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diff --git a/4232-0.txt b/4232-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dc379a3 --- /dev/null +++ b/4232-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12329 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, by Henry David Thoreau + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers + +Author: Henry David Thoreau + +Release Date: July, 2003 [eBook #4232] +[Most recently updated: February 10, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Charles Franks, Carlo Traverso and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WEEK ON THE CONCORD AND MERRIMACK RIVERS *** + +[Illustration] + + + + +A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers + +by Henry David Thoreau + +AUTHOR OF “WALDEN,” ETC. + + +Contents + + CONCORD RIVER + SATURDAY + SUNDAY + MONDAY + TUESDAY + WEDNESDAY + THURSDAY + FRIDAY + + + + +Where’er thou sail’st who sailed with me, +Though now thou climbest loftier mounts, +And fairer rivers dost ascend, +Be thou my Muse, my Brother—. + + + + +I am bound, I am bound, for a distant shore, +By a lonely isle, by a far Azore, +There it is, there it is, the treasure I seek, +On the barren sands of a desolate creek. + + + + +I sailed up a river with a pleasant wind, +New lands, new people, and new thoughts to find; +Many fair reaches and headlands appeared, +And many dangers were there to be feared; +But when I remember where I have been, +And the fair landscapes that I have seen, +THOU seemest the only permanent shore, +The cape never rounded, nor wandered o’er. + + + + +Fluminaque obliquis cinxit declivia ripis; +Quæ, diversa locis, partim sorbentur ab ipsa; +In mare perveniunt partim, campoque recepta +Liberioris aquæ, pro ripis litora pulsant. + +OVID, Met. I. 39 + +He confined the rivers within their sloping banks, +Which in different places are part absorbed by the earth, +Part reach the sea, and being received within the plain +Of its freer waters, beat the shore for banks. + + + + +CONCORD RIVER + + +“Beneath low hills, in the broad interval +Through which at will our Indian rivulet +Winds mindful still of sannup and of squaw, +Whose pipe and arrow oft the plough unburies, +Here, in pine houses, built of new-fallen trees, +Supplanters of the tribe, the farmers dwell.” + +—EMERSON. + +The Musketaquid, or Grass-ground River, though probably as old as the +Nile or Euphrates, did not begin to have a place in civilized history, +until the fame of its grassy meadows and its fish attracted settlers +out of England in 1635, when it received the other but kindred name of +CONCORD from the first plantation on its banks, which appears to have +been commenced in a spirit of peace and harmony. It will be +Grass-ground River as long as grass grows and water runs here; it will +be Concord River only while men lead peaceable lives on its banks. To +an extinct race it was grass-ground, where they hunted and fished, and +it is still perennial grass-ground to Concord farmers, who own the +Great Meadows, and get the hay from year to year. “One branch of it,” +according to the historian of Concord, for I love to quote so good +authority, “rises in the south part of Hopkinton, and another from a +pond and a large cedar-swamp in Westborough,” and flowing between +Hopkinton and Southborough, through Framingham, and between Sudbury and +Wayland, where it is sometimes called Sudbury River, it enters Concord +at the south part of the town, and after receiving the North or +Assabeth River, which has its source a little farther to the north and +west, goes out at the northeast angle, and flowing between Bedford and +Carlisle, and through Billerica, empties into the Merrimack at Lowell. +In Concord it is, in summer, from four to fifteen feet deep, and from +one hundred to three hundred feet wide, but in the spring freshets, +when it overflows its banks, it is in some places nearly a mile wide. +Between Sudbury and Wayland the meadows acquire their greatest breadth, +and when covered with water, they form a handsome chain of shallow +vernal lakes, resorted to by numerous gulls and ducks. Just above +Sherman’s Bridge, between these towns, is the largest expanse, and when +the wind blows freshly in a raw March day, heaving up the surface into +dark and sober billows or regular swells, skirted as it is in the +distance with alder-swamps and smoke-like maples, it looks like a +smaller Lake Huron, and is very pleasant and exciting for a landsman to +row or sail over. The farm-houses along the Sudbury shore, which rises +gently to a considerable height, command fine water prospects at this +season. The shore is more flat on the Wayland side, and this town is +the greatest loser by the flood. Its farmers tell me that thousands of +acres are flooded now, since the dams have been erected, where they +remember to have seen the white honeysuckle or clover growing once, and +they could go dry with shoes only in summer. Now there is nothing but +blue-joint and sedge and cut-grass there, standing in water all the +year round. For a long time, they made the most of the driest season to +get their hay, working sometimes till nine o’clock at night, sedulously +paring with their scythes in the twilight round the hummocks left by +the ice; but now it is not worth the getting when they can come at it, +and they look sadly round to their wood-lots and upland as a last +resource. + +It is worth the while to make a voyage up this stream, if you go no +farther than Sudbury, only to see how much country there is in the rear +of us; great hills, and a hundred brooks, and farm-houses, and barns, +and haystacks, you never saw before, and men everywhere, Sudbury, that +is Southborough men, and Wayland, and Nine-Acre-Corner men, and Bound +Rock, where four towns bound on a rock in the river, Lincoln, Wayland, +Sudbury, Concord. Many waves are there agitated by the wind, keeping +nature fresh, the spray blowing in your face, reeds and rushes waving; +ducks by the hundred, all uneasy in the surf, in the raw wind, just +ready to rise, and now going off with a clatter and a whistling like +riggers straight for Labrador, flying against the stiff gale with +reefed wings, or else circling round first, with all their paddles +briskly moving, just over the surf, to reconnoitre you before they +leave these parts; gulls wheeling overhead, muskrats swimming for dear +life, wet and cold, with no fire to warm them by that you know of; +their labored homes rising here and there like haystacks; and countless +mice and moles and winged titmice along the sunny windy shore; +cranberries tossed on the waves and heaving up on the beach, their +little red skiffs beating about among the alders;—such healthy natural +tumult as proves the last day is not yet at hand. And there stand all +around the alders, and birches, and oaks, and maples full of glee and +sap, holding in their buds until the waters subside. You shall perhaps +run aground on Cranberry Island, only some spires of last year’s +pipe-grass above water, to show where the danger is, and get as good a +freezing there as anywhere on the Northwest Coast. I never voyaged so +far in all my life. You shall see men you never heard of before, whose +names you don’t know, going away down through the meadows with long +ducking-guns, with water-tight boots wading through the fowl-meadow +grass, on bleak, wintry, distant shores, with guns at half-cock, and +they shall see teal, blue-winged, green-winged, shelldrakes, whistlers, +black ducks, ospreys, and many other wild and noble sights before +night, such as they who sit in parlors never dream of. You shall see +rude and sturdy, experienced and wise men, keeping their castles, or +teaming up their summer’s wood, or chopping alone in the woods, men +fuller of talk and rare adventure in the sun and wind and rain, than a +chestnut is of meat; who were out not only in ’75 and 1812, but have +been out every day of their lives; greater men than Homer, or Chaucer, +or Shakespeare, only they never got time to say so; they never took to +the way of writing. Look at their fields, and imagine what they might +write, if ever they should put pen to paper. Or what have they not +written on the face of the earth already, clearing, and burning, and +scratching, and harrowing, and ploughing, and subsoiling, in and in, +and out and out, and over and over, again and again, erasing what they +had already written for want of parchment. + +As yesterday and the historical ages are past, as the work of to-day is +present, so some flitting perspectives, and demi-experiences of the +life that is in nature are in time veritably future, or rather outside +to time, perennial, young, divine, in the wind and rain which never +die. + +The respectable folks,— +Where dwell they? +They whisper in the oaks, +And they sigh in the hay; +Summer and winter, night and day, +Out on the meadow, there dwell they. +They never die, +Nor snivel, nor cry, +Nor ask our pity +With a wet eye. +A sound estate they ever mend +To every asker readily lend; +To the ocean wealth, +To the meadow health, +To Time his length, +To the rocks strength, +To the stars light, +To the weary night, +To the busy day, +To the idle play; +And so their good cheer never ends, +For all are their debtors, and all their friends. + + +Concord River is remarkable for the gentleness of its current, which is +scarcely perceptible, and some have referred to its influence the +proverbial moderation of the inhabitants of Concord, as exhibited in +the Revolution, and on later occasions. It has been proposed, that the +town should adopt for its coat of arms a field verdant, with the +Concord circling nine times round. I have read that a descent of an +eighth of an inch in a mile is sufficient to produce a flow. Our river +has, probably, very near the smallest allowance. The story is current, +at any rate, though I believe that strict history will not bear it out, +that the only bridge ever carried away on the main branch, within the +limits of the town, was driven up stream by the wind. But wherever it +makes a sudden bend it is shallower and swifter, and asserts its title +to be called a river. Compared with the other tributaries of the +Merrimack, it appears to have been properly named Musketaquid, or +Meadow River, by the Indians. For the most part, it creeps through +broad meadows, adorned with scattered oaks, where the cranberry is +found in abundance, covering the ground like a moss-bed. A row of +sunken dwarf willows borders the stream on one or both sides, while at +a greater distance the meadow is skirted with maples, alders, and other +fluviatile trees, overrun with the grape-vine, which bears fruit in its +season, purple, red, white, and other grapes. Still farther from the +stream, on the edge of the firm land, are seen the gray and white +dwellings of the inhabitants. According to the valuation of 1831, there +were in Concord two thousand one hundred and eleven acres, or about one +seventh of the whole territory in meadow; this standing next in the +list after pasturage and unimproved lands, and, judging from the +returns of previous years, the meadow is not reclaimed so fast as the +woods are cleared. + +Let us here read what old Johnson says of these meadows in his +“Wonder-working Providence,” which gives the account of New England +from 1628 to 1652, and see how matters looked to him. He says of the +Twelfth Church of Christ gathered at Concord: “This town is seated upon +a fair fresh river, whose rivulets are filled with fresh marsh, and her +streams with fish, it being a branch of that large river of Merrimack. +Allwifes and shad in their season come up to this town, but salmon and +dace cannot come up, by reason of the rocky falls, which causeth their +meadows to lie much covered with water, the which these people, +together with their neighbor town, have several times essayed to cut +through but cannot, yet it may be turned another way with an hundred +pound charge as it appeared.” As to their farming he says: “Having laid +out their estate upon cattle at 5 to 20 pound a cow, when they came to +winter them with inland hay, and feed upon such wild fother as was +never cut before, they could not hold out the winter, but, ordinarily +the first or second year after their coming up to a new plantation, +many of their cattle died.” And this from the same author “Of the +Planting of the 19th Church in the Mattachusets’ Government, called +Sudbury”: “This year [does he mean 1654] the town and church of Christ +at Sudbury began to have the first foundation stones laid, taking up +her station in the inland country, as her elder sister Concord had +formerly done, lying further up the same river, being furnished with +great plenty of fresh marsh, but, it lying very low is much indamaged +with land floods, insomuch that when the summer proves wet they lose +part of their hay; yet are they so sufficiently provided that they take +in cattle of other towns to winter.” + +The sluggish artery of the Concord meadows steals thus unobserved +through the town, without a murmur or a pulse-beat, its general course +from southwest to northeast, and its length about fifty miles; a huge +volume of matter, ceaselessly rolling through the plains and valleys of +the substantial earth with the moccasoned tread of an Indian warrior, +making haste from the high places of the earth to its ancient +reservoir. The murmurs of many a famous river on the other side of the +globe reach even to us here, as to more distant dwellers on its banks; +many a poet’s stream floating the helms and shields of heroes on its +bosom. The Xanthus or Scamander is not a mere dry channel and bed of a +mountain torrent, but fed by the everflowing springs of fame;— + +“And thou Simois, that as an arrowe, clere +Through Troy rennest, aie downward to the sea”;— + + +and I trust that I may be allowed to associate our muddy but much +abused Concord River with the most famous in history. + +“Sure there are poets which did never dream +Upon Parnassus, nor did taste the stream +Of Helicon; we therefore may suppose +Those made not poets, but the poets those.” + + +The Mississippi, the Ganges, and the Nile, those journeying atoms from +the Rocky Mountains, the Himmaleh, and Mountains of the Moon, have a +kind of personal importance in the annals of the world. The heavens are +not yet drained over their sources, but the Mountains of the Moon still +send their annual tribute to the Pasha without fail, as they did to the +Pharaohs, though he must collect the rest of his revenue at the point +of the sword. Rivers must have been the guides which conducted the +footsteps of the first travellers. They are the constant lure, when +they flow by our doors, to distant enterprise and adventure, and, by a +natural impulse, the dwellers on their banks will at length accompany +their currents to the lowlands of the globe, or explore at their +invitation the interior of continents. They are the natural highways of +all nations, not only levelling the ground and removing obstacles from +the path of the traveller, quenching his thirst and bearing him on +their bosoms, but conducting him through the most interesting scenery, +the most populous portions of the globe, and where the animal and +vegetable kingdoms attain their greatest perfection. + +I had often stood on the banks of the Concord, watching the lapse of +the current, an emblem of all progress, following the same law with the +system, with time, and all that is made; the weeds at the bottom gently +bending down the stream, shaken by the watery wind, still planted where +their seeds had sunk, but erelong to die and go down likewise; the +shining pebbles, not yet anxious to better their condition, the chips +and weeds, and occasional logs and stems of trees that floated past, +fulfilling their fate, were objects of singular interest to me, and at +last I resolved to launch myself on its bosom and float whither it +would bear me. + + + + +SATURDAY + + +“Come, come, my lovely fair, and let us try +Those rural delicacies.” + +_Christ’s Invitation to the Soul._ QUARLES + +At length, on Saturday, the last day of August, 1839, we two, brothers, +and natives of Concord, weighed anchor in this river port; for Concord, +too, lies under the sun, a port of entry and departure for the bodies +as well as the souls of men; one shore at least exempted from all +duties but such as an honest man will gladly discharge. A warm +drizzling rain had obscured the morning, and threatened to delay our +voyage, but at length the leaves and grass were dried, and it came out +a mild afternoon, as serene and fresh as if Nature were maturing some +greater scheme of her own. After this long dripping and oozing from +every pore, she began to respire again more healthily than ever. So +with a vigorous shove we launched our boat from the bank, while the +flags and bulrushes courtesied a God-speed, and dropped silently down +the stream. + +Our boat, which had cost us a week’s labor in the spring, was in form +like a fisherman’s dory, fifteen feet long by three and a half in +breadth at the widest part, painted green below, with a border of blue, +with reference to the two elements in which it was to spend its +existence. It had been loaded the evening before at our door, half a +mile from the river, with potatoes and melons from a patch which we had +cultivated, and a few utensils, and was provided with wheels in order +to be rolled around falls, as well as with two sets of oars, and +several slender poles for shoving in shallow places, and also two +masts, one of which served for a tent-pole at night; for a buffalo-skin +was to be our bed, and a tent of cotton cloth our roof. It was strongly +built, but heavy, and hardly of better model than usual. If rightly +made, a boat would be a sort of amphibious animal, a creature of two +elements, related by one half its structure to some swift and shapely +fish, and by the other to some strong-winged and graceful bird. The +fish shows where there should be the greatest breadth of beam and depth +in the hold; its fins direct where to set the oars, and the tail gives +some hint for the form and position of the rudder. The bird shows how +to rig and trim the sails, and what form to give to the prow that it +may balance the boat, and divide the air and water best. These hints we +had but partially obeyed. But the eyes, though they are no sailors, +will never be satisfied with any model, however fashionable, which does +not answer all the requisitions of art. However, as art is all of a +ship but the wood, and yet the wood alone will rudely serve the purpose +of a ship, so our boat, being of wood, gladly availed itself of the old +law that the heavier shall float the lighter, and