7 January 1833 – 13 January 1833

Young —— called, and stayed about an hour with us. At half-past five, took coffee, and off to the theatre. The play was Romeo and Juliet; the house was extremely full: they are a delightful audience. My Romeo had gotten on a pair of trunk breeches, that looked as if he had borrowed them from some worthy Dutchman of a hundred years ago. Had he worn them in New York, I could have understood it as a compliment to the ancestry of that good city; but here, to adopt such a costume in Romeo, was really perfectly unaccountable. They were of a most unhappy choice of colours, too,—dull, heavy-looking blue cloth, and offensive crimson satin, all be-puckered, and be-plaited, and be-puffed, till the young man looked like a magical figure growing out of a monstrous strange coloured-melon, beneath which descended his unfortunate legs, thrust into a pair of red slippers, for all the world like Grimaldi's legs en costume for clown. The play went off pretty smoothly, except that they broke one man's collar-bone, and nearly dislocated a woman's shoulder by flinging the scenery about. My bed was not made in time, and when the scene drew, half a dozen carpenters in patched trowsers and tattered shirt-sleeves were discovered smoothing down my pillows, and adjusting my draperies. The last scene is too good not to be given verbatim:— Romeo. Rise, rise, my Juliet, And from this cave of death, this house of horror, Quick let me snatch thee to thy Romeo's arms. Here he pounced upon me, plucked me up in his arms like an uncomfortable bundle, and staggered down the stage with me. Juliet. (aside.) Oh, you've got me up horridly!—that'll never do; let me down, pray let me down. Romeo. There, breathe a vital spirit on thy lips, And call thee back, my soul, to life and love! Juliet. (aside.) Pray put me down; you'll certainly throw me down if you don't set me on the ground directly. In the midst of "cruel cursed fate," his dagger fell out of his dress; I, embracing him tenderly, crammed it back again, because I knew I should want it at the end. Romeo. Tear not our heart-strings thus! They crack! they break!—Juliet! Juliet! (dies.) Juliet. (to corpse.) Am I smothering you? Corpse. (to Juliet.) Not at all; could you be so kind, do you think, as to put my wig on again for me?—it has fallen off. Juliet. (to corpse.) I'm afraid I can't, but I'll throw my muslin veil over it. You've broken the phial, haven't you? (Corpse nodded.) Juliet. (to corpse.) Where's your dagger? Corpse. (to Juliet.) 'Pon my soul, I don't know.

By half-past ten we were packed in what in this country is termed an exclusive extra, i. e. a stage-coach to ourselves, and progressing towards Washington. The coach was comfortable enough, and the country, for the first twelve or fifteen miles, owing to the abominable account I had heard of it from every body, disappointed me rather agreeably. It was by no means so dreary or desolate as I had been led to expect. There was considerable variety in its outline, and the quantity of cedar thickets scattered over it took away from the comfortless threadbare look of the wintry woods. Threadbare, indeed, the trees can scarce be called; for the leaves of the black oak, instead of falling as they fade, remain upon the branches, and give the trees more the effect of being lightning-struck, or accidentally blasted, than withered by the fair course of the seasons. I think the effect is more disagreeable than that of absolutely bare leafless boughs. When near, the trees look singularly deplorable and untidy, although at the distance, the red-brown of the faded oaks mingling with the bright, vivid, green cedars, and here and there a silver-barked buttonwood tree raising its white delicate branches from among them, produce a very agreeable and harmonious blending to the eye. The soil, the banks by the road-side, and broken ridges of ravines, and water-courses, attracted my attention by the variety and vividness of their colours; the brightest red and yellow, and then again pale green, and rich warm gravel-colour. I wished I had been a geologist. How much pleasure of reflection and contemplation is lost to the ignorant, whose outward sense wanders over the objects that surround it, deriving from them but half the delight that they give the wise and well-informed; even fancy is at fault, for fancy itself scarce devises images more strange, and beautiful, and wonderful, than the reality of things presents to those who understand their properties and natures. The waters were all fast frozen up, and one or two little pools, all curdled with ice, and locked up in deep gravelly basins, looked like onyx stones set in gold. As for the road, we had been assured it was exceedingly good; but mercy on us! I can't think of it without aching. Here we went up, up, up, and there we went down, down, down,—now, I was in my father's lap, and now I was half out of window. The utter impossibility of holding one's self in any one position for two minutes is absolutely ridiculous. Sometimes we laughed, and at other times we groaned, at our helpless and hopeless condition; but at last we arrived, with no bones broken, at about three o'clock, at the capital and seat of government of the United States. Upon the height immediately above the city is situated the Capitol, a very handsome building, of which the Americans are not a little proud; but it seems placed there by mistake, so little do the miserable untidy hovels above, and the scattered unfinished red-brick town below, accord with its patrician marble and high-sounding title. We drove to Gadsby's, which is an inn like a little town, with more wooden galleries, flights of steps, passages, door-ways, exits, and entrances, than any building I ever saw: it reminded me of the house in Tieck's Love-charm. We had not been arrived a quarter of an hour, when in walked Mr. —— and Captain ——, and presently Mr. ——. They sat for some time discussing, laughing, quizzing, and being funny, and then departed. Captain —— was telling us a story about a man somewhere up in the lost lands, who was called Philemon, and whose three sons were paganed (christened, I suppose, one can't say,) Romulus, Remus, and Tiberius. I thought this was too good to be true; and D—— and I, laughing over it at dinner, agreed that we wished any thing of the sort had happened to us. "Some bread, waiter: what is your name?" said I to the black who was waiting upon us. "Horatius!" was the reply; which sent me and D—— into fits.