“And what is that?”
“Not to make such a thing of it as Fanny Kemble’s journal;—that is, not to strike out three-fourths of the book, and then publish the rest all dashes and stars.”
I gave him my word to leave as few stories untold as possible, and, in general, to stick to my text as far as was consistent with prudence; after which he quietly sneaked off to his office, leaving me to do the best with the manuscript. And now, gentle reader, it is for you to judge whether I have abused the confidence of my friend.
CHAPTER I.
Walk to the Battery.—The Breakfast.—Conversation of young travelled Americans.—Their notions of Politics, Negroes, and Women.
“He cannot be a perfect man,
Not being try’d and tutor’d in the world:
Experience is by industry achiev’d,
And perfected by the swift course of time.”
Shakspeare.—Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act I. Scene 3.
Some years ago, early of a fine morning in the month of July, I was sauntering with some Southern friends down Broadway towards the Battery, which forms the eastern extremity of the city of New York. The night had been most uncomfortably hot, the thermometer ranging above 90°, and the sun’s lurid glare, produced by a thick heavy mist,—the usual companion of a sultry day in America,—gave to the sleeping city the appearance of a general conflagration.
As long as we were in Broadway, not a breath of air was stirring, and respiration really difficult; but, when we arrived at the Bowling Green, a delicious sea-breeze imparted new vigour to our exhausted frames, and increased gradually as we were approaching the Battery. Arrived at this beautiful spot, the air was quite refreshing, and the view one of the finest I ever beheld. The harbour was covered with sails, a rich verdure overspread the neighbouring hills and islands, and the mingled waters of the ocean and the Hudson, gently rippled by the breeze, tremblingly reflected the burning orb of day.
“What a delicious spot this is!” said I; “there is nothing equal to it in any part of the Union!”