though a dull +water-fowl, proved a sufficient buoy for our purpose. + +“Were it the will of Heaven, an osier bough +Were vessel safe enough the seas to plough.” + + +Some village friends stood upon a promontory lower down the stream to +wave us a last farewell; but we, having already performed these shore +rites, with excusable reserve, as befits those who are embarked on +unusual enterprises, who behold but speak not, silently glided past the +firm lands of Concord, both peopled cape and lonely summer meadow, with +steady sweeps. And yet we did unbend so far as to let our guns speak +for us, when at length we had swept out of sight, and thus left the +woods to ring again with their echoes; and it may be many russet-clad +children, lurking in those broad meadows, with the bittern and the +woodcock and the rail, though wholly concealed by brakes and hardhack +and meadow-sweet, heard our salute that afternoon. + +We were soon floating past the first regular battle ground of the +Revolution, resting on our oars between the still visible abutments of +that “North Bridge,” over which in April, 1775, rolled the first faint +tide of that war, which ceased not, till, as we read on the stone on +our right, it “gave peace to these United States.” As a Concord poet +has sung:— + +“By the rude bridge that arched the flood, + Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled, +Here once the embattled farmers stood, + And fired the shot heard round the world. + +“The foe long since in silence slept; + Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; +And Time the ruined bridge has swept + Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.” + + +Our reflections had already acquired a historical remoteness from the +scenes we had left, and we ourselves essayed to sing. + +Ah, ’t is in vain the peaceful din + That wakes the ignoble town, +Not thus did braver spirits win + A patriot’s renown. + +There is one field beside this stream, + Wherein no foot does fall, +But yet it beareth in my dream + A richer crop than all. + +Let me believe a dream so dear, + Some heart beat high that day, +Above the petty Province here, + And Britain far away; + +Some hero of the ancient mould, + Some arm of knightly worth, +Of strength unbought, and faith unsold, + Honored this spot of earth; + +Who sought the prize his heart described, + And did not ask release, +Whose free-born valor was not bribed + By prospect of a peace. + +The men who stood on yonder height + That day are long since gone; +Not the same hand directs the fight + And monumental stone. + +Ye were the Grecian cities then, + The Romes of modern birth, +Where the New England husbandmen + Have shown a Roman worth. + +In vain I search a foreign land + To find our Bunker Hill, +And Lexington and Concord stand + By no Laconian rill. + + +With such thoughts we swept gently by this now peaceful pasture-ground, +on waves of Concord, in which was long since drowned the din of war. + +But since we sailed +Some things have failed, +And many a dream +Gone down the stream. + +Here then an aged shepherd dwelt, +Who to his flock his substance dealt, +And ruled them with a vigorous crook, +By precept of the sacred Book; +But he the pierless bridge passed o’er, +And solitary left the shore. + +Anon a youthful pastor came, +Whose crook was not unknown to fame, +His lambs he viewed with gentle glance, +Spread o’er the country’s wide expanse, +And fed with “Mosses from the Manse.” +Here was our Hawthorne in the dale, +And here the shepherd told his tale. + + +That slight shaft had now sunk behind the hills, and we had floated +round the neighboring bend, and under the new North Bridge between +Ponkawtasset and the Poplar Hill, into the Great Meadows, which, like a +broad moccason print, have levelled a fertile and juicy place in +nature. + +On Ponkawtasset, since, we took our way, +Down this still stream to far Billericay, +A poet wise has settled, whose fine ray +Doth often shine on Concord’s twilight day. + +Like those first stars, whose silver beams on high, +Shining more brightly as the day goes by, +Most travellers cannot at first descry, +But eyes that wont to range the evening sky, + +And know celestial lights, do plainly see, +And gladly hail them, numbering two or three; +For lore that’s deep must deeply studied be, +As from deep wells men read star-poetry. + +These stars are never paled, though out of sight, +But like the sun they shine forever bright; +Ay, _they_ are suns, though earth must in its flight +Put out its eyes that it may see their light. + +Who would neglect the least celestial sound, +Or faintest light that falls on earthly ground, +If he could know it one day would be found +That star in Cygnus whither we are bound, +And pale our sun with heavenly radiance round? + + +Gradually the village murmur subsided, and we seemed to be embarked on +the placid current of our dreams, floating from past to future as +silently as one awakes to fresh morning or evening thoughts. We glided +noiselessly down the stream, occasionally driving a pickerel or a bream +from the covert of the pads, and the smaller bittern now and then +sailed away on sluggish wings from some recess in the shore, or the +larger lifted itself out of the long grass at our approach, and carried +its precious legs away to deposit them in a place of safety. The +tortoises also rapidly dropped into the water, as our boat ruffled the +surface amid the willows, breaking the reflections of the trees. The +banks had passed the height of their beauty, and some of the brighter +flowers showed by their faded tints that the season was verging towards +the afternoon of the year; but this sombre tinge enhanced their +sincerity, and in the still unabated heats they seemed like the mossy +brink of some cool well. The narrow-leaved willow (_Salix Purshiana_) +lay along the surface of the water in masses of light green foliage, +interspersed with the large balls of the button-bush. The small +rose-colored polygonum raised its head proudly above the water on +either hand, and flowering at this season and in these localities, in +front of dense fields of the white species which skirted the sides of +the stream, its little streak of red looked very rare and precious. The +pure white blossoms of the arrow-head stood in the shallower parts, and +a few cardinals on the margin still proudly surveyed themselves +reflected in the water, though the latter, as well as the +pickerel-weed, was now nearly out of blossom. The snake-head, _Chelone +glabra_, grew close to the shore, while a kind of coreopsis, turning +its brazen face to the sun, full and rank, and a tall dull red flower, +_Eupatorium purpureum_, or trumpet-weed, formed the rear rank of the +fluvial array. The bright blue flowers of the soap-wort gentian were +sprinkled here and there in the adjacent meadows, like flowers which +Proserpine had dropped, and still farther in the fields or higher on +the bank were seen the purple Gerardia, the Virginian rhexia, and +drooping neottia or ladies’-tresses; while from the more distant +waysides which we occasionally passed, and banks where the sun had +lodged, was reflected still a dull yellow beam from the ranks of tansy, +now past its prime. In short, Nature seemed to have adorned herself for +our departure with a profusion of fringes and curls, mingled with the +bright tints of flowers, reflected in the water. But we missed the +white water-lily, which is the queen of river flowers, its reign being +over for this season. He makes his voyage too late, perhaps, by a true +water clock who delays so long. Many of this species inhabit our +Concord water. I have passed down the river before sunrise on a summer +morning between fields of lilies still shut in sleep; and when, at +length, the flakes of sunlight from over the bank fell on the surface +of the water, whole fields of white blossoms seemed to flash open +before me, as I floated along, like the unfolding of a banner, so +sensible is this flower to the influence of the sun’s rays. + +As we were floating through the last of these familiar meadows, we +observed the large and conspicuous flowers of the hibiscus, covering +the dwarf willows, and mingled with the leaves of the grape, and wished +that we could inform one of our friends behind of the locality of this +somewhat rare and inaccessible flower before it was too late to pluck +it; but we were just gliding out of sight of the village spire before +it occurred to us that the farmer in the adjacent meadow would go to +church on the morrow, and would carry this news for us; and so by the +Monday, while we should be floating on the Merrimack, our friend would +be reaching to pluck this blossom on the bank of the Concord. + +After a pause at Ball’s Hill, the St. Ann’s of Concord voyageurs, not +to say any prayer for the success of our voyage, but to gather the few +berries which were still left on the hills, hanging by very slender +threads, we weighed anchor again, and were soon out of sight of our +native village. The land seemed to grow fairer as we withdrew from it. +Far away to the southwest lay the quiet village, left alone under its +elms and buttonwoods in mid afternoon; and the hills, notwithstanding +their blue, ethereal faces, seemed to cast a saddened eye on their old +playfellows; but, turning short to the north, we bade adieu to their +familiar outlines, and addressed ourselves to new scenes and +adventures. Naught was familiar but the heavens, from under whose roof +the voyageur never passes; but with their countenance, and the +acquaintance we had with river and wood, we trusted to fare well under +any circumstances. + +From this point, the river runs perfectly straight for a mile or more +to Carlisle Bridge, which consists of twenty wooden piers, and when we +looked back over it, its surface was reduced to a line’s breadth, and +appeared like a cobweb gleaming in the sun. Here and there might be +seen a pole sticking up, to mark the place where some fisherman had +enjoyed unusual luck, and in return had consecrated his rod to the +deities who preside over these shallows. It was full twice as broad as +before, deep and tranquil, with a muddy bottom, and bordered with +willows, beyond which spread broad lagoons covered with pads, +bulrushes, and flags. + +Late in the afternoon we passed a man on the shore fishing with a long +birch pole, its silvery bark left on, and a dog at his side, rowing so +near as to agitate his cork with our oars, and drive away luck for a +season; and when we had rowed a mile as straight as an arrow, with our +faces turned towards him, and the bubbles in our wake still visible on +the tranquil surface, there stood the fisher still with his dog, like +statues under the other side of the heavens, the only objects to +relieve the eye in the extended meadow; and there would he stand +abiding his luck, till he took his way home through the fields at +evening with his fish. Thus, by one bait or another, Nature allures +inhabitants into all her recesses. This man was the last of our +townsmen whom we saw, and we silently through him bade adieu to our +friends. + +The characteristics and pursuits of various ages and races of men are +always existing in epitome in every neighborhood. The pleasures of my +earliest youth have become the inheritance of other men. This man is +still a fisher, and belongs to an era in which I myself have lived. +Perchance he is not confounded by many knowledges, and has not sought +out many inventions, but how to take many fishes before the sun sets, +with his slender birchen pole and flaxen line, that is invention enough +for him. It is good even to be a fisherman in summer and in winter. +Some men are judges these August days, sitting on benches, even till +the court rises; they sit judging there honorably, between the seasons +and between meals, leading a civil politic life, arbitrating in the +case of Spaulding _versus_ Cummings, it may be, from highest noon till +the red vesper sinks into the west. The fisherman, meanwhile, stands in +three feet of water, under the same summer’s sun, arbitrating in other +cases between muckworm and shiner, amid the fragrance of water-lilies, +mint, and pontederia, leading his life many rods from the dry land, +within a pole’s length of where the larger fishes swim. Human life is +to him very much like a river, + +—“renning aie downward to the sea.” + + +This was his observation. His honor made a great discovery in +bailments. + +I can just remember an old brown-coated man who was the Walton of this +stream, who had come over from Newcastle, England, with his son,—the +latter a stout and hearty man who had lifted an anchor in his day. A +straight old man he was who took his way in silence through the +meadows, having passed the period of communication with his fellows; +his old experienced coat, hanging long and straight and brown as the +yellow-pine bark, glittering with so much smothered sunlight, if you +stood near enough, no work of art but naturalized at length. I often +discovered him unexpectedly amid the pads and the gray willows when he +moved, fishing in some old country method,—for youth and age then went +a fishing together,—full of incommunicable thoughts, perchance about +his own Tyne and Northumberland. He was always to be seen in serene +afternoons haunting the river, and almost rustling with the sedge; so +many sunny hours in an old man’s life, entrapping silly fish; almost +grown to be the sun’s familiar; what need had he of hat or raiment any, +having served out his time, and seen through such thin disguises? I +have seen how his coeval fates rewarded him with the yellow perch, and +yet I thought his luck was not in proportion to his years; and I have +seen when, with slow steps and weighed down with aged thoughts, he +disappeared with his fish under his low-roofed house on the skirts of +the village. I think nobody else saw him; nobody else remembers him +now, for he soon after died, and migrated to new Tyne streams. His +fishing was not a sport, nor solely a means of subsistence, but a sort +of solemn sacrament and withdrawal from the world, just as the aged +read their Bibles. + +Whether we live by the seaside, or by the lakes and rivers, or on the +prairie, it concerns us to attend to the nature of fishes, since they +are not phenomena confined to certain localities only, but forms and +phases of the life in nature universally dispersed. The countless +shoals which annually coast the shores of Europe and America are not so +interesting to the student of nature, as the more fertile law itself, +which deposits their spawn on the tops of mountains, and on the +interior plains; the fish principle in nature, from which it results +that they may be found in water in so many places, in greater or less +numbers. The natural historian is not a fisherman, who prays for cloudy +days and good luck merely, but as fishing has been styled “a +contemplative man’s recreation,” introducing him profitably to woods +and water, so the fruit of the naturalist’s observations is not in new +genera or species, but in new contemplations still, and science is only +a more contemplative man’s recreation. The seeds of the life of fishes +are everywhere disseminated, whether the winds waft them, or the waters +float them, or the deep earth holds them; wherever a pond is dug, +straightway it is stocked with this vivacious race. They have a lease +of nature, and it is not yet out. The Chinese are bribed to carry their +ova from province to province in jars or in hollow reeds, or the +water-birds to transport them to the mountain tarns and interior lakes. +There are fishes wherever there is a fluid medium, and even in clouds +and in melted metals we detect their semblance. Think how in winter you +can sink a line down straight in a pasture through snow and through +ice, and pull up a bright, slippery, dumb, subterranean silver or +golden fish! It is curious, also, to reflect how they make one family, +from the largest to the smallest. The least minnow that lies on the ice +as bait for pickerel, looks like a huge sea-fish cast up on the shore. +In the waters of this town there are about a dozen distinct species, +though the inexperienced would expect many more. + +It enhances our sense of the grand security and serenity of nature, to +observe the still undisturbed economy and content of the fishes of this +century, their happiness a regular fruit of the summer. The Fresh-Water +Sun-Fish, Bream, or Ruff, _Pomotis vulgaris_, as it were, without +ancestry, without posterity, still represents the Fresh-Water Sun-Fish +in nature. It is the most common of all, and seen on every urchin’s +string; a simple and inoffensive fish, whose nests are visible all +along the shore, hollowed in the sand, over which it is steadily poised +through the summer hours on waving fin. Sometimes there are twenty or +thirty nests in the space of a few rods, two feet wide by half a foot +in depth, and made with no little labor, the weeds being removed, and +the sand shoved up on the sides, like a bowl. Here it may be seen early +in summer assiduously brooding, and driving away minnows and larger +fishes, even its own species, which would disturb its ova, pursuing +them a few feet, and circling round swiftly to its nest again: the +minnows, like young sharks, instantly entering the empty nests, +meanwhile, and swallowing the spawn, which is attached to the weeds and +to the bottom, on the sunny side. The spawn is exposed to so many +dangers, that a very small proportion can ever become fishes, for +beside being the constant prey of birds and fishes, a great many nests +are made so near the shore, in shallow water, that they are left dry in +a few days, as the river goes down. These and the lamprey’s are the +only fishes’ nests that I have observed, though the ova of some species +may be seen floating on the surface. The breams are so careful of their +charge that you may stand close by in the water and examine them at +your leisure. I have thus stood over them half an hour at a time, and +stroked them familiarly without frightening them, suffering them to +nibble my fingers harmlessly, and seen them erect their dorsal fins in +anger when my hand approached their ova, and have even taken them +gently out of the water with my hand; though this cannot be +accomplished by a sudden movement, however dexterous, for instant +warning is conveyed to them through their denser element, but only by +letting the fingers gradually close about them as they are poised over +the palm, and with the utmost gentleness raising them slowly to the +surface. Though stationary, they keep up a constant sculling or waving +motion with their fins, which is exceedingly graceful, and expressive +of their humble