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rect that storm, which is to make the blood pace through the veins, wring the heart with horror or rend it with agony.
The plays of this author are, in my opinion, too excellent for public representation. His exquisite disclosures of mental feelings have something of the nature of confidential communications; they are too hallowed for the careless mob of a theatre; they are secrets whispered to chosen ears, to kindred and sympathizing spirits, chosen out of a crowd of lo
There is a magic beauty that smiles on them alone, a voice which reaches the inmost recesses of their hearts, and which is not to be wafted by all the winds of heaven, but passes by the idle frivolous world like air, in order to find its way into bosoms for which it was intended. Was Juliet, was Imogen, was Desdemona to be arraved in exhibition of the mob's greedy gaze? Were Hamlet's loneliest moods, his most sacred feelings to be displayed in the full broad glare of the world's eye, were they made to feed the curiosity of the uninitiated vulgar? Rather than draw up the curtain that separated his hidden thoughts from his fellow men, he would have perished in his soiltary wretchedness; he would have held in unviolated silence his feelings and passions, which had been cherished for the seclusion in which they sprung and for their own still deep peace!
After leaving Stratford, we passed through Dunstable, St. Albans (a beautiful town with many pretty girls,) and arrived early in the
evening in London, under the arch of Highgate, from the top of which is enjoyed a delightful view of the “wonderful metropolis.”
The scenery which attracts the eye in this journey, is beautiful, but not much diversified, and certainly not romantic. The hedges produce an agreeable effect, particularly when they are sprinkled with white blossoms, and when the wild flowers enamel the verdant foliage. The landscape is extended and level: it has been compared to the ocean, whose glassy smoothness is only diversified by gently elevated billows. In Scotland, the view is almost constantly intercepted by mountainous prospects; and even those portions of Scotch territory which are most distinguished for fertility and uninterrupted views, are generally bounded by hills of proportional size. The rich appearance which the English scenery derives from the hedges and trees with which it is adorned, is another peculiarity: every field is bounded by hedges of unshorn luxuriance, and the number of wild flowers, with which they are sprinkled, furnishes a fine contrast with the bleakness and sterility of the Scotch bye-paths. The plantations in this country are picturesque, but are deficient in gloomy grandeur; the beauty which England derives from her trees can be thus explained: the fields are all very small, because the soil is rich; every field is surrounded by a few trees, placed at considerable intervals along each of its sides; so that an immense extent of country,
out in this fashion, has the appearance of a countless multitude of contiguous little orchards, and the whole landscape has a character of smiling loveliness, which is not consistent with the melancholy grandeur of impervious forests. But, with all this richness and picturesque beauty, there is a want of interest, a certain fatiguing stillness in the English landscape: Scotland possesses a mighty superiority in the bold features by which her veterau visage is marked.
'T'is pleasant through the loop-boles of retreat
London, July 13, 1819. The young American who visits London for the first time, paints to himself the pleasures of the capital in all the voluptuous tints of a warm and juvenile imagination; he is fully convinced that it is the emporium of felicity, where nothing is seen but the blaze of wealth, and nothing is heard but merriment and flattery, that wrap the senses in the most delicious reveries; and he is induced to exclaim with the poet:
“Oh what a place is London!
The soul must be forgiven,
For 'tis our native Heav'n!"
But, he will soon be undeceived. He will find the riches of the few painfully contrasted with the wretchedness of thousands; that the pleasures of the capital are expensive and ruinous, and never fail to bring in their train listlessness and disgust. If he walks in the streets he will observe the hideous display of misery, and vice in its native deformity; he will meet, at every step, those miserable women, who drown the memory of the past, the frightful anticipations of the future, the remains of moral feeling, and the bloom of health, in the ocean of ebriety. Let him visit the circles of capricious fashion, he will have to bear “the proud man's contumely," the insolent pretensions of superior wealth, the heartless ceremonies to which he will be subjected, and that stagnation of life and feeling which results from the absence of all motives to exertion. It is this curse of fashion, this ennui, by which the justice of the Dispenser of events, has compensated the freaks and caprices of the blind goddess, in such a way, that it may be fairly doubted, whether upon the whole, the lower classes do not experience more true felicity than those whom the world calls great. Happiness, like a pure salutary stream, flows always downwards to its level; fertilizing the humble vales, while it leaves dry those barren rocks, whose threatening heaps cast a frightful shade, or tumbling headlong down, involve the plain in ruins.
I often walk through the west end of the town, through its beautiful squares, its elegant streets, and its public edifices. The squares are certainly unrivalled; they have gardens in the centre, with walks and seats, and are surrounded by iron pallisades; no shops or warehouses disfigure them, and their inhabitants are not bored with the noise of carts and wagons. An equestrian statue adorns most of these beautiful gardens. In the afternoon, I sometimes stroll through Bond street, the well known rendezvous of all the loungers, dandies and Phrynes of fashion-of pretty fellows who look, for all the world, like women in men's apparel,
“ things as smooth and tender as a girl.” The street is usually so crowded with outrageously foppish gentry, that I pass unnoticed in the crowd, although I am careful not to lag, as Falstaff terms it, in the rearward of fashion. If I can judge by the costume of the frequenters of Bond street, the following is the true dandy dress: the shirt collar making a half-moon over the cheek,—the neckcloth as stiff as buckram, the ends forming over the breast a cross, in the centre of which is a broachấthe coat with a high thick collar, and so tight about the waist that, with the aid of stays, the patient can scarcely breathe!-the pockets of the coat so narrow that nothing can be put into them, except a smelling bottle! the waistcoat in the shawl fashion, and only fastened below by the last button, in order not to conceal the profusion of ruffles--finally, the