At night, for one hour, the wind blew a
gale, and the ship rocked in a very disagreeable manner; but at six
o'clock on Tuesday morning we were on deck, and there was the
beautiful Welsh coast, and Snowdon just taking off his night-cap;
and soon we saw "England, that precious stone set in a silver sea."
Next to the thought of friends whom we had parted from for so long a
time, my mind during the voyage was occupied with the idea of
Columbus. When I looked upon the rude, boundless ocean, and
remembered that when he set out with his little vessel to go to a
land that no one knew any thing of, not even that there was such a
land, he was guided altogether by his faith in its existence; that
he had no sympathy, but only opposition; that he had no charts,
nothing but the compass, that sure but mysterious guide, - the
thought of his sublime courage, of his patient faith, was so present
to my mind, that it seemed as if I was actually sometimes in his
presence.
The other idea was the wonderful skill displayed in the construction
of the small, but wonderfully powerful and beautifully arranged and
safe home, in which we were moving on this immense and turbid ocean,
carrying within her the great central fire by which the engine was
moved, which, in spite of winds and waves, carried us safely along;
then the science which enabled the master of this curious nutshell
of man's contriving to know just in what part of this waste of
trackless waters we were. All these things I knew before, and had
often thought of them, but was never so impressed with them; it was
almost as if they were new to me.
Before I quit the ocean, I must tell you of what I saw for which I
cannot account, and, had not one of the gentlemen seen it too, I
should almost have doubted my senses. When we were entirely out of
sight of land, I saw a white butterfly hovering over the waves, and
looking as if he were at home. Where the beautiful creature came
from, or how he lived, or what would become of him, no one could
tell. He seemed to me to be there as a symbol and a declaration that
the souls of those whose bodies lay in the ocean were yet living and
present with those they had loved.
When we arrived at Liverpool, we found a very dear friend, whom we
had known in America, on the wharf ready to receive us. He took us
to his house, and we felt that we were not, after all, in a strange
land. Love and kindness are the home of all souls, and show us what
heaven must be.
The thing that impressed me most was the dim light of the English
day, the soft, undefined shadows, compared with our brilliant
sunshine and sharply defined shade - then the coloring of the houses,
the streets, the ground, of every thing; no bright colors, all
sober, some very dark, - the idea of age, gravity, and stability.
Nobody seems in a hurry. Our country seems so young and vehement;
this so grave and collected!
Now I will tell you something about my visit to my dear friend
Harriet Martineau, whose beautiful little books, "Feats on the
Fiord," "The Crofton Boys," and the others, you love so much to
read. She lives at Ambleside, in what is called the Lake Country.
Ambleside is a beautiful country town in the valley of the Rotha,
and not far from Lake Windermere. Around the town rise high hills,
which perhaps may be called mountains. These mountains are not, like
many of ours, clothed to the summit with thick wild forests, but
have fewer trees, and are often bare at the summit. The mixture of
gray rock and green grass forms such a beautiful coloring over their
graceful and sometimes grotesque outline that you would not have
them other than they are.
The Ambleside houses are of dark-gray stone, and almost all of them
have ivy and flowers about them. One small house, the oldest in the
village, was several hundred years old; and out of all the crevices
between the stones hung harebells and other wild flowers; one side
of it and much of the roof were covered with ivy. This house was
only about ten feet square, and it looked to me like a great rustic
flower pot.
I should like some time to read you a description of this lovely
place, written by Miss Martineau herself. Then you will almost hear
the murmuring sound of the Brathay and the Rotha, and breathe the
perfume of the wild heather, and catch the freshness of the morning
breeze, as she offers you these mountain luxuries in her glowing
words.
Miss Martineau lives a little out of the village. You drive up to
the house through a shrubbery of laurels, and roses, and fuschias,
and other plants, - young trees and flowers, - to the beautiful little
porch, covered with honeysuckles and creeping plants. The back of
the house is turned to the road, and the front looks out over the
loveliest green meadows, to the grand, quiet hills, sometimes clear
and sharp in their outline against the blue sky, and at others
wreathed with mist; and one might sit for hours at the large bay
window in the parlor, watching these changes, and asking no other
enjoyment.
It was also a great pleasure to witness the true and happy life of
my friend. I saw there the highest ideas of duty, usefulness, and
benevolence carried into daily practice. Miss Martineau took us one
morning to see the poet Wordsworth.