happiness; for unlike ours, the element in which they +live is a stream which must be constantly resisted. From time to time +they nibble the weeds at the bottom or overhanging their nests, or dart +after a fly or a worm. The dorsal fin, besides answering the purpose of +a keel, with the anal, serves to keep the fish upright, for in shallow +water, where this is not covered, they fall on their sides. As you +stand thus stooping over the bream in its nest, the edges of the dorsal +and caudal fins have a singular dusty golden reflection, and its eyes, +which stand out from the head, are transparent and colorless. Seen in +its native element, it is a very beautiful and compact fish, perfect in +all its parts, and looks like a brilliant coin fresh from the mint. It +is a perfect jewel of the river, the green, red, coppery, and golden +reflections of its mottled sides being the concentration of such rays +as struggle through the floating pads and flowers to the sandy bottom, +and in harmony with the sunlit brown and yellow pebbles. Behind its +watery shield it dwells far from many accidents inevitable to human +life. + +There is also another species of bream found in our river, without the +red spot on the operculum, which, according to M. Agassiz, is +undescribed. + +The Common Perch, _Perca flavescens_, which name describes well the +gleaming, golden reflections of its scales as it is drawn out of the +water, its red gills standing out in vain in the thin element, is one +of the handsomest and most regularly formed of our fishes, and at such +a moment as this reminds us of the fish in the picture which wished to +be restored to its native element until it had grown larger; and indeed +most of this species that are caught are not half grown. In the ponds +there is a light-colored and slender kind, which swim in shoals of many +hundreds in the sunny water, in company with the shiner, averaging not +more than six or seven inches in length, while only a few larger +specimens are found in the deepest water, which prey upon their weaker +brethren. I have often attracted these small perch to the shore at +evening, by rippling the water with my fingers, and they may sometimes +be caught while attempting to pass inside your hands. It is a tough and +heedless fish, biting from impulse, without nibbling, and from impulse +refraining to bite, and sculling indifferently past. It rather prefers +the clear water and sandy bottoms, though here it has not much choice. +It is a true fish, such as the angler loves to put into his basket or +hang at the top of his willow twig, in shady afternoons along the banks +of the stream. So many unquestionable fishes he counts, and so many +shiners, which he counts and then throws away. Old Josselyn in his “New +England’s Rarities,” published in 1672, mentions the Perch or River +Partridge. + +The Chivin, Dace, Roach, Cousin Trout, or whatever else it is called, +_Leuciscus pulchellus_, white and red, always an unexpected prize, +which, however, any angler is glad to hook for its rarity. A name that +reminds us of many an unsuccessful ramble by swift streams, when the +wind rose to disappoint the fisher. It is commonly a silvery +soft-scaled fish, of graceful, scholarlike, and classical look, like +many a picture in an English book. It loves a swift current and a sandy +bottom, and bites inadvertently, yet not without appetite for the bait. +The minnows are used as bait for pickerel in the winter. The red +chivin, according to some, is still the same fish, only older, or with +its tints deepened as they think by the darker water it inhabits, as +the red clouds swim in the twilight atmosphere. He who has not hooked +the red chivin is not yet a complete angler. Other fishes, methinks, +are slightly amphibious, but this is a denizen of the water wholly. The +cork goes dancing down the swift-rushing stream, amid the weeds and +sands, when suddenly, by a coincidence never to be remembered, emerges +this fabulous inhabitant of another element, a thing heard of but not +seen, as if it were the instant creation of an eddy, a true product of +the running stream. And this bright cupreous dolphin was spawned and +has passed its life beneath the level of your feet in your native +fields. Fishes too, as well as birds and clouds, derive their armor +from the mine. I have heard of mackerel visiting the copper banks at a +particular season; this fish, perchance, has its habitat in the +Coppermine River. I have caught white chivin of great size in the +Aboljacknagesic, where it empties into the Penobscot, at the base of +Mount Ktaadn, but no red ones there. The latter variety seems not to +have been sufficiently observed. + +The Dace, _Leuciscus argenteus_, is a slight silvery minnow, found +generally in the middle of the stream, where the current is most rapid, +and frequently confounded with the last named. + +The Shiner, _Leuciscus crysoleucas_, is a soft-scaled and tender fish, +the victim of its stronger neighbors, found in all places, deep and +shallow, clear and turbid; generally the first nibbler at the bait, +but, with its small mouth and nibbling propensities, not easily caught. +It is a gold or silver bit that passes current in the river, its limber +tail dimpling the surface in sport or flight. I have seen the fry, when +frightened by something thrown into the water, leap out by dozens, +together with the dace, and wreck themselves upon a floating plank. It +is the little light-infant of the river, with body armor of gold or +silver spangles, slipping, gliding its life through with a quirk of the +tail, half in the water, half in the air, upward and ever upward with +flitting fin to more crystalline tides, yet still abreast of us +dwellers on the bank. It is almost dissolved by the summer heats. A +slighter and lighter colored shiner is found in one of our ponds. + +The Pickerel, _Esox reticulatus_, the swiftest, wariest, and most +ravenous of fishes, which Josselyn calls the Fresh-Water or River Wolf, +is very common in the shallow and weedy lagoons along the sides of the +stream. It is a solemn, stately, ruminant fish, lurking under the +shadow of a pad at noon, with still, circumspect, voracious eye, +motionless as a jewel set in water, or moving slowly along to take up +its position, darting from time to time at such unlucky fish or frog or +insect as comes within its range, and swallowing it at a gulp. I have +caught one which had swallowed a brother pickerel half as large as +itself, with the tail still visible in its mouth, while the head was +already digested in its stomach. Sometimes a striped snake, bound to +greener meadows across the stream, ends its undulatory progress in the +same receptacle. They are so greedy and impetuous that they are +frequently caught by being entangled in the line the moment it is cast. +Fishermen also distinguish the brook pickerel, a shorter and thicker +fish than the former. + +The Horned Pout, _Pimelodus nebulosus_, sometimes called Minister, from +the peculiar squeaking noise it makes when drawn out of the water, is a +dull and blundering fellow, and like the eel vespertinal in his habits, +and fond of the mud. It bites deliberately as if about its business. +They are taken at night with a mass of worms strung on a thread, which +catches in their teeth, sometimes three or four, with an eel, at one +pull. They are extremely tenacious of life, opening and shutting their +mouths for half an hour after their heads have been cut off. A +bloodthirsty and bullying race of rangers, inhabiting the fertile river +bottoms, with ever a lance in rest, and ready to do battle with their +nearest neighbor. I have observed them in summer, when every other one +had a long and bloody scar upon his back, where the skin was gone, the +mark, perhaps, of some fierce encounter. Sometimes the fry, not an inch +long, are seen darkening the shore with their myriads. + +The Suckers, _Catostomi Bostonienses_ and _tuberculati_, Common and +Horned, perhaps on an average the largest of our fishes, may be seen in +shoals of a hundred or more, stemming the current in the sun, on their +mysterious migrations, and sometimes sucking in the bait which the +fisherman suffers to float toward them. The former, which sometimes +grow to a large size, are frequently caught by the hand in the brooks, +or like the red chivin, are jerked out by a hook fastened firmly to the +end of a stick, and placed under their jaws. They are hardly known to +the mere angler, however, not often biting at his baits, though the +spearer carries home many a mess in the spring. To our village eyes, +these shoals have a foreign and imposing aspect, realizing the +fertility of the seas. + +The Common Eel, too, _Muraena Bostoniensis_, the only species of eel +known in the State, a slimy, squirming creature, informed of mud, still +squirming in the pan, is speared and hooked up with various success. +Methinks it too occurs in picture, left after the deluge, in many a +meadow high and dry. + +In the shallow parts of the river, where the current is rapid, and the +bottom pebbly, you may sometimes see the curious circular nests of the +Lamprey Eel, _Petromyzon Americanus_, the American Stone-Sucker, as +large as a cart-wheel, a foot or two in height, and sometimes rising +half a foot above the surface of the water. They collect these stones, +of the size of a hen’s egg, with their mouths, as their name implies, +and are said to fashion them into circles with their tails. They ascend +falls by clinging to the stones, which may sometimes be raised, by +lifting the fish by the tail. As they are not seen on their way down +the streams, it is thought by fishermen that they never return, but +waste away and die, clinging to rocks and stumps of trees for an +indefinite period; a tragic feature in the scenery of the river bottoms +worthy to be remembered with Shakespeare’s description of the +sea-floor. They are rarely seen in our waters at present, on account of +the dams, though they are taken in great quantities at the mouth of the +river in Lowell. Their nests, which are very conspicuous, look more +like art than anything in the river. + +If we had leisure this afternoon, we might turn our prow up the brooks +in quest of the classical trout and the minnows. Of the last alone, +according to M. Agassiz, several of the species found in this town are +yet undescribed. These would, perhaps, complete the list of our finny +contemporaries in the Concord waters. + +Salmon, Shad, and Alewives were formerly abundant here, and taken in +weirs by the Indians, who taught this method to the whites, by whom +they were used as food and as manure, until the dam, and afterward the +canal at Billerica, and the factories at Lowell, put an end to their +migrations hitherward; though it is thought that a few more +enterprising shad may still occasionally be seen in this part of the +river. It is said, to account for the destruction of the fishery, that +those who at that time represented the interests of the fishermen and +the fishes, remembering between what dates they were accustomed to take +the grown shad, stipulated, that the dams should be left open for that +season only, and the fry, which go down a month later, were +consequently stopped and destroyed by myriads. Others say that the +fish-ways were not properly constructed. Perchance, after a few +thousands of years, if the fishes will be patient, and pass their +summers elsewhere, meanwhile, nature will have levelled the Billerica +dam, and the Lowell factories, and the Grass-ground River run clear +again, to be explored by new migratory shoals, even as far as the +Hopkinton pond and Westborough swamp. + +One would like to know more of that race, now extinct, whose seines lie +rotting in the garrets of their children, who openly professed the +trade of fishermen, and even fed their townsmen creditably, not +skulking through the meadows to a rainy afternoon sport. Dim visions we +still get of miraculous draughts of fishes, and heaps uncountable by +the river-side, from the tales of our seniors sent on horseback in +their childhood from the neighboring towns, perched on saddle-bags, +with instructions to get the one bag filled with shad, the other with +alewives. At least one memento of those days may still exist in the +memory of this generation, in the familiar appellation of a celebrated +train-band of this town, whose untrained ancestors stood creditably at +Concord North Bridge. Their captain, a man of piscatory tastes, having +duly warned his company to turn out on a certain day, they, like +obedient soldiers, appeared promptly on parade at the appointed time, +but, unfortunately, they went undrilled, except in the manœuvres of a +soldier’s wit and unlicensed jesting, that May day; for their captain, +forgetting his own appointment, and warned only by the favorable aspect +of the heavens, as he had often done before, went a-fishing that +afternoon, and his company thenceforth was known to old and young, +grave and gay, as “The Shad,” and by the youths of this vicinity this +was long regarded as the proper name of all the irregular militia in +Christendom. But, alas! no record of these fishers’ lives remains that +we know, unless it be one brief page of hard but unquestionable +history, which occurs in Day Book No. 4, of an old trader of this town, +long since dead, which shows pretty plainly what constituted a +fisherman’s stock in trade in those days. It purports to be a +Fisherman’s Account Current, probably for the fishing season of the +year 1805, during which months he purchased daily rum and sugar, sugar +and rum, N. E. and W. I., “one cod line,” “one brown mug,” and “a line +for the seine”; rum and sugar, sugar and rum, “good loaf sugar,” and +“good brown,” W. I. and N. E., in short and uniform entries to the +bottom of the page, all carried out in pounds, shillings, and pence, +from March 25th to June 5th, and promptly settled by receiving “cash in +full” at the last date. But perhaps not so settled altogether. These +were the necessaries of life in those days; with salmon, shad, and +alewives, fresh and pickled, he was thereafter independent on the +groceries. Rather a preponderance of the fluid elements; but such is +the fisherman’s nature. I can faintly remember to have seen this same +fisher in my earliest youth, still as near the river as he could get, +with uncertain undulatory step, after so many things had gone down +stream, swinging a scythe in the meadow, his bottle like a serpent hid +in the grass; himself as yet not cut down by the Great Mower. + +Surely the fates are forever kind, though Nature’s laws are more +immutable than any despot’s, yet to man’s daily life they rarely seem +rigid, but permit him to relax with license in summer weather. He is +not harshly reminded of the things he may not do. She is very kind and +liberal to all men of vicious habits, and certainly does not deny them +quarter; they do not die without priest. Still they maintain life along +the way, keeping this side the Styx, still hearty, still resolute, +“never better in their lives”; and again, after a dozen years have +elapsed, they start up from behind a hedge, asking for work and wages +for able-bodied men. Who has not met such + +“a beggar on the way, +Who sturdily could gang? …. +Who cared neither for wind nor wet, +In lands where’er he past?” + +“That bold adopts each house he views, his own; +Makes every pulse his checquer, and, at pleasure, +Walks forth, and taxes all the world, like Cæsar”;— + + +As if consistency were the secret of health, while the poor +inconsistent aspirant man, seeking to live a pure life, feeding on air, +divided against himself, cannot stand, but pines and dies after a life +of sickness, on beds of down. + +The unwise are accustomed to speak as if some were not sick; but +methinks the difference between men in respect to health is not great +enough to lay much stress upon. Some are reputed sick and some are not. +It often happens that the sicker man is the nurse to the sounder. + +Shad are still taken in the basin of Concord River at Lowell, where +they are said to be a month earlier than the Merrimack shad, on account +of the warmth of the water. Still patiently, almost pathetically, with +instinct not to be discouraged, not to be _reasoned_ with, revisiting +their old haunts, as if their stern fates would relent, and still met +by the Corporation with its dam. Poor shad! where is thy redress? When +Nature gave thee instinct, gave she thee the heart to bear thy fate? +Still wandering the sea in thy scaly armor to inquire humbly at the +mouths of rivers if man has perchance left them free for thee to enter. +By countless shoals loitering uncertain meanwhile, merely stemming the +tide there, in danger from sea foes in spite of thy bright armor, +awaiting new instructions, until the sands, until the water itself, +tell thee if it be so or not. Thus by whole migrating nations, full of +instinct, which is thy faith, in this backward spring, turned adrift, +and perchance knowest not where men do _not_ dwell, where there are +_not_ factories, in these days. Armed with no sword, no electric shock, +but mere Shad, armed only with innocence and a just cause, with tender +dumb mouth only forward, and scales easy to be detached. I for one am +with thee, and who knows what may avail a crow-bar against that +Billerica dam?