New-Born Hopes Seemed, Like The
Rainbow, To Appear In The Clouds Of Sorrow, Faint, Yet Sufficient To
Amuse Away Despair.
Some refreshing but heavy showers have detained us; and here I am
writing quite alone - something more than gay, for which I want a
name.
I could almost fancy myself in Nootka Sound, or on some of the
islands on the north-west coast of America. We entered by a narrow
pass through the rocks, which from this abode appear more romantic
than you can well imagine; and seal-skins hanging at the door to dry
add to the illusion.
It is indeed a corner of the world, but you would be surprised to
see the cleanliness and comfort of the dwelling. The shelves are
not only shining with pewter and queen's ware, but some articles in
silver, more ponderous, it is true, than elegant. The linen is
good, as well as white. All the females spin, and there is a loom
in the kitchen. A sort of individual taste appeared in the
arrangement of the furniture (this is not the place for imitation)
and a kindness in their desire to oblige. How superior to the apish
politeness of the towns! where the people, affecting to be well
bred, fatigue with their endless ceremony.
The mistress is a widow, her daughter is married to a pilot, and has
three cows. They have a little patch of land at about the distance
of two English miles, where they make hay for the winter, which they
bring home in a boat. They live here very cheap, getting money from
the vessels which stress of weather, or other causes, bring into
their harbour. I suspect, by their furniture, that they smuggle a
little. I can now credit the account of the other houses, which I
last night thought exaggerated.
I have been conversing with one of my companions respecting the laws
and regulations of Norway. He is a man within great portion of
common sense and heart - yes, a warm heart. This is not the first
time I have remarked heart without sentiment; they are distinct.
The former depends on the rectitude of the feelings, on truth of
sympathy; these characters have more tenderness than passion; the
latter has a higher source - call it imagination, genius, or what you
will, it is something very different. I have been laughing with
these simple worthy folk - to give you one of my half-score Danish
words - and letting as much of my heart flow out in sympathy as they
can take. Adieu! I must trip up the rocks. The rain is ever. Let
me catch pleasure on the wing - I may be melancholy to-morrow. Now
all my nerves keep time with the melody of nature. Ah! let me be
happy whilst I can. The tear starts as I think of it. I must flee
from thought, and find refuge from sorrow in a strong imagination -
the only solace for a feeling heart. Phantoms of bliss!
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