Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

any novelty or originality for this view of human nature; indeed, I do not wish to do so, for I am not a philosopher, but a plain and unpretending citizen, rather given to observing my neighbours and moralising upon their state, nevertheless with the best of intentions and perfectly willing that they should return the compliment. The actor then I take to be the positive form of human nature, the spectator the negative. I like and admire the actor, although I must confess myself a member of the gentle fraternity of the spectators, nay, perhaps it is for this very reason that I like him. He is the complement of my own nature. To him everything has an intense personal interest. He is all action and vigour full of bounding life and joyous hope, there is even a certain aggressiveness about him, a more or less violent self-assertion which is positively charming. His healthful influence is like the sunlight, and half an hour in his company refreshes one like a ramble along the breezy hillside on a spring day. To the spectator on the contrary, everything has a merely objective interest if I may so express it. Neither the great events of past ages nor the everyday affairs of his own times move or touch him with a real personal interest, save as they may furnish themes for thought or form the subject of an essay. This lack of personal interest in human affairs I observe to be the result of quite different causes, operating upon diverse temperaments and constituting different varieties of the spectatorial character. Some are spectators from excessive sensibility, tender exotics to whom life itself is only possible in the warm and sheltered nooks of ease and leisure, utterly unable to stand the storms and rough blasts of the active working world. Speaking of certain poets who have possessed this moral quality of excessive sensibility, Oliver Wendell Holmes has somewhere very happily described them as the Albino poets,' and I would here beg leave to call this variety

of the spectator 'the Albino spectator' poor flaccid, pulseless creatures, who claim our commiseration and sympathy. The merely idle man can hardly be called a spectator, although to a casual observer he may appear to have some of the attributes of that character, but he lacks the spirit, 'the vision and the faculty divine,' that discerns in all things something of the spiritual, that finds 'books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything,' which is one of the distinguishing characteristics of the spectator. The ideal spectator then is not made up of indifference and apathy in most cases, perhaps as much the result of a sluggish liver as of original mental disposition; but he is one whose habitual mental attitude is contemplative, and whose faculties are keenly alive to the perception of the good and the beautiful. Such a nature as this can only flourish in an atmosphere of culture and refinement, and it finds its proper exercise in the field of literature more especially in that form called the essay. It is here that it disports itself and feels at ease. The severer and more protracted labours of the philosopher and the historian call for robuster intellects, but the essay is the peculiar province of the spectator. We accordingly find that the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, during which general culture and refinement have been most widely diffused, have been peculiarly rich in essay writers. And what a genial kindly company they are from Joseph Addison to Charles Lamb. What rich side lights do their charming writings throw upon human nature; how they abound in elevated sentiment, delicate fancy and quiet wisdom! What an almost inexhaustible fund of entertainment have they provided for our leisure hours! The commonest and most prosaic object of our everyday life is suddenly invested with a charm and is made to reveal its higher and diviner meaning. We rise from the perusal of their pages better men, with healthier feelings, broader

sympathies, and filled with the conviction that let cynics say what they will there is more of good than evil in the world. Among moderns, I think, Montaigne must be considered the finest representative spectator. The more so because, in his case, we cannot have the slightest suspicion of physical causes having anything to do in forming the character. Montaigne, then, at the early age of thirty-eight, while the fire of youth still coursed through his veins, and while in the enjoyment of good health, social position, leisure, ample means, and all the nameless advantages which gentle birth and liberal education could confer, withdrew from the gay and busy world of Paris to the seclusion of his chateau in Gascony, there to devote himself to the uninterrupted pursuit of his favourite studies and meditations. It was there that he found the delightful occupation of writing those marvellous essays which have been the wonder and delight of each succeeding generation. What a wonderful succession of kaleidoscopic views they are. As we read, that old Gascon life rises up vividly before us as a thing of to-day. The writer becomes our companion with whom we are on familiar terms of friendship. He introduces us to his wife and daughter and even to his cook; he takes us into his garden and points out the pleasant features of the Gascon landscape; we hear the murmuring rustle of the leaves as they are stirred by the summer wind. In a word we become inmates of that quaint old château, and we see how his life flows smoothly and evenly on, spent in the quiet contemplation of the changing seasons. There is nothing of the heroic about this while he trimmed his vines and watched his peaches ripen; earnest and active spirits were battling in the cause of civil freedom and religious liberty; but for him the battle-field had no charms, the clash of arms no music, even the shrieks and cries of St. Bartholomew fell a low murmur on his ease-dulled ears, awakening no stronger feeling

perhaps than feeble pity. This is not the highest ideal of life certainly. Considering his exalted position and the influence he might have exerted on behalf of the mighty questions which were agitating the leading minds of that age, he deserves our censure, but we cannot forget that what his own age and country lost in the soldier we have gained in the charming, genial, kindly and observant essayist; and that while most of the active spirits of that age have gone and left scarcely more than a name behind, he is continuing to delight each succeeding generation with his wit and wisdom. There is another feature of Montaigne's writings which is peculiarly characteristic of the spectator, that is a certain sober tinge of melancholy. Seated in the cold regions of solitary thought he sees all the kingdoms of the earth and their glories pass before him in sombre saddenly pageantry, and what a strange panorama he looks down on. Human nature in all its manifold aspects, with all its hopes and joys, its disappointments and its sorrows. Go where we