—Not despairing when whole myriads have gone to feed +those sea monsters during thy suspense, but still brave, indifferent, +on easy fin there, like shad reserved for higher destinies. Willing to +be decimated for man’s behoof after the spawning season. Away with the +superficial and selfish phil-_anthropy_ of men,—who knows what +admirable virtue of fishes may be below low-water-mark, bearing up +against a hard destiny, not admired by that fellow-creature who alone +can appreciate it! Who hears the fishes when they cry? It will not be +forgotten by some memory that we were contemporaries. Thou shalt +erelong have thy way up the rivers, up all the rivers of the globe, if +I am not mistaken. Yea, even thy dull watery dream shall be more than +realized. If it were not so, but thou wert to be overlooked at first +and at last, then would not I take their heaven. Yes, I say so, who +think I know better than thou canst. Keep a stiff fin then, and stem +all the tides thou mayst meet. + +At length it would seem that the interests, not of the fishes only, but +of the men of Wayland, of Sudbury, of Concord, demand the levelling of +that dam. Innumerable acres of meadow are waiting to be made dry land, +wild native grass to give place to English. The farmers stand with +scythes whet, waiting the subsiding of the waters, by gravitation, by +evaporation or otherwise, but sometimes their eyes do not rest, their +wheels do not roll, on the quaking meadow ground during the haying +season at all. So many sources of wealth inaccessible. They rate the +loss hereby incurred in the single town of Wayland alone as equal to +the expense of keeping a hundred yoke of oxen the year round. One year, +as I learn, not long ago, the farmers standing ready to drive their +teams afield as usual, the water gave no signs of falling; without new +attraction in the heavens, without freshet or visible cause, still +standing stagnant at an unprecedented height. All hydrometers were at +fault; some trembled for their English even. But speedy emissaries +revealed the unnatural secret, in the new float-board, wholly a foot in +width, added to their already too high privileges by the dam +proprietors. The hundred yoke of oxen, meanwhile, standing patient, +gazing wishfully meadowward, at that inaccessible waving native grass, +uncut but by the great mower Time, who cuts so broad a swathe, without +so much as a wisp to wind about their horns. + +That was a long pull from Ball’s Hill to Carlisle Bridge, sitting with +our faces to the south, a slight breeze rising from the north, but +nevertheless water still runs and grass grows, for now, having passed +the bridge between Carlisle and Bedford, we see men haying far off in +the meadow, their heads waving like the grass which they cut. In the +distance the wind seemed to bend all alike. As the night stole over, +such a freshness was wafted across the meadow that every blade of cut +grass seemed to teem with life. Faint purple clouds began to be +reflected in the water, and the cow-bells tinkled louder along the +banks, while, like sly water-rats, we stole along nearer the shore, +looking for a place to pitch our camp. + +At length, when we had made about seven miles, as far as Billerica, we +moored our boat on the west side of a little rising ground which in the +spring forms an island in the river. Here we found huckleberries still +hanging upon the bushes, where they seemed to have slowly ripened for +our especial use. Bread and sugar, and cocoa boiled in river water, +made our repast, and as we had drank in the fluvial prospect all day, +so now we took a draft of the water with our evening meal to propitiate +the river gods, and whet our vision for the sights it was to behold. +The sun was setting on the one hand, while our eminence was +contributing its shadow to the night, on the other. It seemed +insensibly to grow lighter as the night shut in, and a distant and +solitary farm-house was revealed, which before lurked in the shadows of +the noon. There was no other house in sight, nor any cultivated field. +To the right and left, as far as the horizon, were straggling pine +woods with their plumes against the sky, and across the river were +rugged hills, covered with shrub oaks, tangled with grape-vines and +ivy, with here and there a gray rock jutting out from the maze. The +sides of these cliffs, though a quarter of a mile distant, were almost +heard to rustle while we looked at them, it was such a leafy +wilderness; a place for fauns and satyrs, and where bats hung all day +to the rocks, and at evening flitted over the water, and fire-flies +husbanded their light under the grass and leaves against the night. +When we had pitched our tent on the hillside, a few rods from the +shore, we sat looking through its triangular door in the twilight at +our lonely mast on the shore, just seen above the alders, and hardly +yet come to a stand-still from the swaying of the stream; the first +encroachment of commerce on this land. There was our port, our Ostia. +That straight geometrical line against the water and the sky stood for +the last refinements of civilized life, and what of sublimity there is +in history was there symbolized. + +For the most part, there was no recognition of human life in the night, +no human breathing was heard, only the breathing of the wind. As we sat +up, kept awake by the novelty of our situation, we heard at intervals +foxes stepping about over the dead leaves, and brushing the dewy grass +close to our tent, and once a musquash fumbling among the potatoes and +melons in our boat, but when we hastened to the shore we could detect +only a ripple in the water ruffling the disk of a star. At intervals we +were serenaded by the song of a dreaming sparrow or the throttled cry +of an owl, but after each sound which near at hand broke the stillness +of the night, each crackling of the twigs, or rustling among the +leaves, there was a sudden pause, and deeper and more conscious +silence, as if the intruder were aware that no life was rightfully +abroad at that hour. There was a fire in Lowell, as we judged, this +night, and we saw the horizon blazing, and heard the distant +alarm-bells, as it were a faint tinkling music borne to these woods. +But the most constant and memorable sound of a summer’s night, which we +did not fail to hear every night afterward, though at no time so +incessantly and so favorably as now, was the barking of the house-dogs, +from the loudest and hoarsest bark to the faintest aerial palpitation +under the eaves of heaven, from the patient but anxious mastiff to the +timid and wakeful terrier, at first loud and rapid, then faint and +slow, to be imitated only in a whisper; wow-wow-wow-wow—wo—wo—w—w. Even +in a retired and uninhabited district like this, it was a sufficiency +of sound for the ear of night, and more impressive than any music. I +have heard the voice of a hound, just before daylight, while the stars +were shining, from over the woods and river, far in the horizon, when +it sounded as sweet and melodious as an instrument. The hounding of a +dog pursuing a fox or other animal in the horizon, may have first +suggested the notes of the hunting-horn to alternate with and relieve +the lungs of the dog. This natural bugle long resounded in the woods of +the ancient world before the horn was invented. The very dogs that +sullenly bay the moon from farm-yards in these nights excite more +heroism in our breasts than all the civil exhortations or war sermons +of the age. “I would rather be a dog, and bay the moon,” than many a +Roman that I know. The night is equally indebted to the clarion of the +cock, with wakeful hope, from the very setting of the sun, prematurely +ushering in the dawn. All these sounds, the crowing of cocks, the +baying of dogs, and the hum of insects at noon, are the evidence of +nature’s health or _sound_ state. Such is the never-failing beauty and +accuracy of language, the most perfect art in the world; the chisel of +a thousand years retouches it. + +At length the antepenultimate and drowsy hours drew on, and all sounds +were denied entrance to our ears. + +Who sleeps by day and walks by night, +Will meet no spirit but some sprite. + + + + +SUNDAY + + + “The river calmly flows, + Through shining banks, through lonely glen, +Where the owl shrieks, though ne’er the cheer of men + Has stirred its mute repose, +Still if you should walk there, you would go there again.” + +—CHANNING. + + +“The Indians tell us of a beautiful River lying far to the south, which +they call Merrimack.” + +SIEUR DE MONTS, _Relations of the jesuits_, 1604. + +In the morning the river and adjacent country were covered with a dense +fog, through which the smoke of our fire curled up like a still +subtiler mist; but before we had rowed many rods, the sun arose and the +fog rapidly dispersed, leaving a slight steam only to curl along the +surface of the water. It was a quiet Sunday morning, with more of the +auroral rosy and white than of the yellow light in it, as if it dated +from earlier than the fall of man, and still preserved a heathenish +integrity:— + +An early unconverted Saint, +Free from noontide or evening taint, +Heathen without reproach, +That did upon the civil day encroach, +And ever since its birth +Had trod the outskirts of the earth. + + +But the impressions which the morning makes vanish with its dews, and +not even the most “persevering mortal” can preserve the memory of its +freshness to mid-day. As we passed the various islands, or what were +islands in the spring, rowing with our backs down stream, we gave names +to them. The one on which we had camped we called Fox Island, and one +fine densely wooded island surrounded by deep water and overrun by +grape-vines, which looked like a mass of verdure and of flowers cast +upon the waves, we named Grape Island. From Ball’s Hill to Billerica +meeting-house, the river was still twice as broad as in Concord, a +deep, dark, and dead stream, flowing between gentle hills and sometimes +cliffs, and well wooded all the way. It was a long woodland lake +bordered with willows. For long reaches we could see neither house nor +cultivated field, nor any sign of the vicinity of man. Now we coasted +along some shallow shore by the edge of a dense palisade of bulrushes, +which straightly bounded the water as if clipt by art, reminding us of +the reed forts of the East-Indians, of which we had read; and now the +bank slightly raised was overhung with graceful grasses and various +species of brake, whose downy stems stood closely grouped and naked as +in a vase, while their heads spread several feet on either side. The +dead limbs of the willow were rounded and adorned by the climbing +mikania, _Mikania scandens_, which filled every crevice in the leafy +bank, contrasting agreeably with the gray bark of its supporter and the +balls of the button-bush. The water willow, _Salix Purshiana_, when it +is of large size and entire, is the most graceful and ethereal of our +trees. Its masses of light green foliage, piled one upon another to the +height of twenty or thirty feet, seemed to float on the surface of the +water, while the slight gray stems and the shore were hardly visible +between them. No tree is so wedded to the water, and harmonizes so well +with still streams. It is even more graceful than the weeping willow, +or any pendulous trees, which dip their branches in the stream instead +of being buoyed up by it. Its limbs curved outward over the surface as +if attracted by it. It had not a New England but an Oriental character, +reminding us of trim Persian gardens, of Haroun Alraschid, and the +artificial lakes of the East. + +As we thus dipped our way along between fresh masses of foliage overrun +with the grape and smaller flowering vines, the surface was so calm, +and both air and water so transparent, that the flight of a kingfisher +or robin over the river was as distinctly seen reflected in the water +below as in the air above. The birds seemed to flit through submerged +groves, alighting on the yielding sprays, and their clear notes to come +up from below. We were uncertain whether the water floated the land, or +the land held the water in its bosom. It was such a season, in short, +as that in which one of our Concord poets sailed on its stream, and +sung its quiet glories. + +“There is an inward voice, that in the stream +Sends forth its spirit to the listening ear, +And in a calm content it floweth on, +Like wisdom, welcome with its own respect. +Clear in its breast lie all these beauteous thoughts, +It doth receive the green and graceful trees, +And the gray rocks smile in its peaceful arms.” + + +And more he sung, but too serious for our page. For every oak and birch +too growing on the hill-top, as well as for these elms and willows, we +knew that there was a graceful ethereal and ideal tree making down from +the roots, and sometimes Nature in high tides brings her mirror to its +foot and makes it visible. The stillness was intense and almost +conscious, as if it were a natural Sabbath, and we fancied that the +morning was the evening of a celestial day. The air was so elastic and +crystalline that it had the same effect on the landscape that a glass +has on a picture, to give it an ideal remoteness and perfection. The +landscape was clothed in a mild and quiet light, in which the woods and +fences checkered and partitioned it with new regularity, and rough and +uneven fields stretched away with lawn-like smoothness to the horizon, +and the clouds, finely distinct and picturesque, seemed a fit drapery +to hang over fairy-land. The world seemed decked for some holiday or +prouder pageantry, with silken streamers flying, and the course of our +lives to wind on before us like a green lane into a country maze, at +the season when fruit-trees are in blossom. + +Why should not our whole life and its scenery be actually thus fair and +distinct? All our lives want a suitable background. They should at +least, like the life of the anchorite, be as impressive to behold as +objects in the desert, a broken shaft or crumbling mound against a +limitless horizon. Character always secures for itself this advantage, +and is thus distinct and unrelated to near or trivial objects, whether +things or persons. On this same stream a maiden once sailed in my boat, +thus unattended but by invisible guardians, and as she sat in the prow +there was nothing but herself between the steersman and the sky. I +could then say with the poet,— + + “Sweet falls the summer air + Over her frame who sails with me; + Her way like that is beautifully free, + Her nature far more rare, +And is her constant heart of virgin purity.” + + +At evening still the very stars seem but this maiden’s emissaries and +reporters of her progress. + +Low in the eastern sky +Is set thy glancing eye; +And though its gracious light +Ne’er riseth to my sight, +Yet every star that climbs +Above the gnarled limbs + Of yonder hill, +Conveys thy gentle will. + +Believe I knew thy thought, +And that the zephyrs brought +Thy kindest wishes through, +As mine they bear to you, +That some attentive cloud +Did pause amid the crowd + Over my head, +While gentle things were said. + +Believe the thrushes sung, +And that the flower-bells rung, +That herbs exhaled their scent, +And beasts knew what was meant, +The trees a welcome waved, + And lakes their margins laved, +When thy free mind +To my retreat did wind. + +It was a summer eve, +The air did gently heave +While yet a low-hung cloud +Thy eastern skies did shroud; +The lightning’s silent gleam, +Startling my drowsy dream, + Seemed like the flash +Under thy dark eyelash. + +Still will I strive to be +As if thou wert with me; +Whatever path I take, +It shall be for thy sake, +Of gentle slope and wide, +As thou wert by my side, + Without a root +To trip thy gentle foot. + +I’ll walk with gentle pace, +And choose the smoothest place +And careful dip the oar, +And shun the winding shore, +And gently steer my boat +Where water-lilies float, + And cardinal flowers +Stand in their sylvan bowers. + + +It required some rudeness to disturb with our boat the mirror-like +surface of the water, in which every twig and blade of grass was so +faithfully reflected; too faithfully indeed for art to imitate, for +only Nature may exaggerate herself. The shallowest still water is +unfathomable. Wherever the trees and skies are reflected, there is more +than Atlantic depth, and no danger of fancy running aground. We notice +that it required a separate intention of the eye, a more free and +abstracted vision, to see the reflected trees and the sky, than to see +the river bottom merely; and so are there manifold visions in the +direction of every object, and even the most opaque reflect the heavens +from their surface. Some men have their eyes naturally intended to the +one and some to the other object. + +“A man that looks on glass, + On it may stay his eye, +Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass, + And the heavens espy.” + + +Two men in a skiff, whom we passed hereabouts, floating buoyantly amid +the reflections of the trees, like a feather in mid-air, or a leaf +which is wafted gently from its twig to the water without turning over, +seemed still in their element, and to have very delicately availed +themselves of the natural laws. Their floating there was a beautiful +and successful experiment in natural philosophy, and it served to +ennoble in our eyes the art of navigation; for as birds fly and fishes +swim, so these men sailed. It reminded us how much fairer and nobler +all the actions of man might be, and that our life in its whole economy +might be as beautiful as the fairest works of art or nature. + +The sun lodged on the old gray cliffs, and glanced from every pad; the +bulrushes and flags seemed to rejoice in the delicious light and air; +the meadows were a-drinking at their leisure; the frogs sat meditating, +all sabbath thoughts, summing up their week, with one eye out on the +golden sun, and one toe upon a reed, eying the wondrous universe in +which they act their part; the fishes swam more staid and soberly, as +maidens go to church; shoals of golden and silver minnows rose to the +surface to behold the heavens, and then sheered off into more sombre +aisles; they swept by as if moved by one mind, continually gliding past +each other, and yet preserving the form of their battalion unchanged, +as if they were still embraced by the transparent membrane which held +the spawn; a young band of brethren and sisters trying their new fins; +now they wheeled, now shot ahead, and when we drove them to the shore +and cut them off, they dexterously tacked and passed underneath the +boat. Over the old wooden bridges no traveller crossed, and neither the +river nor the fishes avoided to glide between the abutments. + +Here was a village not far off behind the woods, Billerica, settled not +long ago, and the children still bear the names of the first settlers +in this late “howling wilderness”; yet to all intents and purposes it +is as old as Fernay or as Mantua, an old gray town where men grow old +and sleep already under moss-grown monuments,—outgrow their usefulness. +This is ancient Billerica, (Villarica?) now in its dotage, named from +the English Billericay, and whose Indian name was Shawshine. I never +heard that it was young. See, is not nature here gone to decay, farms +all run out, meeting-house grown gray and racked with age? If you would +know of its early youth, ask those old gray rocks in the pasture. It +has a bell that sounds sometimes as far as Concord woods; I have heard +that,—ay, hear it now. No wonder that such a sound startled the +dreaming Indian, and frightened his game, when the first bells were +swung on trees, and sounded through the forest beyond the plantations +of the white man. But to-day I like best the echo amid these cliffs and +woods. It is no feeble imitation, but rather its original, or as if +some rural Orpheus played over the strain again to show how it should +sound. + +Dong, sounds the brass in the east, +As if to a funeral feast, +But I like that sound the best +Out of the fluttering west. + +The steeple ringeth a knell, +But the fairies’ silvery bell +Is the voice of that gentle folk, +Or else the horizon that spoke. + +Its metal is not of brass, +But air, and water, and glass, +And under a cloud it is swung, +And by the wind it is rung. + +When the steeple tolleth the noon, +It soundeth not so soon, +Yet it rings a far earlier hour, +And the sun has not reached its tower. + + +On the other hand, the road runs up to Carlisle, city of the woods, +which, if it is less civil, is the more natural. It does well hold the +earth together. It gets laughed at because it is a small town, I know, +but nevertheless it is a place where great men may be born any day, for +fair winds and foul blow right on over it without distinction. It has a +meeting-house and horse-sheds, a tavern and a blacksmith’s shop, for +centre, and a good deal of wood to cut and cord yet. And + +“Bedford, most noble Bedford, +I shall not thee forget.” + + +History has remembered thee; especially that meek and humble petition +of thy old planters, like the wailing of the Lord’s own people, “To the +gentlemen, the selectmen” of Concord, praying to be erected into a +separate parish. We can hardly credit that so plaintive a psalm +resounded but little more than a century ago along these Babylonish +waters. “In the extreme difficult seasons of heat and cold,” said they, +“we were ready to say of the Sabbath, Behold what a weariness is +it.”