A fortnight passed rapidly away in this great city, and, doubtless, there was still much left unseen when we quitted it, according to previous arrangement, to return to our friends in Maryland. We came back by a different route, going by land from Newcastle to French Town, instead of passing by the canal. We reached Baltimore in the middle of the night, but finished our repose1 on board the steam-boat, and started for Washington at five o’clock the next morning.
Our short abode2 amid the heat and closeness of a city made us enjoy more than ever the beautiful scenery around Stonington. The autumn, which soon advanced upon us, again clothed the woods in colours too varied3 and gaudy4 to be conceived by those who have never quitted Europe; and the stately maize5, waving its flowing tassels6, as the long drooping7 blossoms are called, made every field look like a little forest. A rainy spring had been followed by a summer of unusual heat; and towards the autumn frequent thunderstorms of terrific violence cleared the air, but at the same time frightened us almost out of our wits. On one occasion I was exposed, with my children, to the full fury of one of these awful visitations. We suffered considerable terror during this storm, but when we were all again safe, and comfortably sheltered, we rejoiced that the accident had occurred, as it gave us the best possible opportunity of witnessing, in all its glory, a transatlantic thunderstorm. It was, however, great imprudence that exposed us to it, for we quitted the house, and mounted a hill at a considerable distance from it, for the express purpose of watching to advantage the extraordinary aspect of the clouds. When we reached the top of the hill half the heavens appeared hung with a heavy curtain; a sort of deep blue black seemed to colour the very air; the blizzards9 screamed, as with heavy wing they sought the earth. We ought, in common prudence8, to have immediately retreated to the house, but the scene was too beautiful to be left. For several minutes after we reached our station, the air appeared perfectly10 without movement, no flash broke through the seven-fold cloud, but a flickering11 light was visible, darting12 to and fro behind it. By degrees the thunder rolled onward13, nearer and nearer, till the inky cloud burst asunder14, and cataracts15 of light came pouring from behind it. From that moment there was no interval16, no pause, the lightning did not flash, there were no claps of thunder, but the heavens blazed and bellowed17 above and around us, till stupor18 took the place of terror, and we stood utterly19 confounded. But we were speedily aroused, for suddenly, as if from beneath our feet, a gust20 arose which threatened to mix all the elements in one. Torrents21 of water seemed to bruise22 the earth by their violence; eddies23 of thick dust rose up to meet them; the fierce fires of heaven only blazed the brighter for the falling flood; while the blast almost out-roared the thunder. But the wind was left at last the lord of all, for after striking with wild force, now here, now there, and bringing worlds of clouds together in most hostile contact, it finished by clearing the wide heavens of all but a few soft straggling masses, whence sprung a glorious rainbow, and then retired24, leaving the earth to raise her half crushed forests; and we, poor pigmies, to call back our frighted senses, and recover breath as we might.
During this gust, it would have been impossible for us to have kept our feet; we crouched25 down under the shelter of a heap of stones, and, as we informed each other, looked most dismally26 pale.
Many trees were brought to the earth before our eyes; some torn up by the roots, and some mighty27 stems snapt off several feet from the ground. If the West Indian hurricanes exceed this, they must be terrible indeed.
The situation of Mrs. S—’s house was considered as remarkably28 healthy, and I believe justly so, for on more than one occasion, persons who were suffering from fever and ague at the distance of a mile or two, were perfectly restored by passing a week or fortnight at Stonington; but the neighbourhood of it, particularly on the side bordering the Potomac, was much otherwise, and the mortality among the labourers on the canal was frightful29.
I have elsewhere stated my doubts if the labouring poor of our country mend their condition by emigrating to the United States, but it was not till the opportunity which a vicinity to the Chesapeake and Ohio canal gave me, of knowing what their situation was after making the change, that I became fully30 aware how little it was to be desired for them.
