The Travellers Part 1

The Travellers.

by Catharine Maria Sedgwick.

The following pages are inscribed to the youthful brother and sister, who are a.s.sociated with every picture of unfolding virtue, in the mind of their affectionate friend, THE AUTHOR.

THE TRAVELLERS.

In the month of June, (the jubilee month of poets and travellers) in the year eighteen hundred and eighteen, Mr. Sackville, his wife, and their two children, Edward and Julia, made the grand tour of Niagara, the lakes, Montreal, Quebec, &c. Both parents and children kept journals, in which they recorded with fidelity whatever they observed which they deemed worthy of note. We have been favored with the perusal of them all, and have been permitted to make a few extracts from them, which we intend to combine into a brief narrative, that we are sure will amuse our young readers, provided their delicate essence does not escape our unskilful hands.

First, it will be necessary that our readers should know into whose society they are thus unceremoniously introduced.

Mr. Sackville, in the prime of life retired from the successful practice of the law, to a beautiful estate in the country. Various motives were a.s.signed by his acquaintances for his removal; but as those diligent inquirers, who so conscientiously investigate their neighbor's affairs, are apt to pa.s.s over simple and obvious motives, those which, in this instance, governed Mr. Sackville's conduct, escaped their observation.

The truth was, he had a strong predilection for a country life; he was wearied with briefs and declarations; he loved above all things, the society of his accomplished wife, and he ardently desired to partic.i.p.ate with her the happiness of educating their fine children; and besides, he had many little plans of utility and benevolence, such as are naturally suggested to an active and philanthropic mind on entering a new sphere of life.

Mr. Sackville purchased a fine estate in the town of ----, in the state of ----. We have left these blanks, which we are well aware are very provoking to all, and especially to young readers, in order to allow them to locate the amiable Sackvilles (the name we confess to be fict.i.tious) wherever they choose, north or south of the Potomac, east or west of the Alleghanies; for we sincerely believe that such pattern families are to be found in every section of our favored country.

Edward was ten, Julia eight years old, when they removed from town. They felt a very natural reluctance at leaving the city, their companions, and the only pleasures they had ever known. But the state of their feelings will best appear by a conversation which occurred between them and their mother, shortly before their removal, while Edward was a.s.sisting her to pack up some vials, which with their contents, composed his chemical laboratory.

"You are very good, dear mother," he said, kissing her, "to take such pains to pack up these things: you have been in such a panic about spontaneous combustion ever since the night you found the phosphorus[1]

on fire, that I expected my little cupboard and all its treasures would be condemned. But," he added, with a sigh, "I suppose you think I shall want my chemistry more than ever to amuse me in the country."

[1] Phosphorus is a matter which shines or even burns spontaneously, and without the application of any sensible fire.

"No, my dear boy, not more than ever."

"Oh, mother! Bob Eaton's father says the country is such a bore--and Bob thinks so too."

"And what," asked Mrs. Sackville, "do Bob Eaton's father and Bob Eaton, mean by a bore?"

"Why, they mean, certainly"----Edward began in a confident tone, and then faltered a little: "that is, I suppose they mean, that----that----that----"

Edward found it as difficult to explain their meaning, as the original utterers of the profound remark would have done if suddenly called on: and he was glad to be interrupted by a soliloquy of his little sister, who stood in one corner of the room, wrapping something in half a dozen envelopes.

"Farewell!" she exclaimed, as the man says in the play, "'a long farewell'

to my dear dancing shoes--"

"Pardon me, Miss Julia," said her mother, "for cutting short such a pretty pathetic parting: but here is another pair of dancing shoes, which you will please to put with those you already have, and I trust you will have the pleasure of dancing them both out before you come to town again."

"Dancing them out, mother! shall we dance in the country?" exclaimed both the children in one breath. "I thought," continued Edward, "that we should have nothing to do in the country but get our lessons; and all work and no play, you know, mother, makes Jack a dull boy."

"Oh yes, Ned, I know that favorite proverb of all children. I am sorry to find that you have such a dread of the country. You know, my dear children, that your father and I are devoted to your welfare, and that we should do nothing that would not contribute to your happiness."