—“Gentlemen, if our seeking to draw off proceed from any +disaffection to our present Reverend Pastor, or the Christian Society +with whom we have taken such sweet counsel together, and walked unto +the house of God in company, then hear us not this day, but we greatly +desire, if God please, to be eased of our burden on the Sabbath, the +travel and fatigue thereof, that the word of God may be nigh to us, +near to our houses and in our hearts, that we and our little ones may +serve the Lord. We hope that God, who stirred up the spirit of Cyrus to +set forward temple work, has stirred us up to ask, and will stir you up +to grant, the prayer of our petition; so shall your humble petitioners +ever pray, as in duty bound—” And so the temple work went forward here +to a happy conclusion. Yonder in Carlisle the building of the temple +was many wearisome years delayed, not that there was wanting of Shittim +wood, or the gold of Ophir, but a site therefor convenient to all the +worshippers; whether on “Buttrick’s Plain,” or rather on “Poplar +Hill.”—It was a tedious question. + +In this Billerica solid men must have lived, select from year to year; +a series of town clerks, at least; and there are old records that you +may search. Some spring the white man came, built him a house, and made +a clearing here, letting in the sun, dried up a farm, piled up the old +gray stones in fences, cut down the pines around his dwelling, planted +orchard seeds brought from the old country, and persuaded the civil +apple-tree to blossom next to the wild pine and the juniper, shedding +its perfume in the wilderness. Their old stocks still remain. He culled +the graceful elm from out the woods and from the river-side, and so +refined and smoothed his village plot. He rudely bridged the stream, +and drove his team afield into the river meadows, cut the wild grass, +and laid bare the homes of beaver, otter, muskrat, and with the +whetting of his scythe scared off the deer and bear. He set up a mill, +and fields of English grain sprang in the virgin soil. And with his +grain he scattered the seeds of the dandelion and the wild trefoil over +the meadows, mingling his English flowers with the wild native ones. +The bristling burdock, the sweet-scented catnip, and the humble yarrow +planted themselves along his woodland road, they too seeking “freedom +to worship God” in their way. And thus he plants a town. The white +man’s mullein soon reigned in Indian cornfields, and sweet-scented +English grasses clothed the new soil. Where, then, could the Red Man +set his foot? The honey-bee hummed through the Massachusetts woods, and +sipped the wild-flowers round the Indian’s wigwam, perchance unnoticed, +when, with prophetic warning, it stung the Red child’s hand, forerunner +of that industrious tribe that was to come and pluck the wild-flower of +his race up by the root. + +The white man comes, pale as the dawn, with a load of thought, with a +slumbering intelligence as a fire raked up, knowing well what he knows, +not guessing but calculating; strong in community, yielding obedience +to authority; of experienced race; of wonderful, wonderful common +sense; dull but capable, slow but persevering, severe but just, of +little humor but genuine; a laboring man, despising game and sport; +building a house that endures, a framed house. He buys the Indian’s +moccasins and baskets, then buys his hunting-grounds, and at length +forgets where he is buried and ploughs up his bones. And here town +records, old, tattered, time-worn, weather-stained chronicles, contain +the Indian sachem’s mark perchance, an arrow or a beaver, and the few +fatal words by which he deeded his hunting-grounds away. He comes with +a list of ancient Saxon, Norman, and Celtic names, and strews them up +and down this river,—Framingham, Sudbury, Bedford, Carlisle, Billerica, +Chelmsford,—and this is New Angle-land, and these are the New West +Saxons whom the Red Men call, not Angle-ish or English, but Yengeese, +and so at last they are known for Yankees. + +When we were opposite to the middle of Billerica, the fields on either +hand had a soft and cultivated English aspect, the village spire being +seen over the copses which skirt the river, and sometimes an orchard +straggled down to the water-side, though, generally, our course this +forenoon was the wildest part of our voyage. It seemed that men led a +quiet and very civil life there. The inhabitants were plainly +cultivators of the earth, and lived under an organized political +government. The school-house stood with a meek aspect, entreating a +long truce to war and savage life. Every one finds by his own +experience, as well as in history, that the era in which men cultivate +the apple, and the amenities of the garden, is essentially different +from that of the hunter and forest life, and neither can displace the +other without loss. We have all had our day-dreams, as well as more +prophetic nocturnal vision; but as for farming, I am convinced that my +genius dates from an older era than the agricultural. I would at least +strike my spade into the earth with such careless freedom but accuracy +as the woodpecker his bill into a tree. There is in my nature, +methinks, a singular yearning toward all wildness. I know of no +redeeming qualities in myself but a sincere love for some things, and +when I am reproved I fall back on to this ground. What have I to do +with ploughs? I cut another furrow than you see. Where the off ox +treads, there is it not, it is farther off; where the nigh ox walks, it +will not be, it is nigher still. If corn fails, my crop fails not, and +what are drought and rain to me? The rude Saxon pioneer will sometimes +pine for that refinement and artificial beauty which are English, and +love to hear the sound of such sweet and classical names as the +Pentland and Malvern Hills, the Cliffs of Dover and the Trosachs, +Richmond, Derwent, and Winandermere, which are to him now instead of +the Acropolis and Parthenon, of Baiæ, and Athens with its sea-walls, +and Arcadia and Tempe. + +Greece, who am I that should remember thee, +Thy Marathon and thy Thermopylæ? +Is my life vulgar, my fate mean, +Which on these golden memories can lean? + + +We are apt enough to be pleased with such books as Evelyn’s Sylva, +Acetarium, and Kalendarium Hortense, but they imply a relaxed nerve in +the reader. Gardening is civil and social, but it wants the vigor and +freedom of the forest and the outlaw. There may be an excess of +cultivation as well as of anything else, until civilization becomes +pathetic. A highly cultivated man,—all whose bones can be bent! whose +heaven-born virtues are but good manners! The young pines springing up +in the cornfields from year to year are to me a refreshing fact. We +talk of civilizing the Indian, but that is not the name for his +improvement. By the wary independence and aloofness of his dim forest +life he preserves his intercourse with his native gods, and is admitted +from time to time to a rare and peculiar society with Nature. He has +glances of starry recognition to which our saloons are strangers. The +steady illumination of his genius, dim only because distant, is like +the faint but satisfying light of the stars compared with the dazzling +but ineffectual and short-lived blaze of candles. The Society-Islanders +had their day-born gods, but they were not supposed to be “of equal +antiquity with the _atua fauau po_, or night-born gods.” It is true, +there are the innocent pleasures of country life, and it is sometimes +pleasant to make the earth yield her increase, and gather the fruits in +their season, but the heroic spirit will not fail to dream of remoter +retirements and more rugged paths. It will have its garden-plots and +its _parterres_ elsewhere than on the earth, and gather nuts and +berries by the way for its subsistence, or orchard fruits with such +heedlessness as berries. We would not always be soothing and taming +nature, breaking the horse and the ox, but sometimes ride the horse +wild and chase the buffalo. The Indian’s intercourse with Nature is at +least such as admits of the greatest independence of each. If he is +somewhat of a stranger in her midst, the gardener is too much of a +familiar. There is something vulgar and foul in the latter’s closeness +to his mistress, something noble and cleanly in the former’s distance. +In civilization, as in a southern latitude, man degenerates at length, +and yields to the incursion of more northern tribes, + +“Some nation yet shut in + With hills of ice.” + + +There are other, savager, and more primeval aspects of nature than our +poets have sung. It is only white man’s poetry. Homer and Ossian even +can never revive in London or Boston. And yet behold how these cities +are refreshed by the mere tradition, or the imperfectly transmitted +fragrance and flavor of these wild fruits. If we could listen but for +an instant to the chant of the Indian muse, we should understand why he +will not exchange his savageness for civilization. Nations are not +whimsical. Steel and blankets are strong temptations; but the Indian +does well to continue Indian. + +After sitting in my chamber many days, reading the poets, I have been +out early on a foggy morning, and heard the cry of an owl in a +neighboring wood as from a nature behind the common, unexplored by +science or by literature. None of the feathered race has yet realized +my youthful conceptions of the woodland depths. I had seen the red +Election-bird brought from their recesses on my comrades’ string, and +fancied that their plumage would assume stranger and more dazzling +colors, like the tints of evening, in proportion as I advanced farther +into the darkness and solitude of the forest. Still less have I seen +such strong and wilderness tints on any poet’s string. + +These modern ingenious sciences and arts do not affect me as those more +venerable arts of hunting and fishing, and even of husbandry in its +primitive and simple form; as ancient and honorable trades as the sun +and moon and winds pursue, coeval with the faculties of man, and +invented when these were invented. We do not know their John Gutenberg, +or Richard Arkwright, though the poets would fain make them to have +been gradually learned and taught. According to Gower,— + +“And Iadahel, as saith the boke, +Firste made nette, and fishes toke. +Of huntyng eke he fond the chace, +Whiche nowe is knowe in many place; +A tent of clothe, with corde and stake, +He sette up first, and did it make.” + + +Also, Lydgate says:— + +“Jason first sayled, in story it is tolde, +Toward Colchos, to wynne the flees of golde, +Ceres the Goddess fond first the tilthe of londe; +* * * * * +Also, Aristeus fonde first the usage +Of mylke, and cruddis, and of honey swote; +Peryodes, for grete avauntage, +From flyntes smote fuyre, daryng in the roote.” + + +We read that Aristeus “obtained of Jupiter and Neptune, that the +pestilential heat of the dog-days, wherein was great mortality, should +be mitigated with wind.” This is one of those dateless benefits +conferred on man, which have no record in our vulgar day, though we +still find some similitude to them in our dreams, in which we have a +more liberal and juster apprehension of things, unconstrained by habit, +which is then in some measure put off, and divested of memory, which we +call history. + +According to fable, when the island of Ægina was depopulated by +sickness, at the instance of Æacus, Jupiter turned the ants into men, +that is, as some think, he made men of the inhabitants who lived meanly +like ants. This is perhaps the fullest history of those early days +extant. + +The fable which is naturally and truly composed, so as to satisfy the +imagination, ere it addresses the understanding, beautiful though +strange as a wild-flower, is to the wise man an apothegm, and admits of +his most generous interpretation. When we read that Bacchus made the +Tyrrhenian mariners mad, so that they leapt into the sea, mistaking it +for a meadow full of flowers, and so became dolphins, we are not +concerned about the historical truth of this, but rather a higher +poetical truth. We seem to hear the music of a thought, and care not if +the understanding be not gratified. For their beauty, consider the +fables of Narcissus, of Endymion, of Memnon son of Morning, the +representative of all promising youths who have died a premature death, +and whose memory is melodiously prolonged to the latest morning; the +beautiful stories of Phaeton, and of the Sirens whose isle shone afar +off white with the bones of unburied men; and the pregnant ones of Pan, +Prometheus, and the Sphinx; and that long list of names which have +already become part of the universal language of civilized men, and +from proper are becoming common names or nouns,—the Sibyls, the +Eumenides, the Parcæ, the Graces, the Muses, Nemesis, &c. + +It is interesting to observe with what singular unanimity the farthest +sundered nations and generations consent to give completeness and +roundness to an ancient fable, of which they indistinctly appreciate +the beauty or the truth. By a faint and dream-like effort, though it be +only by the vote of a scientific body, the dullest posterity slowly add +some trait to the mythus. As when astronomers call the lately +discovered planet Neptune; or the asteroid Astræa, that the Virgin who +was driven from earth to heaven at the end of the golden age, may have +her local habitation in the heavens more distinctly assigned her,—for +the slightest recognition of poetic worth is significant. By such slow +aggregation has mythology grown from the first. The very nursery tales +of this generation, were the nursery tales of primeval races. They +migrate from east to west, and again from west to east; now expanded +into the “tale divine” of bards, now shrunk into a popular rhyme. This +is an approach to that universal language which men have sought in +vain. This fond reiteration of the oldest expressions of truth by the +latest posterity, content with slightly and religiously retouching the +old material, is the most impressive proof of a common humanity. + +All nations love the same jests and tales, Jews, Christians, and +Mahometans, and the same translated suffice for all. All men are +children, and of one family. The same tale sends them all to bed, and +wakes them in the morning. Joseph Wolff, the missionary, distributed +copies of Robinson Crusoe, translated into Arabic, among the Arabs, and +they made a great sensation. “Robinson Crusoe’s adventures and wisdom,” +says he, “were read by Mahometans in the market-places of Sanaa, +Hodyeda, and Loheya, and admired and believed!” On reading the book, +the Arabians exclaimed, “O, that Robinson Crusoe must have been a great +prophet!” + +To some extent, mythology is only the most ancient history and +biography. So far from being false or fabulous in the common sense, it +contains only enduring and essential truth, the I and you, the here and +there, the now and then, being omitted. Either time or rare wisdom +writes it. Before printing was discovered, a century was equal to a +thousand years. The poet is he who can write some pure mythology to-day +without the aid of posterity. In how few words, for instance, the +Greeks would have told the story of Abelard and Heloise, making but a +sentence for our classical dictionary,—and then, perchance, have stuck +up their names to shine in some corner of the firmament. We moderns, on +the other hand, collect only the raw materials of biography and +history, “memoirs to serve for a history,” which itself is but +materials to serve for a mythology. How many volumes folio would the +Life and Labors of Prometheus have filled, if perchance it had fallen, +as perchance it did first, in days of cheap printing! Who knows what +shape the fable of Columbus will at length assume, to be confounded +with that of Jason and the expedition of the Argonauts. And +Franklin,—there may be a line for him in the future classical +dictionary, recording what that demigod did, and referring him to some +new genealogy. “Son of —— and ——. He aided the Americans to gain their +independence, instructed mankind in economy, and drew down lightning +from the clouds.” + +The hidden significance of these fables which is sometimes thought to +have been detected, the ethics running parallel to the poetry and +history, are not so remarkable as the readiness with which they may be +made to express a variety of truths. As if they were the skeletons of +still older and more universal truths than any whose flesh and blood +they are for the time made to wear. It is like striving to make the +sun, or the wind, or the sea symbols to signify exclusively the +particular thoughts of our day. But what signifies it? In the mythus a +superhuman intelligence uses the unconscious thoughts and dreams of men +as its hieroglyphics to address men unborn. In the history of the human +mind, these glowing and ruddy fables precede the noonday thoughts of +men, as Aurora the sun’s rays. The matutine intellect of the poet, +keeping in advance of the glare of philosophy, always dwells in this +auroral atmosphere. + +As we said before, the Concord is a dead stream, but its scenery is the +more suggestive to the contemplative voyager, and this day