will we find that it is man that gives all else its value and its meaning. We go to novelist and to poet to see the faint reflection of this human nature, when had we but eyes to see we should find tragedy and comedy enough in every hour of our everyday life; for as Carlyle says, 'There is something of the Godlike, something inscrutable and mysterious in the meanest tinker that sees with eyes.' What wonder then that the spectator to whom the commonest object and most trivial incident has a hidden meaning, pregnant with things spiritual, who ever lives in the very presence of the supernatural and the mysterious, what wonder then, I say, that his mind and feelings should become somewhat tinged and saddened by the divine melancholy'? Unfortunately when unrelieved by knowledge and culture this is apt to degenerate into a morbid habit of introspection, surely resulting in a moral dyspepsia.

DOWN SOUTH IN A SAIL BOAT.

BY ROBERT TYSON, TORONTO.

II.

Saturday, November 15.-Wind as usual. Surely this is monotonous! I could have sailed up stream from here to Cincinnati in less than one-third of the time it has taken me to come down. Brandenburg, Kentucky, where I called to-day, is a quaint, odd place. All the stores are clustered together in one straight street, rough-hewn out of a soil of stones, and looking not unlike the bed of a mountain torrent. The remainder of the village is perched on the tops and sides of adjacent bluffs. It seems full of life and business. I have now reached a portion of the river where, for forty or fifty miles, its bed is narrower and the current proportionately swifter.

Sunday, November 16.—An orange tint was in the east, and the morning star was bright, when I woke this morning. The bright freshness of these early mornings is delightful, after the sound refreshing sleep which my life in the open air has brought

me.

As I write, about 10 a.m., the day is one of Sabbath stillness and calm. It is medicine to lie in the bright warm sunshine, seeing the river banks gliding slowly but steadily by, and listening to the peaceful sounds from shore, which come mellow but distinct over the calm water-the sound of voices in conversation, now a burst of laughter, the tinkling of cow-bells, the chirrup of birds, the distant crowing of cocks, and the cawing of rooks. Now I hear a child's voice. A road runs along the rocky cliff, half-way up, with here and there a house. Further on are some flat-boats, with the

occupants of which I exchange greetings. Being Sunday, there are many people on the river's bank and in skiffs, and I often make enquiries, or exchange a good-day' with them. Horsemen are frequent.

Afternoon.-Passing the two Blue River islands, I neared Leavenworth, and a party of young men in a skiff came alongside. One of them told me in the course of conversation that his name was Breden, and that he had a namesake in Toronto, a druggist. Three other boats had by this time clustered around us, and the five boats drifted sociably toward the town. A steamer had just arrived at the wharfboat, and we consequently encountered the gaze of an interested crowd, one of whom enquired if I was the man whom the Courier-Journal said was going from the lakes to New Orleans in a sail-boat. Leavenworth is prettily situated on a high plateau, with a background of hills. I ascended to the post office, the door of which had been opened for a short time; meanwhile Mr. Breden took charge of my boat. The following instructive scene took place at the post-office :Stranger. I am sorry to trouble you on Sunday, but I am anxious to get a letter to-day.'

Young lady. Your name, sir?' S.-Robert Tyson-T-y-s-o-n.' Y. L. (Looks in the T' box.)'There is no letter for Robert Tyson.'

S. (Aghast)--That is very strange. I expected a letter from Toronto, Canada, and I am sure my correspondent would not fail me. Have you anything for "Lyson? The letter may have got into the "L." box?"

Y. L.-There is a letter for Robert Lyson, from Toronto, Canada; the first letter might be a "T," but it has been put in the "L" box.' (Hands S. a letter, the address looking as much like Lyson as Tyson, and a little more so.) S. thanks her joyfully, and forthwith plunges into the letter.

Now, as my dear wife did not herself address that envelope, although she was the writer of the letter, I will make bold to draw a moral; to wit: -If you want to make sure of your letters reaching their destination, do not dash off the address in your ordinary hand-writing, but write it rather slowly, rounding off each letter as if you were setting a child's copy.

My eye took in a pretty panoramic view as I descended--the riverstretching away in the distance; the wharfboat with steamers alongside, and the little Bishop, whose temporary occupant was taking a brief cruise on his own account. I changed places with him, and was soon bowling down the river before a favourable wind, which carried me well into the horse-shoe Bend. The river here doubles back on itself for some miles, in the shape this name indicates. Here is another of those almost perpendicular high rocky walls, with debris leaning against it, and trees growing thickly. They are a frequent feature of the river. This one extends all round the outside of the curve, and gave me the impression of being shut in by a lofty amphitheatre of rock-a peculiar and at night somewhat sombre feeling. The sun, low down, was hidden by one part of the rock, while another part was bathed in his light.

Anchored near a farm house, on the Kentucky side. The master thereof

came down and exchanged a few words with me. The chilly night sent me quickly to my own warm nest. Twenty-two miles to-day.

