Mr. Amy, The Kind Friend Who Had
First Welcomed Me To The States, Was My Travelling Companion, And At His
House Near Boston, In The Midst Of A Happy Family-Circle, I Spent The
Short Remnant Of My Time Before Returning To England.
We left New York just as the sun was setting, frosty and red, and ere we
had reached Newhaven it was one of the finest winter evenings that I had
ever seen.
The moisture upon the windows of the cars froze into
innumerable fairy shapes; the crescent moon and a thousand stars shone
brilliantly from a deep blue sky; auroras flashed and meteors flamed, and,
as the fitful light glittered on many rushing gurgling streams, I had but
to remember how very beautiful New England was, to give form and
distinctness to the numerous shapes which we were hurrying past. I was
recalling the sunny south to mind, with its vineyards and magnolia groves,
and the many scenes of beauty that I had witnessed in America, with all
the genial kindness which I had experienced from many who but a few months
ago were strangers, when a tipsy Scotch fiddler broke in upon my reveries
by an attempt to play 'Yankee Doodle.' It is curious how such a thing can
instantly change the nature of the thoughts. I remembered speculations,
'cute notions, guesses, and calculations; "All aboard," and "Go ahead,"
and "Pile on, skipper;" sharp eager faces, diversities of beards,
duellists, pickpockets, and every species of adventurer.
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