its water +was fuller of reflections than our pages even. Just before it reaches +the falls in Billerica, it is contracted, and becomes swifter and +shallower, with a yellow pebbly bottom, hardly passable for a +canal-boat, leaving the broader and more stagnant portion above like a +lake among the hills. All through the Concord, Bedford, and Billerica +meadows we had heard no murmur from its stream, except where some +tributary runnel tumbled in,— + +Some tumultuous little rill, + Purling round its storied pebble, +Tinkling to the selfsame tune, +From September until June, + Which no drought doth e’er enfeeble. + +Silent flows the parent stream, + And if rocks do lie below, +Smothers with her waves the din, +As it were a youthful sin, + Just as still, and just as slow. + + +But now at length we heard this staid and primitive river rushing to +her fall, like any rill. We here left its channel, just above the +Billerica Falls, and entered the canal, which runs, or rather is +conducted, six miles through the woods to the Merrimack, at Middlesex, +and as we did not care to loiter in this part of our voyage, while one +ran along the tow-path drawing the boat by a cord, the other kept it +off the shore with a pole, so that we accomplished the whole distance +in little more than an hour. This canal, which is the oldest in the +country, and has even an antique look beside the more modern railroads, +is fed by the Concord, so that we were still floating on its familiar +waters. It is so much water which the river _lets_ for the advantage of +commerce. There appeared some want of harmony in its scenery, since it +was not of equal date with the woods and meadows through which it is +led, and we missed the conciliatory influence of time on land and +water; but in the lapse of ages, Nature will recover and indemnify +herself, and gradually plant fit shrubs and flowers along its borders. +Already the kingfisher sat upon a pine over the water, and the bream +and pickerel swam below. Thus all works pass directly out of the hands +of the architect into the hands of Nature, to be perfected. + +It was a retired and pleasant route, without houses or travellers, +except some young men who were lounging upon a bridge in Chelmsford, +who leaned impudently over the rails to pry into our concerns, but we +caught the eye of the most forward, and looked at him till he was +visibly discomfited. Not that there was any peculiar efficacy in our +look, but rather a sense of shame left in him which disarmed him. + +It is a very true and expressive phrase, “He looked daggers at me,” for +the first pattern and prototype of all daggers must have been a glance +of the eye. First, there was the glance of Jove’s eye, then his fiery +bolt, then, the material gradually hardening, tridents, spears, +javelins, and finally, for the convenience of private men, daggers, +krisses, and so forth, were invented. It is wonderful how we get about +the streets without being wounded by these delicate and glancing +weapons, a man can so nimbly whip out his rapier, or without being +noticed carry it unsheathed. Yet it is rare that one gets seriously +looked at. + +As we passed under the last bridge over the canal, just before reaching +the Merrimack, the people coming out of church paused to look at us +from above, and apparently, so strong is custom, indulged in some +heathenish comparisons; but we were the truest observers of this sunny +day. According to Hesiod, + + “The seventh is a holy day, +For then Latona brought forth golden-rayed Apollo,” + + +and by our reckoning this was the seventh day of the week, and not the +first. I find among the papers of an old Justice of the Peace and +Deacon of the town of Concord, this singular memorandum, which is worth +preserving as a relic of an ancient custom. After reforming the +spelling and grammar, it runs as follows: “Men that travelled with +teams on the Sabbath, Dec. 18th, 1803, were Jeremiah Richardson and +Jonas Parker, both of Shirley. They had teams with rigging such as is +used to carry barrels, and they were travelling westward. Richardson +was questioned by the Hon. Ephraim Wood, Esq., and he said that Jonas +Parker was his fellow-traveller, and he further said that a Mr. Longley +was his employer, who promised to bear him out.” We were the men that +were gliding northward, this Sept. 1st, 1839, with still team, and +rigging not the most convenient to carry barrels, unquestioned by any +Squire or Church Deacon and ready to bear ourselves out if need were. +In the latter part of the seventeenth century, according to the +historian of Dunstable, “Towns were directed to erect ‘_a cage_’ near +the meeting-house, and in this all offenders against the sanctity of +the Sabbath were confined.” Society has relaxed a little from its +strictness, one would say, but I presume that there is not less +_religion_ than formerly. If the _ligature_ is found to be loosened in +one part, it is only drawn the tighter in another. + +You can hardly convince a man of an error in a lifetime, but must +content yourself with the reflection that the progress of science is +slow. If he is not convinced, his grandchildren may be. The geologists +tell us that it took one hundred years to prove that fossils are +organic, and one hundred and fifty more, to prove that they are not to +be referred to the Noachian deluge. I am not sure but I should betake +myself in extremities to the liberal divinities of Greece, rather than +to my country’s God. Jehovah, though with us he has acquired new +attributes, is more absolute and unapproachable, but hardly more +divine, than Jove. He is not so much of a gentleman, not so gracious +and catholic, he does not exert so intimate and genial an influence on +nature, as many a god of the Greeks. I should fear the infinite power +and inflexible justice of the almighty mortal, hardly as yet +apotheosized, so wholly masculine, with no Sister Juno, no Apollo, no +Venus, nor Minerva, to intercede for me, θυμῷ φιλέουσά τε, κηδομένη τε. +The Grecian are youthful and erring and fallen gods, with the vices of +men, but in many important respects essentially of the divine race. In +my Pantheon, Pan still reigns in his pristine glory, with his ruddy +face, his flowing beard, and his shaggy body, his pipe and his crook, +his nymph Echo, and his chosen daughter Iambe; for the great god Pan is +not dead, as was rumored. No god ever dies. Perhaps of all the gods of +New England and of ancient Greece, I am most constant at his shrine. + +It seems to me that the god that is commonly worshipped in civilized +countries is not at all divine, though he bears a divine name, but is +the overwhelming authority and respectability of mankind combined. Men +reverence one another, not yet God. If I thought that I could speak +with discrimination and impartiality of the nations of Christendom, I +should praise them, but it tasks me too much. They seem to be the most +civil and humane, but I may be mistaken. Every people have gods to suit +their circumstances; the Society Islanders had a god called Toahitu, +“in shape like a dog; he saved such as were in danger of falling from +rocks and trees.” I think that we can do without him, as we have not +much climbing to do. Among them a man could make himself a god out of a +piece of wood in a few minutes, which would frighten him out of his +wits. + +I fancy that some indefatigable spinster of the old school, who had the +supreme felicity to be born in “days that tried men’s souls,” hearing +this, may say with Nestor, another of the old school, “But you are +younger than I. For time was when I conversed with greater men than +you. For not at any time have I seen such men, nor shall see them, as +Perithous, and Dryas, and ποιμένα λαῶν,” that is probably Washington, +sole “Shepherd of the People.” And when Apollo has now six times rolled +westward, or seemed to roll, and now for the seventh time shows his +face in the east, eyes wellnigh glazed, long glassed, which have +fluctuated only between lamb’s wool and worsted, explore ceaselessly +some good sermon book. For six days shalt thou labor and do all thy +knitting, but on the seventh, forsooth, thy reading. Happy we who can +bask in this warm September sun, which illumines all creatures, as well +when they rest as when they toil, not without a feeling of gratitude; +whose life is as blameless, how blameworthy soever it may be, on the +Lord’s Mona-day as on his Suna-day. + +There are various, nay, incredible faiths; why should we be alarmed at +any of them? What man believes, God believes. Long as I have lived, and +many blasphemers as I have heard and seen, I have never yet heard or +witnessed any direct and conscious blasphemy or irreverence; but of +indirect and habitual, enough. Where is the man who is guilty of direct +and personal insolence to Him that made him? + +One memorable addition to the old mythology is due to this era,—the +Christian fable. With what pains, and tears, and blood these centuries +have woven this and added it to the mythology of mankind. The new +Prometheus. With what miraculous consent, and patience, and persistency +has this mythus been stamped on the memory of the race! It would seem +as if it were in the progress of our mythology to dethrone Jehovah, and +crown Christ in his stead. + +If it is not a tragical life we live, then I know not what to call it. +Such a story as that of Jesus Christ,—the history of Jerusalem, say, +being a part of the Universal History. The naked, the embalmed, +unburied death of Jerusalem amid its desolate hills,—think of it. In +Tasso’s poem I trust some things are sweetly buried. Consider the +snappish tenacity with which they preach Christianity still. What are +time and space to Christianity, eighteen hundred years, and a new +world?—that the humble life of a Jewish peasant should have force to +make a New York bishop so bigoted. Forty-four lamps, the gift of kings, +now burning in a place called the Holy Sepulchre;—a church-bell +ringing;—some unaffected tears shed by a pilgrim on Mount Calvary +within the week.— + +“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, when I forget thee, may my right hand forget her +cunning.” + +“By the waters of Babylon there we sat down, and we wept when we +remembered Zion.” + +I trust that some may be as near and dear to Buddha, or Christ, or +Swedenborg, who are without the pale of their churches. It is necessary +not to be Christian to appreciate the beauty and significance of the +life of Christ. I know that some will have hard thoughts of me, when +they hear their Christ named beside my Buddha, yet I am sure that I am +willing they should love their Christ more than my Buddha, for the love +is the main thing, and I like him too. “God is the letter Ku, as well +as Khu.” Why need Christians be still intolerant and superstitious? The +simple-minded sailors were unwilling to cast overboard Jonah at his own +request.— + +“Where is this love become in later age? +Alas! ’tis gone in endless pilgrimage +From hence, and never to return, I doubt, +Till revolution wheel those times about.” + + +One man says,— + +“The world’s a popular disease, that reigns +Within the froward heart and frantic brains +Of poor distempered mortals.” + + +Another, that + + —“all the world’s a stage, +And all the men and women merely players.” + + +The world is a strange place for a playhouse to stand within it. Old +Drayton thought that a man that lived here, and would be a poet, for +instance, should have in him certain “brave, translunary things,” and a +“fine madness” should possess his brain. Certainly it were as well, +that he might be up to the occasion. That is a superfluous wonder, +which Dr. Johnson expresses at the assertion of Sir Thomas Browne that +“his life has been a miracle of thirty years, which to relate, were not +history but a piece of poetry, and would sound like a fable.” The +wonder is, rather, that all men do not assert as much. That would be a +rare praise, if it were true, which was addressed to Francis +Beaumont,—“Spectators sate part in your tragedies.” + +Think what a mean and wretched place this world is; that half the time +we have to light a lamp that we may see to live in it. This is half our +life. Who would undertake the enterprise if it were all? And, pray, +what more has day to offer? A lamp that burns more clear, a purer oil, +say winter-strained, that so we may pursue our idleness with less +obstruction. Bribed with a little sunlight and a few prismatic tints, +we bless our Maker, and stave off his wrath with hymns. + +I make ye an offer, +Ye gods, hear the scoffer, +The scheme will not hurt you, +If ye will find goodness, I will find virtue. +Though I am your creature, +And child of your nature, +I have pride still unbended, +And blood undescended, +Some free independence, +And my own descendants. +I cannot toil blindly, +Though ye behave kindly, +And I swear by the rood, +I’ll be slave to no God. +If ye will deal plainly, +I will strive mainly, +If ye will discover, +Great plans to your lover, +And give him a sphere +Somewhat larger than here. + + +“Verily, my angels! I was abashed on account of my servant, who had no +Providence but me; therefore did I pardon him.”—_The Gulistan of Sadi._ + +Most people with whom I talk, men and women even of some originality +and genius, have their scheme of the universe all cut and dried,—very +_dry_, I assure you, to hear, dry enough to burn, dry-rotted and +powder-post, methinks,—which they set up between you and them in the +shortest intercourse; an ancient and tottering frame with all its +boards blown off. They do not walk without their bed. Some, to me, +seemingly very unimportant and unsubstantial things and relations, are +for them everlastingly settled,—as Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and the +like. These are like the everlasting hills to them. But in all my +wanderings I never came across the least vestige of authority for these +things. They have not left so distinct a trace as the delicate flower +of a remote geological period on the coal in my grate. The wisest man +preaches no doctrines; he has no scheme; he sees no rafter, not even a +cobweb, against the heavens. It is clear sky. If I ever see more +clearly at one time than at another, the medium through which I see is +clearer. To see from earth to heaven, and see there standing, still a +fixture, that old Jewish scheme! What right have you to hold up this +obstacle to my understanding you, to your understanding me! You did not +invent it; it was imposed on you. Examine your authority. Even Christ, +we fear, had his scheme, his conformity to tradition, which slightly +vitiates his teaching. He had not swallowed all formulas. He preached +some mere doctrines. As for me, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob are now only +the subtilest imaginable essences, which would not stain the morning +sky. Your scheme must be the framework of the universe; all other +schemes will soon be ruins. The perfect God in his revelations of +himself has never got to the length of one such proposition as you, his +prophets, state. Have you learned the alphabet of heaven and can count +three? Do you know the number of God’s family? Can you put mysteries +into words? Do you presume to fable of the ineffable? Pray, what +geographer are you, that speak of heaven’s topography? Whose friend are +you that speak of God’s personality? Do you, Miles Howard, think that +he has made you his confidant? Tell me of the height of the mountains +of the moon, or of the diameter of space, and I may believe you, but of +the secret history of the Almighty, and I shall pronounce thee mad. Yet +we have a sort of family history of our God,—so have the Tahitians of +theirs,—and some old poet’s grand imagination is imposed on us as +adamantine everlasting truth, and God’s own word! Pythagoras says, +truly enough, “A true assertion respecting God, is an assertion of +God”; but we may well doubt if there is any example of this in +literature. + +The New Testament is an invaluable book, though I confess to having +been slightly prejudiced against it in my very early days by the church +and the Sabbath school, so that it seemed, before I read it, to be the +yellowest book in the catalogue. Yet I early escaped from their meshes. +It was hard to get the commentaries out of one’s head and taste its +true flavor.—I think that Pilgrim’s Progress is the best sermon which +has been preached from this text; almost all other sermons that I have +heard, or heard of, have been but poor imitations of this.—It would be +a poor story to be prejudiced against the Life of Christ because the +book has been edited by Christians. In fact, I love this book rarely, +though it is a sort of castle in the air to me, which I am permitted to +dream. Having come to it so recently and freshly, it has the greater +charm, so that I cannot find any to talk with about it. I never read a +novel, they have so little real life and thought in them. The reading +which I love best is the scriptures of the several nations, though it +happens that I am better acquainted with those of the Hindoos, the +Chinese, and the Persians, than of the Hebrews, which I have come to +last. Give me one of these Bibles and you have silenced me for a while. +When I recover the use of my tongue, I am wont to worry my neighbors +with the new sentences; but commonly they cannot see that there is any +wit in them. Such has been my experience with the New Testament. I have +not yet got to the crucifixion, I have read it over so many times. I +should love dearly to read it aloud to my friends, some of whom are +seriously inclined; it is so good, and I am sure that they have never +heard it, it fits their case exactly, and we should enjoy it so much +together,—but I instinctively despair of getting their ears. They soon +show, by signs not to be mistaken, that it is inexpressibly wearisome +to them. I do not mean to imply that I am any better than my neighbors; +for, alas! I know that I am only as good, though I love better books +than they. + +It is remarkable that, notwithstanding the universal favor with which +the New Testament is outwardly received, and even the bigotry with +which it is defended, there is no hospitality shown to, there is no +appreciation of, the order of truth with which it deals. I know of no +book that has so few readers. There is none so truly strange, and +heretical, and unpopular. To Christians, no less than Greeks and Jews, +it is foolishness and a stumbling-block. There are, indeed, severe +things in it which no man should read aloud more than once.—“Seek first +the kingdom of heaven.”—“Lay not up for yourselves treasures on +earth.”