, and speculating as to where Pudding Lane and Pie Corner stood, and recalling Pope's lines which I used to read at school, wondering what was the meaning of the second one:--
"Where London's column, pointing to the skies
Like a tall bully153, lifts its head and lies."
The week passed away rapidly enough, and we made ready for our departure. It was no easy matter to get a passage home, but we had at last settled it that we would return in the same vessel154 in which we had at first engaged our passage to Liverpool, the Catalonia. But we were fortunate enough to have found an active and efficient friend in our townsman, Mr. Montgomery Sears, who procured155 staterooms for us in a much swifter vessel, to sail on the 21st for New York, the Aurania.
Our last visitor in London was the faithful friend who had been the first to welcome us, Lady Harcourt, in whose kind attentions I felt the warmth of my old friendship with her admired and honored father and her greatly beloved mother. I had recently visited their place of rest in the Kensal Green Cemetery156, recalling with tenderest emotions the many years in which I had enjoyed their companionship.
On the 19th of August we left London for Liverpool, and on our arrival took lodgings at the Adelphi Hotel.
The kindness with which I had been welcomed, when I first arrived at Liverpool, had left a deep impression upon my mind. It seemed very ungrateful to leave that noble city, which had met me in some of its most esteemed157 representatives with a warm grasp of the hand even before my foot had touched English soil, without staying to thank my new friends, who would have it that they were old friends. But I was entirely158 unfit for enjoying any company when I landed. I took care, therefore, to allow sufficient time in Liverpool, before sailing for home, to meet such friends, old and recent, as cared to make or renew acquaintance with me. In the afternoon of the 20th we held a reception, at which a hundred visitors, more or less, presented themselves, and we had a very sociable159 hour or two together. The Vice-Consul, Mr. Sewall, in the enforced absence of his principal, Mr. Russell, paid us every attention, and was very agreeable. In the evening I was entertained at a great banquet given by the Philomathean Society. This flourishing institution enrolls160 among its members a large proportion of the most cultivated and intelligent gentlemen of Liverpool. I enjoyed the meeting very highly, listened to pleasant things which were said about myself, and answered in the unpremeditated words which came to my lips and were cordially received. I could have wished to see more of Liverpool, but I found time only to visit the great exhibition, then open. The one class of objects which captivated my attention was the magnificent series of models of steamboats and other vessels161. I did not look upon them with the eye of an expert, but the great number and variety of these beautiful miniature ships and boats excited my admiration162.
On the 21st of August we went on board the Aurania. Everything was done to make us comfortable. Many old acquaintances, friends, and family connections were our fellow-passengers. As for myself, I passed through the same trying experiences as those which I have recorded as characterizing my outward passage. Our greatest trouble during the passage was from fog. The frequency of collisions, of late years, tends to make everybody nervous when they hear the fog-whistle shrieking. This sound and the sight of the boats are not good for timid people. Fortunately, no one was particularly excitable, or if so, no one betrayed any special uneasiness.
On the evening of the 27th we had an entertainment, in which Miss Kellogg sang and I read several poems. A very pretty sum was realized for some charity,--I forget what,--and the affair was voted highly successful. The next day, the 28th, we were creeping towards our harbor through one of those dense163 fogs which are more dangerous than the old rocks of the sirens, or Scylla and Charybdis, or the much-lied-about maelstrom164.
On Sunday, the 29th of August, my birthday, we arrived in New York. In these days of birthday-books our chronology is not a matter of secret history, in case we have been much before the public. I found a great cake had been made ready for me, in which the number of my summers was represented by a ring of raisins165 which made me feel like Methuselah. A beautiful bouquet166 which had been miraculously167 preserved for the occasion was for the first time displayed. It came from Dr. Beach, of Boston, via London. Such is the story, and I can only suppose that the sweet little cherub168 who sits up aloft had taken special charge of it, or it would have long ago withered169.
We slept at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, which we found fresh, sweet, bright,--it must have been recently rejuvenated170, I thought. The next day we took the train for New Haven171, Springfield, and Boston, and that night slept in our own beds, thankful to find ourselves safe at home after our summer excursion, which had brought us so many experiences delightful to remember, so many friendships which have made life better worth living.
In the following section I shall give some of the general impressions which this excursion has left in my memory, and a few suggestions derived172 from them.
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1
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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vend
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| v.公开表明观点，出售，贩卖 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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perturbing
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| v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的现在分词 ) | |
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sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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leech
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| n.水蛭，吸血鬼，榨取他人利益的人；vt.以水蛭吸血；vi.依附于别人 | |
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commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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21
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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venerated
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| 敬重（某人或某事物），崇敬( venerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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desecrated
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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41
deviation
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| n.背离，偏离；偏差，偏向；离题 | |
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42
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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45
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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46
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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49
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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51
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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52
orators
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| n.演说者，演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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53
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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62
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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64
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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pulpy
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| 果肉状的，多汁的，柔软的； 烂糊； 稀烂 | |
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68
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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71
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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72
compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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73
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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76
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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78
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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79
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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81
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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82
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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83
judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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84
extirpated
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| v.消灭，灭绝( extirpate的过去式和过去分词 )；根除 | |
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85
tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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88
benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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89
obeisance
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| n.鞠躬，敬礼 | |
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90
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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91
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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vaccination
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| n.接种疫苗，种痘 | |
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94
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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fulcrum
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| n.杠杆支点 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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canine
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| adj.犬的，犬科的 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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100
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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101
iconoclasts
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| n.攻击传统观念的人( iconoclast的名词复数 )；反对崇拜圣像者 | |
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102
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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103
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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104
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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106
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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107
outrages
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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108
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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109
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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110
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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111
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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112
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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113
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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114
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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115
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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116
ambrosia
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| n.神的食物；蜂食 | |
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117
gastronomic
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| adj.美食（烹饪）法的，烹任学的 | |
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118
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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119
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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120
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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alleges
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的第三人称单数 ) | |
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obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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yelping
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| v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的现在分词 ) | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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vacuous
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| adj.空的，漫散的，无聊的，愚蠢的 | |
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torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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declamation
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| n. 雄辩，高调 | |
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pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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outgrow
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| vt.长大得使…不再适用；成长得不再要 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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seasick
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| adj.晕船的 | |
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practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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dermatologist
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| n.皮肤科医师 | |
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anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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prefix
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| n.前缀；vt.加…作为前缀；置于前面 | |
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generic
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| adj.一般的，普通的，共有的 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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enrolls
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| v.[亦作enrol]( enroll的第三人称单数 )；登记，招收，使入伍（或入会、入学等），参加，成为成员；记入名册；卷起，包起 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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maelstrom
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| n.大乱动；大漩涡 | |
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raisins
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| n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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cherub
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| n.小天使，胖娃娃 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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rejuvenated
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| 更生的 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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