freezing with poles and staves. A few moments would suffice to coat it with ice again. To test the faith of proselytes, the coldest days are chosen for these ceremonies, and the services are intentionally prolonged. Intense faith is supposed to make the day mild and the water of summer temperature. The minister at last finishes his exhortation, and the penitents are led forth. This is the order of procession:—Members of the meeting already baptised lead the way, two and two; then the priest, singing loudly in honour of St. John the Baptist; then twelve novices of both sexes, hand in hand, clad in long gowns. As they approach the stream the already immersed members file off to right and left along the margin, and the minister, without slackening his pace, walks steadily nearly breast-high into the freezing stream. His singing dies away in short short gasps as the water rises above his hips. His fanatical disciples, with a resolution worthy of a better cause, follow him. When the pastor recovers his breath, he devotes a few minutes to a solemn exhortation on baptism; then, seizing the nearest devotee, he entirely immerses him or her, as the case may be, with the dexterity of a practised bathing-man. Another short prayer is followed by another immersion, until all are gasping, coughing, and wiping the water out of their eyes. They have spent about ten minutes in the icy stream!
We listen to the remarks of the bystanders, who, although evidently not of the Baptist persuasion, do not treat the performance with the ridicule we expected. We are told that these fanatics, notwithstanding the severity of the season, will not take cold. We should have anticipated that these duckings would have been frequently attended with fatal results. A dry humourist at our elbow calculates they are, sometimes. There is a merry twinkle in his eye as he relates the following story of a public baptism by immersion:—
“It was just such a day as this, now a many years ago, that Parson Dearborn lost one of his lambs in this here stream, only a few miles lower down. They’d broke the ice, and Dearborn was up to his waist in the middle of the hole. The stream was so strong he’d much ado to keep on his legs. The first as come to be ducked was old Mar’m Bigelow, but when the parson had let her down into the water he lost his hold, and away she went under the ice. Now, Parson Dearborn was not a man to be put out, so, says he, quite calm, ‘The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord: come another of you, my children.’ But no more would come. I reckon they all lost their faith,—anyhow they made tracks.”
“And what became of Mrs. Bigelow?” we inquire, with horror.
“Wal, I calculate nothing was seen of Mar’m Bigelow for a fortnight, when a fishing-boat picked her up in Long Island Sound.”
Poor Mrs. Bigelow! it was a consolation to hear that she was picked up, and did not go to feed the lobsters for which the Sound is famous. Apropos of lobsters, our humorous friend has another story to tell us. It is to be feared that our power of swallow must have appeared very large. We ought to see the lobsters caught in the Bay of Fundy, ought we? Yes, it was not uncommon to take them fifty or sixty pounds in weight, so that a dozen hungry men could easily sup off a single lobster, and leave enough fragments to satisfy somebody else! A sense of greenness pervades us: how otherwise should any one attempt so to impose?
This will never do. We want facts—our own experience, and not that of others. For instance, we know that we pay fourpence per mile currency (threepence sterling of our money) for our seat in the New York mail-coach, and that we are only allowed fourteen pounds of luggage. We also know that there are no turnpikes, and that we are not expected to give any fees to drivers. Ha! this is better. These dry facts restore us. Travellers see quite enough strange things with their own eyes without borrowing from friends or chance acquaintances.
The women in the country towns do not wear caps, and many of them have their hair plaited at full length down their backs like a queue, giving them a Swiss appearance not at all becoming in our eyes. Here is an American officer,—the first we have seen. His dress consists of a blue coat of superfine cloth, with scarlet facings and cuffs, and a buff cashmere waistcoat and breeches. A fine, handsome fellow, whose dress suits him right well. At Hartford a very reverend-looking old gentleman gets in, who more than fills the only vacant seat of our eight-inside. He had on a tremendous full-bottomed wig of the last century (the seventeenth, not the eighteenth, bear in mind), and fills us with mingled feelings of reverence and the ridiculous. We learn that he is Deacon Bishop, an elder of the Presbyterian church at Newhaven. A reserved and silent man, yet, when he does speak, he displays an amiability and intelligence not at all in accordance with his primitive dress and appearance.
The universal topic of conversation in this country is politics. Since we have set foot in the United States we find newspapers in every village. Our chance acquaintances are mostly people of uncouth manners, and without the least education beyond instruction in reading and writing, but their opinions are generally just and sensible. The majority speak well of General Washington, but all show an utter indifference on the subject of his resignation. “He is old, and men cannot last for ever;” such is the general remark. Less importance is attached to the choice of his sucessor than we should have expected. “John Adams,” said a tavern-keeping colonel named Beverley, “is a good man; Jefferson is also a good man; we cannot fail to find good men in America.” When we stop at an inn, it appears somewhat strange to European eyes to see the coachman eat at the same table as the passengers; but it would appear equally strange to the Americans to see the coachman eating by himself. Generally speaking, he is the best informed as to general news on the coach; he is always a great politician, and frequently names his horses after the President and Vice-President, and if he has a horse that wants the whip he will name him after some man