—“If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give +to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven.”—“For what is a +man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? +or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?”—Think of this, +Yankees!—“Verily, I say unto you, if ye have faith as a grain of +mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder +place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto +you.”—Think of repeating these things to a New England audience! +thirdly, fourthly, fifteenthly, till there are three barrels of +sermons! Who, without cant, can read them aloud? Who, without cant, can +hear them, and not go out of the meeting-house? They never _were_ read, +they never _were_ heard. Let but one of these sentences be rightly +read, from any pulpit in the land, and there would not be left one +stone of that meeting-house upon another. + +Yet the New Testament treats of man and man’s so-called spiritual +affairs too exclusively, and is too constantly moral and personal, to +alone content me, who am not interested solely in man’s religious or +moral nature, or in man even. I have not the most definite designs on +the future. Absolutely speaking, Do unto others as you would that they +should do unto you, is by no means a golden rule, but the best of +current silver. An honest man would have but little occasion for it. It +is golden not to have any rule at all in such a case. The book has +never been written which is to be accepted without any allowance. +Christ was a sublime actor on the stage of the world. He knew what he +was thinking of when he said, “Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my +words shall not pass away.” I draw near to him at such a time. Yet he +taught mankind but imperfectly how to live; his thoughts were all +directed toward another world. There is another kind of success than +his. Even here we have a sort of living to get, and must buffet it +somewhat longer. There are various tough problems yet to solve, and we +must make shift to live, betwixt spirit and matter, such a human life +as we can. + +A healthy man, with steady employment, as wood-chopping at fifty cents +a cord, and a camp in the woods, will not be a good subject for +Christianity. The New Testament may be a choice book to him on some, +but not on all or most of his days. He will rather go a-fishing in his +leisure hours. The Apostles, though they were fishers too, were of the +solemn race of sea-fishers, and never trolled for pickerel on inland +streams. + +Men have a singular desire to be good without being good for anything, +because, perchance, they think vaguely that so it will be good for them +in the end. The sort of morality which the priests inculcate is a very +subtle policy, far finer than the politicians, and the world is very +successfully ruled by them as the policemen. It is not worth the while +to let our imperfections disturb us always. The conscience really does +not, and ought not to monopolize the whole of our lives, any more than +the heart or the head. It is as liable to disease as any other part. I +have seen some whose consciences, owing undoubtedly to former +indulgence, had grown to be as irritable as spoilt children, and at +length gave them no peace. They did not know when to swallow their cud, +and their lives of course yielded no milk. + +Conscience is instinct bred in the house, +Feeling and Thinking propagate the sin +By an unnatural breeding in and in. +I say, Turn it out doors, +Into the moors. +I love a life whose plot is simple, +And does not thicken with every pimple, +A soul so sound no sickly conscience binds it, +That makes the universe no worse than ’t finds it. +I love an earnest soul, +Whose mighty joy and sorrow +Are not drowned in a bowl, +And brought to life to-morrow; +That lives one tragedy, +And not seventy; +A conscience worth keeping, +Laughing not weeping; +A conscience wise and steady, +And forever ready; +Not changing with events, +Dealing in compliments; +A conscience exercised about +Large things, where one _may_ doubt. +I love a soul not all of wood, +Predestinated to be good, +But true to the backbone +Unto itself alone, +And false to none; +Born to its own affairs, +Its own joys and own cares; +By whom the work which God begun +Is finished, and not undone; +Taken up where he left off, +Whether to worship or to scoff; +If not good, why then evil, +If not good god, good devil. +Goodness!—you hypocrite, come out of that, +Live your life, do your work, then take your hat. +I have no patience towards +Such conscientious cowards. +Give me simple laboring folk, +Who love their work, +Whose virtue is a song +To cheer God along. + + +I was once reproved by a minister who was driving a poor beast to some +meeting-house horse-sheds among the hills of New Hampshire, because I +was bending my steps to a mountain-top on the Sabbath, instead of a +church, when I would have gone farther than he to hear a true word +spoken on that or any day. He declared that I was “breaking the Lord’s +fourth commandment,” and proceeded to enumerate, in a sepulchral tone, +the disasters which had befallen him whenever he had done any ordinary +work on the Sabbath. He really thought that a god was on the watch to +trip up those men who followed any secular work on this day, and did +not see that it was the evil conscience of the workers that did it. The +country is full of this superstition, so that when one enters a +village, the church, not only really but from association, is the +ugliest looking building in it, because it is the one in which human +nature stoops the lowest and is most disgraced. Certainly, such temples +as these shall erelong cease to deform the landscape. There are few +things more disheartening and disgusting than when you are walking the +streets of a strange village on the Sabbath, to hear a preacher +shouting like a boatswain in a gale of wind, and thus harshly profaning +the quiet atmosphere of the day. You fancy him to have taken off his +coat, as when men are about to do hot and dirty work. + +If I should ask the minister of Middlesex to let me speak in his pulpit +on a Sunday, he would object, because I do not _pray_ as he does, or +because I am not _ordained_. What under the sun are these things? + +Really, there is no infidelity, now-a-days, so great as that which +prays, and keeps the Sabbath, and rebuilds the churches. The sealer of +the South Pacific preaches a truer doctrine. The church is a sort of +hospital for men’s souls, and as full of quackery as the hospital for +their bodies. Those who are taken into it live like pensioners in their +Retreat or Sailor’s Sung Harbor, where you may see a row of religious +cripples sitting outside in sunny weather. Let not the apprehension +that he may one day have to occupy a ward therein, discourage the +cheerful labors of the able-souled man. While he remembers the sick in +their extremities, let him not look thither as to his goal. One is sick +at heart of this pagoda worship. It is like the beating of gongs in a +Hindoo subterranean temple. In dark places and dungeons the preacher’s +words might perhaps strike root and grow, but not in broad daylight in +any part of the world that I know. The sound of the Sabbath bell far +away, now breaking on these shores, does not awaken pleasing +associations, but melancholy and sombre ones rather. One involuntarily +rests on his oar, to humor his unusually meditative mood. It is as the +sound of many catechisms and religious books twanging a canting peal +round the earth, seeming to issue from some Egyptian temple and echo +along the shore of the Nile, right opposite to Pharaoh’s palace and +Moses in the bulrushes, startling a multitude of storks and alligators +basking in the sun. + +Everywhere “good men” sound a retreat, and the word has gone forth to +fall back on innocence. Fall forward rather on to whatever there is +there. Christianity only hopes. It has hung its harp on the willows, +and cannot sing a song in a strange land. It has dreamed a sad dream, +and does not yet welcome the morning with joy. The mother tells her +falsehoods to her child, but, thank Heaven, the child does not grow up +in its parent’s shadow. Our mother’s faith has not grown with her +experience. Her experience has been too much for her. The lesson of +life was too hard for her to learn. + +It is remarkable, that almost all speakers and writers feel it to be +incumbent on them, sooner or later, to prove or to acknowledge the +personality of God. Some Earl of Bridgewater, thinking it better late +than never, has provided for it in his will. It is a sad mistake. In +reading a work on agriculture, we have to skip the author’s moral +reflections, and the words “Providence” and “He” scattered along the +page, to come at the profitable level of what he has to say. What he +calls his religion is for the most part offensive to the nostrils. He +should know better than expose himself, and keep his foul sores covered +till they are quite healed. There is more religion in men’s science +than there is science in their religion. Let us make haste to the +report of the committee on swine. + +A man’s real faith is never contained in his creed, nor is his creed an +article of his faith. The last is never adopted. This it is that +permits him to smile ever, and to live even as bravely as he does. And +yet he clings anxiously to his creed, as to a straw, thinking that that +does him good service because his sheet anchor does not drag. + +In most men’s religion, the ligature, which should be its umbilical +cord connecting them with divinity, is rather like that thread which +the accomplices of Cylon held in their hands when they went abroad from +the temple of Minerva, the other end being attached to the statue of +the goddess. But frequently, as in their case, the thread breaks, being +stretched, and they are left without an asylum. + +“A good and pious man reclined his head on the bosom of contemplation, +and was absorbed in the ocean of a revery. At the instant when he +awaked from his vision, one of his friends, by way of pleasantry, said, +What rare gift have you brought us from that garden, where you have +been recreating? He replied, I fancied to myself and said, when I can +reach the rose-bower, I will fill my lap with the flowers, and bring +them as a present to my friends; but when I got there, the fragrance of +the roses so intoxicated me, that the skirt dropped from my hands.——‘O +bird of dawn! learn the warmth of affection from the moth; for that +scorched creature gave up the ghost, and uttered not a groan: These +vain pretenders are ignorant of him they seek after; for of him that +knew him we never heard again:—O thou! who towerest above the flights +of conjecture, opinion, and comprehension; whatever has been reported +of thee we have heard and read; the congregation is dismissed, and life +drawn to a close; and we still rest at our first encomium of +thee!’”—_Sadi_. + +By noon we were let down into the Merrimack through the locks at +Middlesex, just above Pawtucket Falls, by a serene and liberal-minded +man, who came quietly from his book, though his duties, we supposed, +did not require him to open the locks on Sundays. With him we had a +just and equal encounter of the eyes, as between two honest men. + +The movements of the eyes express the perpetual and unconscious +courtesy of the parties. It is said, that a rogue does not look you in +the face, neither does an honest man look at you as if he had his +reputation to establish. I have seen some who did not know when to turn +aside their eyes in meeting yours. A truly confident and magnanimous +spirit is wiser than to contend for the mastery in such encounters. +Serpents alone conquer by the steadiness of their gaze. My friend looks +me in the face and sees me, that is all. + +The best relations were at once established between us and this man, +and though few words were spoken, he could not conceal a visible +interest in us and our excursion. He was a lover of the higher +mathematics, as we found, and in the midst of some vast sunny problem, +when we overtook him and whispered our conjectures. By this man we were +presented with the freedom of the Merrimack. We now felt as if we were +fairly launched on the ocean-stream of our voyage, and were pleased to +find that our boat would float on Merrimack water. We began again +busily to put in practice those old arts of rowing, steering, and +paddling. It seemed a strange phenomenon to us that the two rivers +should mingle their waters so readily, since we had never associated +them in our thoughts. + +As we glided over the broad bosom of the Merrimack, between Chelmsford +and Dracut, at noon, here a quarter of a mile wide, the rattling of our +oars was echoed over the water to those villages, and their slight +sounds to us. Their harbors lay as smooth and fairy-like as the Lido, +or Syracuse, or Rhodes, in our imagination, while, like some strange +roving craft, we flitted past what seemed the dwellings of noble +home-staying men, seemingly as conspicuous as if on an eminence, or +floating upon a tide which came up to those villagers’ breasts. At a +third of a mile over the water we heard distinctly some children +repeating their catechism in a cottage near the shore, while in the +broad shallows between, a herd of cows stood lashing their sides, and +waging war with the flies. + +Two hundred years ago other catechizing than this was going on here; +for here came the Sachem Wannalancet, and his people, and sometimes +Tahatawan, our Concord Sachem, who afterwards had a church at home, to +catch fish at the falls; and here also came John Eliot, with the Bible +and Catechism, and Baxter’s Call to the Unconverted, and other tracts, +done into the Massachusetts tongue, and taught them Christianity +meanwhile. “This place,” says Gookin, referring to Wamesit, + +“being an ancient and capital seat of Indians, they come to fish; and +this good man takes this opportunity to spread the net of the gospel, +to fish for their souls.”—“May 5th, 1674,” he continues, “according to +our usual custom, Mr. Eliot and myself took our journey to Wamesit, or +Pawtuckett; and arriving there that evening, Mr. Eliot preached to as +many of them as could be got together, out of Matt. xxii. 1-14, the +parable of the marriage of the king’s son. We met at the wigwam of one +called Wannalancet, about two miles from the town, near Pawtuckett +falls, and bordering upon Merrimak river. This person, Wannalancet, is +the eldest son of old Pasaconaway, the chiefest sachem of Pawtuckett. +He is a sober and grave person, and of years, between fifty and sixty. +He hath been always loving and friendly to the English.” As yet, +however, they had not prevailed on him to embrace the Christian +religion. “But at this time,” says Gookin, “May 6, 1674,”—“after some +deliberation and serious pause, he stood up, and made a speech to this +effect:—‘I must acknowledge I have, all my days, used to pass in an old +canoe, (alluding to his frequent custom to pass in a canoe upon the +river,) and now you exhort me to change and leave my old canoe, and +embark in a new canoe, to which I have hitherto been unwilling; but now +I yield up myself to your advice, and enter into a new canoe, and do +engage to pray to God hereafter.’” One “Mr. Richard Daniel, a gentleman +that lived in Billerica,” who with other “persons of quality” was +present, “desired brother Eliot to tell the sachem from him, that it +may be, while he went in his old canoe, he passed in a quiet stream; +but the end thereof was death and destruction to soul and body. But now +he went into a new canoe, perhaps he would meet with storms and trials, +but yet he should be encouraged to persevere, for the end of his voyage +would be everlasting rest.”—“Since that time, I hear this sachem doth +persevere, and is a constant and diligent hearer of God’s word, and +sanctifieth the Sabbath, though he doth travel to Wamesit meeting every +Sabbath, which is above two miles; and though sundry of his people have +deserted him, since he subjected to the gospel, yet he continues and +persists.”— _Gookin’s Hist. Coll. of the Indians in New England_, 1674. + +Already, as appears from the records, “At a General Court held at +Boston in New England, the 7th of the first month, +1643-4.”—“Wassamequin, Nashoonon, Kutchamaquin, Massaconomet, and Squaw +Sachem, did voluntarily submit themselves” to the English; and among +other things did “promise to be willing from time to time to be +instructed in the knowledge of God.” Being asked “Not to do any +unnecessary work on the Sabbath day, especially within the gates of +Christian towns,” they answered, “It is easy to them; they have not +much to do on any day, and they can well take their rest on that +day.”