Thursday, November 22. Is there anything in this
world more wearisome, more dismal, more intolerable,
more reckless, more sumptuous, more unbearable,
anything more calculated to kill both soul and
body, than a big dinner in New York? For my part,
I do not believe there is. People sit down to table
at half past five or six o’clock; they are still
sitting there at nine o’clock, and being served
with one course after another, with one rich dish
after another, eating and remaining silent. I have
never experienced such a silence as at these great
dinners. In order not to go asleep, I am obliged to
eat, to eat without being hungry, and dishes, too,
which do not agree with me. And all the while I feel
such an emotion of impatience and wrath at this mode
of wasting time and God’s
gifts, and that in so stupidly wearisome a manner,
that I am just ready to fling dish and plate on the
floor, and repay hospitality by a sermon of rebuke,
if I only had courage enough. But I am silent and
suffer, and grumble and scold in silence. This is not
very polite, but I cannot help it! I was yesterday
at one of these big dinners—a horrible feast! Two
elderly gentlemen, lawyers, sat opposite me, sat and
dozed while they opened their mouths and put in the
delicacies which were offered to them. At our peasant
weddings, where people also sit three hours at the
table, there are, nevertheless, talks and toasts,
gifts for the bride and bridegroom, and fiddlers
to play at every dish; but here one has nothing
but food. And the dinners in Denmark! I cannot but
think of them, with their few but exquisite dishes,
and animated, cheerful guests, who merely were
sometimes too loud in their zeal for talking and
making themselves heard; and the wit, the jokes, the
stories, the toasts, the conversations, that merry,
free, lively laissez-aller, which distinguishes Danish
social life; in truth, it was champagne—champagne for
soul and body at those entertainments. But these here
are destined for hell, as Heiberg says in A Soul After
Death, and they are termed the tiresome. They should
be introduced into the Litany. On another occasion,
however, Fortune was kind to
me and placed by my side an interesting clergyman,
Dr. F. L. Hawks, who during dinner explained to me,
with his beautiful voice and in his lucid, excellent
manner, his ideas regarding the remains in Central
America, and his hypothesis of the union of the
two continents of America and Asia in a very remote
age. It was interesting to hear him, and it would be
interesting for me to see and hear more of this man,
whose character and manner attract me.
When at night I went home with Anne Lynch, the air was
delightful, and the walk through this night air and
in the quiet streets—the highways here are broad and
as smooth as a house floor—very agreeable. The starry
heavens, God’s city, formed a canopy with streets and
groups of glittering dwellings in quiet grandeur and
silence above us. And here in that quiet, starlight
night, Anne Lynch unfolded her soul to me, and I saw
an earnest and profound depth, bright with stars,
such as I scarcely expected in this gay being, who,
butterfly-like, flutters through the life of society
as in her proper element. I had always thought her
uncommonly pleasant, and admired the ability with
which, without affluence, by her own talents and
personal attainments, she had made for herself and
for her estimable mother an independence, and by
which she had become the center of the
literary and the most cultivated society in New York,
which assembled once a week in her drawing-room. I
had admired also her inoffensive wit, her childlike
gayety and good humor, and especially liked a certain
expression in her eye, as though it were seeking for
something, "something a long, long way off," even,
in her apparently dissipated, worldly life; in a word,
I liked her, took a deep interest in her—now I loved
her. She is one of the birds of Paradise which skim
over the world without soiling their wings with its
dust. Anne Lynch, with her individuality and her
position in society, is one of the peculiar figures
of the New World.
A lecture was delivered last Sunday evening,
in the same hall where I had heard Channing, on
Christian Socialism, by Mr. Henry James, a wealthy
and, it is said, a good man. His doctrine was one
which recognizes no right except that of involuntary
attraction, no law of duty but the artist’s worship of
beauty, no greatness except that of power, no God but
that of the pantheist, everywhere and yet nowhere—a
doctrine which has its preachers even in Sweden. After
the conclusion of the discourse, given extempore, with
enthusiasm and flashing vivacity, Channing arose and
said that if the doctrine which we had just heard were
Christian Socialism, then he did not agree with it;
that the subject ought to be thoroughly investigated;
that he considered the views of the speaker to be
erroneous; and that on the following Sunday he would
take up the question in that same place, and show
them in what the errors of these views consisted.
The above contents can be inspected in scanned images:
35, 36, 37, 38, 39
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