Of the white labourers on this canal, the great majority are Irishmen; their wages are from ten to fifteen dollars a month, with a miserable31 lodging32, and a large allowance of whiskey. It is by means of this hateful poison that they are tempted34, and indeed enabled for a time, to stand the broiling35 heat of the sun in a most noxious36 climate: for through such, close to the romantic but unwholesome Potomac, the line of the canal has hitherto run. The situation of these poor strangers, when they sink at last in “the fever,” which sooner or later is sure to overtake them, is dreadful. There is a strong feeling against the Irish in every part of the Union, but they will do twice as much work as a negro, and therefore they are employed. When they fall sick, they may, and must, look with envy on the slaves around them; for they are cared for; they are watched and physicked, as a valuable horse is watched and physicked: not so the Irishman, he is literally37 thrown on one side, and a new comer takes his place. Details of their sufferings, and unheeded death, too painful to dwell upon, often reached us; on one occasion a farmer calling at the house, told the family that a poor man, apparently38 in a dying condition, was lying beside a little brook39 at the distance of a quarter of a mile. The spot was immediately visited by some of the family, and there in truth lay a poor creature, who was already past the power of speaking; he was conveyed to the house and expired during the night. By enquiring40 at the canal, it was found that he was an Irish labourer, who having fallen sick, and spent his last cent, had left the stifling41 shanty42 where he lay, in the desperate attempt of finding his way to Washington, with what hope I know not. He did not appear above twenty, and as I looked on his pale young face, which even in death expressed suffering, I thought that perhaps he had left a mother and a home to seek wealth in America. I saw him buried under a group of locust43 trees, his very name unknown to those who laid him there, but the attendance of the whole family at the grave, gave a sort of decency44 to his funeral which rarely, in that country, honors the poor relics45 of British dust: but no clergyman attended, no prayer was said, no bell was tolled46; these, indeed, are ceremonies unthought of, and in fact unattainable without much expense, at such a distance from a town; had the poor youth been an American, he would have been laid in the earth in the same unceremonious manner. But had this poor Irish lad fallen sick in equal poverty and destitution47 among his own people, he would have found a blanket to wrap his shivering limbs, and a kindred hand to close his eyes.
The poor of great Britain, whom distress48, or a spirit of enterprise tempt33 to try another land, ought, for many reasons, to repair to Canada; there they would meet co-operation and sympathy, instead of malice49, hatred50, and all uncharitableness.
I frequently heard vehement51 complaints, and constantly met the same in the newspapers, of a practice stated to be very generally adopted in Britain of sending out cargoes52 of parish paupers54 to the United States. A Baltimore paper heads some such remarks with the words
“INFAMOUS CONDUCT!”
and then tells us of a cargo53 of aged55 paupers just arrived from England, adding, “John Bull has squeezed the orange, and now insolently56 casts the skin in our faces.” Such being the feeling, it will be readily believed that these unfortunates are not likely to meet much kindness or sympathy in sickness, or in suffering of any kind. If these American statements be correct, and that different parishes are induced, from an excessive population, to pay the voyage and outfit57 of some of their paupers across the Atlantic, why not send them to Canada?
It is certain, however, that all the enquiries I could make failed to substantiate58 these American statements. All I could ascertain59 was, that many English and Irish poor arrived yearly in the United States, with no other resources than what their labour furnished. This, though very different from the newspaper stories, is quite enough to direct attention to the subject. It is generally acknowledged that the suffering among our labouring classes arises from the excess of our population; and it is impossible to see such a country as Canada, its extent, its fertility, its fine climate, and know that it is British ground, without feeling equal sorrow and astonishment60 that it is not made the means of relief. How earnestly it is to be wished that some part of that excellent feeling which is for ever at work in England to help the distressed61, could be directed systematically62 to the object of emigration to the Canadas. Large sums are annually63 raised for charitable purposes, by weekly subscriptions64 of one penny; were only a part of the money so obtained to be devoted65 to this object, hundreds of families might yearly be sent to people our own land. The religious feeling, which so naturally mixes with every charitable purpose, would there find the best field for its exertions66. Where could a missionary67, whether Protestant or Catholic, find a holier mission than that which sent him to comfort and instruct his countrymen in the wilderness68? or where could he reap a higher reward in this world, than seeing that wilderness growing into fertile fields under the hands of his flock?
I never saw so many autumn flowers as grow in the woods and sheep-walks of Maryland; a second spring seemed to clothe the fields, but with grief and shame I confess, that of these precious blossoms I scarcely knew a single name. I think the Michaelmas daisy, in wonderful variety of form and colour, and the prickly pear, were almost my only acquaintance: let no one visit America without having first studied botany; it is an amusement, as a clever friend of mine once told me, that helps one wonderfully up and down hill, and must be superlatively valuable in America, both from the plentiful69 lack of other amusements, and the plentiful material for enjoyment70 in this; besides, if one is dying to know the name of any of these lovely strangers, it is a thousand to one against his finding any one who can tell it.
The prettiest eclipse of the moon I ever saw was that of September, of this year, (1830). We had been passing some hours amid the solemn scenery of the Potomac falls, and just as we were preparing to quit it, the full moon arose above the black pines, with half our shadow thrown across her. The effect of her rising thus eclipsed was more strange, more striking by far, than watching the gradual obscuration; and as I turned to look at the black chasm71 behind me, and saw the deadly alder72, and the poison-vine waving darkly on the rocks around, I thought the scene wanted nothing but the figure of a palsied crone, plucking the fatal branches to concoct73 some charm of mischief74.