Monday, November 17th.-Raining heavily. My farmer friend, Mosgrove by name, came down and invited me to his house to have a cup

of coffee. I accepted his invitation, and waded ashore. The cup of coffee developed itself into a dinner. Verily I am amongst a hospitable people. The kindness which I have met on this journey is remarkable. My host and I sat talking by a big old-fashioned chimney, wherein a jolly fire of three-foot logs was blazing. He was a Tennessee man, and had served four years in the Confederate army. His manner was quiet, and his speech deliberate; a good-looking, well-made man, with jet black hair and beard. The building containing Mr. Mosgrove's kitchen and dining-room was separate from the rest of the house, and had formerly been the negroes' quarters. I went out with Mr. Mosgrove to get some persimmons-the favourite fruit of coons. When mellowed by the frost they are a sweet fruit, and are very good; but before being frozen they are uneatable owing to a strong taste like alum, which puckers up one's mouth. Mosgrove was about sending a quantity of apples to be made into apple-brandy,' a spirit of which a great deal is distilled from apples, in the neighbourhood. He recommended it as a cure for dyspepsia, taken after every meal; but his wife seemed doubtful of its virtues !

Late in the afternoon, dropped down the river fora dreary four miles, under a leaden sky, amid fog and drizzle. I moored amongst some snags at dusk, after a dear-bought experience of some of the peculiar qualities of a snaggy shore. I never had so much work and worry in mooring. Besides the visible snags, there were other logs and snags -pesky things-a few inches under water, just in the spots I had selected, lying in wait to catch my unwary

keel.

Tuesday, Nov. 18th.-This has been a big day's sailing. After tacking down one bend, I got a fair wind along the return bend, and all the rest of the day. Alton, Concordia, and Stephensport were successively passed, each on

its level river bank, with a background of hills. These three places look exceedingly pretty from the river, with their neatly painted frame houses and well-finished brick erections. Their situation illustrates a frequent feature of the Ohio river. Imagine a valley, wholly or partially surrounded by hills, like an amphitheatre; the bottom of the valley an almost level floor or plateau of alluvial soil, and considerable in extent. Through this more or less level plateau the river has cut its way, sometimes near the centre, but more frequently washing the base of the hills at one side. These plateaus are locally known as 'bottoms,' and are usually very fertile. Stephensport is at the mouth of Sinking Creek, an eccentric stream which hides itself from public gaze for five or six miles in the bowels of the earth, then reappears in the light of day, and goes on to the Ohio like any other orderly 'crick.' Opposite Stephensport is Rome-one of the many Romes in the United States. Alas for Imperial Rome (Perry county, Indiana)- only five houses are visible to the naked eye from that side of the river, though my guide-book says it is a county-seat. Some men were building a freight-boat there, and one of them kindly undertook to mail a postal card for me. As I sailed quietly on to my anchorage, I cast many an admiring look on Stephensport and its vicinity-a lovely scene in the mellow light of declining day. With much satisfaction, I scored 35 miles.

Wednesday, Nov. 19.-Boat covered with hoar-frost this morning, but its occupant slept warm and well. I was now about 21 miles from Cannelton, where I hoped to get letters and money from home. Owing to miscalculation about remittances, my available funds were reduced to 70 cents, and my provisions to a few days' stock. By sunset I had made 19 miles. I continued beating up against a west wind by the light of the moon, till the wind got disagreeably strong, when I anchored on a gravel bar, two miles

from Cannelton. Presently the wind shifted to the north, and began to blow like the deuce. I put additional gaskets on the sail, and let out a few feet more cable to increase the grip of the anchor. All night long the gale raged. I afterwards heard that it was a terrible night on the great lakes-a night of disaster and shipwreck. For my part, I kept watch nearly all night; the possibility of being sent adrift, asleep, on so wild a night, precluded From time to time I peeped

rest. above the hatch-cloth at my landmarks the dark outline of a clump of trees on the Indiana side, and a ‘government light' on the Kentucky side. They were always there. My trusty anchor and cable did their duty well, and the boat, when morning broke, had not budged.

Thursday, Nov. 20. The north wind brought the frost on its wings; its violence was but little abated, and the morning was bitterly cold. Crouching under the shelter of the hatchcloth and combing, I attended to breakfast and other domestic duties. I then got under the lee of the bank to a certain extent, and pulled half a mile, when the bank curved away from between me and the wind, and I was drifted back up-stream faster than I could pull my heavy boat. The situation was most tantalizing. Hawesville, opposite Cannelton, was in full sight. One mile further, and I should. get letters, warmth and shelter. I fastened the boat, and lay down behind its protecting sides. The cold wind caught me by the nose and made my eyes water when I raised my head above my 'wooden wall.' I was warmly clothed, and ran no risk of freezing for awhile. Presently I saw a figure approaching along the beach, sharply outlined against the sky. I had been reading about the feudal times, and I amused myself by fancying the approaching man to be clad in armour, with a lance on his shoulder ; his outline really looked like it. My feudal knight soon changed into a

« AnteriorContinuar »