Edward had quick feelings, and he perceived that there was something reproachful in his mother's manner. "I am sure," he said, "that Julia and I wish to do every thing that you and papa like."

"That is not enough, my dear boy, we wish you to _like_ to do what we like."

"But surely, mother, you cannot blame us for not wishing to go and live in the country."

"No, Edward, I should as soon think of blaming poor blind Billy, because he cannot see. Unhappily you have been entirely confined to town, and are ignorant of the pleasures of the country. I only blame you for thinking that your father and I would voluntarily do any thing to lessen your innocent pleasures."

"Oh, mother!" exclaimed Edward, "we did not think any thing about that."

"Well, my dear, perhaps I am wrong in expecting you to _think_--reflection is the habit of a riper age than yours. You must trust me for one year, and at the expiration of that period, you and your sister shall decide whether we return to town or remain in the country."

"Oh, mother! how very good you are. One year--well, one year won't be so very long--only think, Julia, in one year we shall be back again."

"Not quite so fast, Edward," said his mother; "you are not to decide till the end of the year."

"Oh, I know that, mama, but of course we shall decide to come back."

Mrs. Sackville looked incredulous, and smiled at his childish confidence in his own constancy. "I see, mother, you don't believe me; but of course, Julia and I can't wish to live away from every thing that is amusing."

"Come, Julia, your brother has taken it upon himself to be spokesman, but let me hear from you, what are the amus.e.m.e.nts that you so dread to leave."

"Why, in the first place, mother, there is our dancing-school: every time I go to take my lesson, Mr. Dubois says, 'Pauvre, Miss Julie, point de cotillon; point de gavots in de country; ah, qu'il est sauvage--de country.'"

"Dubois for ever!" exclaimed Edward, as Julia finished her mimicry of her master's tone and grimace. "Oh, he is the drollest creature--and Julia is such a mimic--the girls will have n.o.body to make them laugh when she is gone."

Mrs. Sackville secretly rejoiced that Julia was to be removed, in a great degree, from the temptation to exercise so mischievous a faculty.

She, however, did not turn the drift of the conversation to make any remarks on it. "Console Mr. Dubois," she said, "my dear, Julia, with the a.s.surance, that your mother will take care that you do not lose the benefit of his labors in the service of the graces. Your father tells me, there is in our neighborhood a very decent musician, who does all the fiddling for the parish. I have purchased some cotillon music, and I hope your favorite tunes will soon resound in our new mansion."

"Oh, that will be delightful, mother, but Edward and I cannot dance a cotillon alone."

"No, but we are not going to a desert. There are enough clever children in the neighborhood, who will form a set with you; and now, Julia, that I see by your brightened eye, that you think the affliction of leaving the dancing-school will be alleviated, what is the next subject of your regret?"

"The next, mother? what is next, Edward?"

"I do not know what you will call next, Julia, but I think the theatre comes next."

"O! the theatre--yes, the theatre--how could I forget the theatre?"

"Well, my children, I think you can live without the theatre, as you go but once, or at most twice in a season; a pleasure that occupies so small a portion of your time, cannot be very important to your happiness, or regretted very deeply."

"A small portion of time, to be sure, mother," replied Edward; "but then you will own it is delightful: you yourself exclaimed the other night when the curtain drew up, 'what a beautiful spectacle!'"

"Yes, my love, but nature has far more beautiful spectacles, and I have kept you too long from them."

"But, mother," insisted Edward, "nothing can be so pleasant and startling, as when the curtain suddenly draws up and discovers a beautiful scene."

"It may be more startling, my dear Ned, but it is not half so delightful as to see the curtain of night withdrawn in a clear summer morning, and the lovely objects of nature lighting up with the rays of the rising sun."

"But, mother, there is the orchestra--"

"And in the country, my dear, we have bands of voluntary musicians on every side of us, who set all their wants, and all their pleasures to music, and pour them forth in the sweetest notes, from morning till night. These musicians will hover about our house and garden the entire summer, and ask no reward, but to share with us our cherries and raspberries; a small pittance from the generous stores of summer. But, come, my children, what next?"