Whether some such maga dogged my steps, I know not, but many hours had not elapsed ere I again felt the noxious influence of an American autumn. This fever, “built in th’ eclipse,” speedily brought me very low, and though it lasted not so long as that of the preceding year, I felt persuaded I should never recover from it. Though my forebodings were not verified by the event, it was declared that change of air was necessary, and it was arranged for me, (for I was perfectly incapable75 of settling any thing for myself,) that I should go to Alexandria, a pretty town at the distance of about fifteen miles, which had the reputation of possessing a skilful76 physician.
It was not without regret that we quitted our friends at Stonington; but the prescription77 proved in a great degree efficacious; a few weeks’ residence in Alexandria restored my strength sufficiently78 to enable me to walk to a beautiful little grassy79 terrace, perfectly out of the town, but very near it, from whence we could watch the various craft that peopled the Potomac between Alexandria and Washington. But though gradually regaining80 strength, I was still far from well; all plans for winter gaiety were abandoned, and finding ourselves very well accommodated, we decided81 upon passing the winter where we were. It proved unusually severe; the Potomac was so completely frozen as to permit considerable traffic to be carried on by carts, crossing on the ice, from Maryland. This had not occurred before for thirty years. The distance was a mile and a quarter, and we ventured to brave the cold, and walk across this bright and slippery mirror, to make a visit on the opposite shore; the fatigue82 of keeping our feet was by no means inconsiderable, but we were rewarded by seeing as noble a winter landscape around us as the eye could look upon.
When at length the frost gave way, the melting snow produced freshes so violent as to carry away the long bridge at Washington; large fragments of it, with the railing still erect83, came floating down amidst vast blocks of ice, during many successive days, and it was curious to see the intrepidity84 with which the young sailors of Alexandria periled85 their lives to make spoil of the timber.
The solar eclipse of the 12th of February, 1831, was nearer total than any I ever saw, or ever shall see. It was completely annular86 at Alexandria, and the bright ring which surrounded the moon’s shadow, though only 81° in breadth, gave light sufficient to read the smallest print; the darkness was considerably87 lessened88 by the snow, which, as the day was perfectly unclouded, reflected brightly all the light that was left us.
Notwithstanding the extreme cold, we passed the whole time in the open air, on a rising ground near the river; in this position many beautiful effects were perceptible; the rapid approach and change of shadows, the dusky hue89 of the broad Potomac, that seemed to drink in the feeble light, which its snow-covered banks gave back to the air, the gradual change of every object from the colouring of bright sunshine to one sad universal tint90 of dingy91 purple, the melancholy92 lowing of the cattle, and the short, but remarkable93 suspension of all labour, gave something of mystery and awe94 to the scene that we shall long remember.
During the following months I occupied myself partly in revising my notes, and arranging these pages; and partly in making myself acquainted, as much as possible, with the literature of the country.
While reading and transcribing95 my notes, I underwent a strict self-examination. I passed in review all I had seen, all I had felt, and scrupulously96 challenged every expression of disapprobation; the result was, that I omitted in transcription much that I had written, as containing unnecessary details of things which had displeased97 me; yet, as I did so, I felt strongly that there was no exaggeration in them; but such details, though true, might be ill-natured, and I retained no more than were necessary to convey the general impressions received. While thus reviewing my notes, I discovered that many points, which all scribbling98 travellers are expected to notice, had been omitted; but a few pages of miscellaneous observations will, I think, supply all that can be expected from so idle a pen.
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1
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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maize
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| n.玉米 | |
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tassels
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| n.穗( tassel的名词复数 )；流苏状物；（植物的）穗；玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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blizzards
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| 暴风雪( blizzard的名词复数 )； 暴风雪似的一阵，大量（或大批） | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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cataracts
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| n.大瀑布( cataract的名词复数 )；白内障 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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eddies
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| （水、烟等的）漩涡，涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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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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dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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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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broiling
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| adj.酷热的，炽热的，似烧的v.（用火）烤（焙、炙等）( broil的现在分词 )；使卷入争吵；使混乱；被烤（或炙） | |
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noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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locust
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| n.蝗虫；洋槐，刺槐 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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cargoes
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| n.（船或飞机装载的）货物( cargo的名词复数 )；大量，重负 | |
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cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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paupers
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| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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substantiate
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| v.证实；证明...有根据 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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annually
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| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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subscriptions
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| n.（报刊等的）订阅费( subscription的名词复数 )；捐款；（俱乐部的）会员费；捐助 | |
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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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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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alder
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| n.赤杨树 | |
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concoct
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| v.调合，制造 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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intrepidity
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| n.大胆，刚勇；大胆的行为 | |
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periled
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| 置…于危险中（peril的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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annular
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| adj.环状的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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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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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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transcribing
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的现在分词 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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