—“So,” says Winthrop, in his Journal, “we causing them to +understand the articles, and all the ten commandments of God, and they +freely assenting to all, they were solemnly received, and then +presented the Court with twenty-six fathom more of wampom; and the +Court gave each of them a coat of two yards of cloth, and their dinner; +and to them and their men, every of them, a cup of sack at their +departure; so they took leave and went away.” + +What journeyings on foot and on horseback through the wilderness, to +preach the Gospel to these minks and muskrats! who first, no doubt, +listened with their red ears out of a natural hospitality and courtesy, +and afterward from curiosity or even interest, till at length there +were “praying Indians,” and, as the General Court wrote to Cromwell, +the “work is brought to this perfection, that some of the Indians +themselves can pray and prophesy in a comfortable manner.” + +It was in fact an old battle and hunting ground through which we had +been floating, the ancient dwelling-place of a race of hunters and +warriors. Their weirs of stone, their arrowheads and hatchets, their +pestles, and the mortars in which they pounded Indian corn before the +white man had tasted it, lay concealed in the mud of the river bottom. +Tradition still points out the spots where they took fish in the +greatest numbers, by such arts as they possessed. It is a rapid story +the historian will have to put together. Miantonimo,—Winthrop,—Webster. +Soon he comes from Montaup to Bunker Hill, from bear-skins, parched +corn, bows and arrows, to tiled roofs, wheat-fields, guns and swords. +Pawtucket and Wamesit, where the Indians resorted in the fishing +season, are now Lowell, the city of spindles and Manchester of America, +which sends its cotton cloth round the globe. Even we youthful voyagers +had spent a part of our lives in the village of Chelmsford, when the +present city, whose bells we heard, was its obscure north district +only, and the giant weaver was not yet fairly born. So old are we; so +young is it. + +We were thus entering the State of New Hampshire on the bosom of the +flood formed by the tribute of its innumerable valleys. The river was +the only key which could unlock its maze, presenting its hills and +valleys, its lakes and streams, in their natural order and position. +The MERRIMACK, or Sturgeon River, is formed by the confluence of the +Pemigewasset, which rises near the Notch of the White Mountains, and +the Winnipiseogee, which drains the lake of the same name, signifying +“The Smile of the Great Spirit.” From their junction it runs south +seventy-eight miles to Massachusetts, and thence east thirty-five miles +to the sea. I have traced its stream from where it bubbles out of the +rocks of the White Mountains above the clouds, to where it is lost amid +the salt billows of the ocean on Plum Island beach. At first it comes +on murmuring to itself by the base of stately and retired mountains, +through moist primitive woods whose juices it receives, where the bear +still drinks it, and the cabins of settlers are far between, and there +are few to cross its stream; enjoying in solitude its cascades still +unknown to fame; by long ranges of mountains of Sandwich and of Squam, +slumbering like tumuli of Titans, with the peaks of Moosehillock, the +Haystack, and Kearsarge reflected in its waters; where the maple and +the raspberry, those lovers of the hills, flourish amid temperate +dews;—flowing long and full of meaning, but untranslatable as its name +Pemigewasset, by many a pastured Pelion and Ossa, where unnamed muses +haunt, tended by Oreads, Dryads, Naiads, and receiving the tribute of +many an untasted Hippocrene. There are earth, air, fire, and +water,—very well, this is water, and down it comes. + +Such water do the gods distil, +And pour down every hill + For their New England men; +A draught of this wild nectar bring, +And I’ll not taste the spring + Of Helicon again. + + +Falling all the way, and yet not discouraged by the lowest fall. By the +law of its birth never to become stagnant, for it has come out of the +clouds, and down the sides of precipices worn in the flood, through +beaver-dams broke loose, not splitting but splicing and mending itself, +until it found a breathing-place in this low land. There is no danger +now that the sun will steal it back to heaven again before it reach the +sea, for it has a warrant even to recover its own dews into its bosom +again with interest at every eve. + +It was already the water of Squam and Newfound Lake and Winnipiseogee, +and White Mountain snow dissolved, on which we were floating, and +Smith’s and Baker’s and Mad Rivers, and Nashua and Souhegan and +Piscataquoag, and Suncook and Soucook and Contoocook, mingled in +incalculable proportions, still fluid, yellowish, restless all, with an +ancient, ineradicable inclination to the sea. + +So it flows on down by Lowell and Haverhill, at which last place it +first suffers a sea change, and a few masts betray the vicinity of the +ocean. Between the towns of Amesbury and Newbury it is a broad +commercial river, from a third to half a mile in width, no longer +skirted with yellow and crumbling banks, but backed by high green hills +and pastures, with frequent white beaches on which the fishermen draw +up their nets. I have passed down this portion of the river in a +steamboat, and it was a pleasant sight to watch from its deck the +fishermen dragging their seines on the distant shore, as in pictures of +a foreign strand. At intervals you may meet with a schooner laden with +lumber, standing up to Haverhill, or else lying at anchor or aground, +waiting for wind or tide; until, at last, you glide under the famous +Chain Bridge, and are landed at Newburyport. Thus she who at first was +“poore of waters, naked of renowne,” having received so many fair +tributaries, as was said of the Forth, + +“Doth grow the greater still, the further downe; + Till that abounding both in power and fame, + She long doth strive to give the sea her name”; + + +or if not her name, in this case, at least the impulse of her stream. +From the steeples of Newburyport you may review this river stretching +far up into the country, with many a white sail glancing over it like +an inland sea, and behold, as one wrote who was born on its +head-waters, “Down out at its mouth, the dark inky main blending with +the blue above. Plum Island, its sand ridges scolloping along the +horizon like the sea-serpent, and the distant outline broken by many a +tall ship, leaning, _still_, against the sky.” + +Rising at an equal height with the Connecticut, the Merrimack reaches +the sea by a course only half as long, and hence has no leisure to form +broad and fertile meadows, like the former, but is hurried along +rapids, and down numerous falls, without long delay. The banks are +generally steep and high, with a narrow interval reaching back to the +hills, which is only rarely or partially overflown at present, and is +much valued by the farmers. Between Chelmsford and Concord, in New +Hampshire, it varies from twenty to seventy-five rods in width. It is +probably wider than it was formerly, in many places, owing to the trees +having been cut down, and the consequent wasting away of its banks. The +influence of the Pawtucket Dam is felt as far up as Cromwell’s Falls, +and many think that the banks are being abraded and the river filled up +again by this cause. Like all our rivers, it is liable to freshets, and +the Pemigewasset has been known to rise twenty-five feet in a few +hours. It is navigable for vessels of burden about twenty miles; for +canal-boats, by means of locks, as far as Concord in New Hampshire, +about seventy-five miles from its mouth; and for smaller boats to +Plymouth, one hundred and thirteen miles. A small steamboat once plied +between Lowell and Nashua, before the railroad was built, and one now +runs from Newburyport to Haverhill. + +Unfitted to some extent for the purposes of commerce by the sand-bar at +its mouth, see how this river was devoted from the first to the service +of manufactures. Issuing from the iron region of Franconia, and flowing +through still uncut forests, by inexhaustible ledges of granite, with +Squam, and Winnipiseogee, and Newfound, and Massabesic Lakes for its +mill-ponds, it falls over a succession of natural dams, where it has +been offering its _privileges_ in vain for ages, until at last the +Yankee race came to _improve_ them. Standing at its mouth, look up its +sparkling stream to its source,—a silver cascade which falls all the +way from the White Mountains to the sea,—and behold a city on each +successive plateau, a busy colony of human beaver around every fall. +Not to mention Newburyport and Haverhill, see Lawrence, and Lowell, and +Nashua, and Manchester, and Concord, gleaming one above the other. When +at length it has escaped from under the last of the factories, it has a +level and unmolested passage to the sea, a mere _waste water_, as it +were, bearing little with it but its fame; its pleasant course revealed +by the morning fog which hangs over it, and the sails of the few small +vessels which transact the commerce of Haverhill and Newburyport. But +its real vessels are railroad cars, and its true and main stream, +flowing by an iron channel farther south, may be traced by a long line +of vapor amid the hills, which no morning wind ever disperses, to where +it empties into the sea at Boston. This side is the louder murmur now. +Instead of the scream of a fish-hawk scaring the fishes, is heard the +whistle of the steam-engine, arousing a country to its progress. + +This river too was at length discovered by the white man, “trending up +into the land,” he knew not how far, possibly an inlet to the South +Sea. Its valley, as far as the Winnipiseogee, was first surveyed in +1652. The first settlers of Massachusetts supposed that the +Connecticut, in one part of its course, ran northwest, “so near the +great lake as the Indians do pass their canoes into it over land.” From +which lake and the “hideous swamps” about it, as they supposed, came +all the beaver that was traded between Virginia and Canada,—and the +Potomac was thought to come out of or from very near it. Afterward the +Connecticut came so near the course of the Merrimack that, with a +little pains, they expected to divert the current of the trade into the +latter river, and its profits from their Dutch neighbors into their own +pockets. + +Unlike the Concord, the Merrimack is not a dead but a living stream, +though it has less life within its waters and on its banks. It has a +swift current, and, in this part of its course, a clayey bottom, almost +no weeds, and comparatively few fishes. We looked down into its yellow +water with the more curiosity, who were accustomed to the Nile-like +blackness of the former river. Shad and alewives are taken here in +their season, but salmon, though at one time more numerous than shad, +are now more rare. Bass, also, are taken occasionally; but locks and +dams have proved more or less destructive to the fisheries. The shad +make their appearance early in May, at the same time with the blossoms +of the pyrus, one of the most conspicuous early flowers, which is for +this reason called the shad-blossom. An insect called the shad-fly also +appears at the same time, covering the houses and fences. We are told +that “their greatest run is when the apple-trees are in full blossom. +The old shad return in August; the young, three or four inches long, in +September. These are very fond of flies.” A rather picturesque and +luxurious mode of fishing was formerly practised on the Connecticut, at +Bellows Falls, where a large rock divides the stream. “On the steep +sides of the island rock,” says Belknap, “hang several arm-chairs, +fastened to ladders, and secured by a counterpoise, in which fishermen +sit to catch salmon and shad with dipping nets.” The remains of Indian +weirs, made of large stones, are still to be seen in the Winnipiseogee, +one of the head-waters of this river. + +It cannot but affect our philosophy favorably to be reminded of these +shoals of migratory fishes, of salmon, shad, alewives, marsh-bankers, +and others, which penetrate up the innumerable rivers of our coast in +the spring, even to the interior lakes, their scales gleaming in the +sun; and again, of the fry which in still greater numbers wend their +way downward to the sea. “And is it not pretty sport,” wrote Captain +John Smith, who was on this coast as early as 1614, “to pull up +twopence, sixpence, and twelvepence, as fast as you can haul and veer a +line?”—“And what sport doth yield a more pleasing content, and less +hurt or charge, than angling with a hook, and crossing the sweet air +from isle to isle, over the silent streams of a calm sea.” + +On the sandy shore, opposite the Glass-house village in Chelmsford, at +the Great Bend where we landed to rest us and gather a few wild plums, +we discovered the _Campanula rotundifolia_, a new flower to us, the +harebell of the poets, which is common to both hemispheres, growing +close to the water. Here, in the shady branches of an apple-tree on the +sand, we took our nooning, where there was not a zephyr to disturb the +repose of this glorious Sabbath day, and we reflected serenely on the +long past and successful labors of Latona. + +“So silent is the cessile air, + That every cry and call, +The hills, and dales, and forest fair + Again repeats them all. + +“The herds beneath some leafy trees, + Amidst the flowers they lie, +The stable ships upon the seas + Tend up their sails to dry.” + + +As we thus rested in the shade, or rowed leisurely along, we had +recourse, from time to time, to the Gazetteer, which was our Navigator, +and from its bald natural facts extracted the pleasure of poetry. +Beaver River comes in a little lower down, draining the meadows of +Pelham, Windham, and Londonderry. The Scotch-Irish settlers of the +latter town, according to this authority, were the first to introduce +the potato into New England, as well as the manufacture of linen cloth. + +Everything that is printed and bound in a book contains some echo at +least of the best that is in literature. Indeed, the best books have a +use, like sticks and stones, which is above or beside their design, not +anticipated in the preface, nor concluded in the appendix. Even +Virgil’s poetry serves a very different use to me to-day from what it +did to his contemporaries. It has often an acquired and accidental +value merely, proving that man is still man in the world. It is +pleasant to meet with such still lines as, + +“Jam læto turgent in palmite gemmæ”; +Now the buds swell on the joyful stem. + + +or + +“Strata jacent passim sua quæque sub arbore poma”; +The apples lie scattered everywhere, each under its tree. + + +In an ancient and dead language, any recognition of living nature +attracts us. These are such sentences as were written while grass grew +and water ran. It is no small recommendation when a book will stand the +test of mere unobstructed sunshine and daylight. + +What would we not give for some great poem to read now, which would be +in harmony with the scenery,—for if men read aright, methinks they +would never read anything but poems. No history nor philosophy can +supply their place. + +The wisest definition of poetry the poet will instantly prove false by +setting aside its requisitions. We can, therefore, publish only our +advertisement of it. + +There is no doubt that the loftiest written wisdom is either rhymed, or +in some way musically measured,—is, in form as well as substance, +poetry; and a volume which should contain the condensed wisdom of +mankind need not have one rhythmless line. + +Yet poetry, though the last and finest result, is a natural fruit. As +naturally as the oak bears an acorn, and the vine a gourd, man bears a +poem, either spoken or done. It is the chief and most memorable +success, for history is but a prose narrative of poetic deeds. What +else have the Hindoos, the Persians, the Babylonians, the Egyptians +done, that can be told? It is the simplest relation of phenomena, and +describes the commonest sensations with more truth than science does, +and the latter at a distance slowly mimics its style and methods. The +poet sings how the blood flows in his veins. He performs his functions, +and is so well that he needs such stimulus to sing only as plants to +put forth leaves and blossoms. He would strive in vain to modulate the +remote and transient music which he sometimes hears, since his song is +a vital function like breathing, and an integral result like weight. It +is not the overflowing of life but its subsidence rather, and is drawn +from under the feet of the poet. It is enough if Homer but say the sun +sets. He is as serene as nature, and we can hardly detect the +enthusiasm of the bard. It is as if nature spoke. He presents to us the +simplest pictures of human life, so the child itself can understand +them, and the man must not think twice to appreciate his naturalness. +Each reader discovers for himself that, with respect to the simpler +features of nature, succeeding poets have done little else than copy +his similes. His more memorable passages are as naturally bright as +gleams of sunshine in misty weather. Nature furnishes him not only with +words, but with stereotyped lines and sentences from her mint. + +“As from the clouds appears the full moon, +All shining, and then again it goes behind the shadowy clouds, +So Hector, at one time appeared among the foremost, +And at another in the rear, commanding; and all with brass +He shone, like to the lightning of ægis-bearing Zeus.” + + +He conveys the least information, even the hour of the day, with such +magnificence and vast expense of natural imagery, as if it were a +message from the gods. + +“While it was dawn, and sacred day was advancing, +For that space the weapons of both flew fast, and the people fell; +But when now the woodcutter was preparing his morning meal, +In the recesses of the mountain, and had wearied his hands +With cutting lofty trees, and satiety came to his mind, +And the desire of sweet food took possession of his thoughts; +Then the Danaans, by their valor, broke the phalanxes, +Shouting to their companions from rank to rank.” + + +When the army of the Trojans passed the night under arms, keeping watch +lest the enemy should re-embark under cover of the dark, + +“They, thinking great things, upon the neutral ground of war +Sat all the night; and many fires burned for them. +As when in the heavens the stars round the bright moon +Appear beautiful, and the air is without wind; +And all the heights, and the extreme summits, +And the wooded sides of the mountains appear; and from the heavens an +infinite ether is diffused, +And all the stars are seen, and the shepherd rejoices in his heart; +So between the ships and the streams of Xanthus +Appeared the fires of the Trojans before Ilium. +A thousand fires burned on the plain, and by each +Sat fifty, in the light of the blazing fire; +And horses eating white barley and corn, +Standing by the chariots, awaited fair-throned Aurora.” + + +The “white-armed goddess Juno,” sent by the Father of gods and men for +Iris and Apollo, + +“Went down the Idæan mountains to far Olympus, +As when the mind of a man, who has come over much earth, +Sallies forth, and he reflects with rapid thoughts, +There was I, and there, and remembers many things; +So swiftly the august Juno hastening flew through the air, +And came to high Olympus.” + + +His scenery is always true, and not invented. He does not leap in +imagination from Asia to Greece, through mid air, + +ἐπειὴ μάλα πολλὰ μεταξύ +Ὄυρεά τε σκιοέντα, θαλάσσα τε ἠχήεσσα. +for there are very many +Shady mountains and resounding seas between. + + +If his messengers repair but to the tent of Achilles, we do not wonder +how they got there, but accompany them step by step along the shore of +the resounding sea. Nestor’s account of the march of the Pylians +against the Epeians is extremely lifelike:— + +“Then rose up to them sweet-worded Nestor, the shrill orator of the +Pylians, +And words sweeter than honey flowed from his tongue.” + + +This time, however, he addresses Patroclus alone: “A certain river, +Minyas by name, leaps seaward near to Arene, where we Pylians wait the +dawn, both horse and foot. Thence with all haste we sped us on the +morrow ere ’t was noonday, accoutred for the fight, even to Alpheus’s +sacred source,” &c. We fancy that we hear the subdued murmuring of the +Minyas discharging its waters into the main the livelong night, and the +hollow sound of the waves breaking on the shore,—until at length we are +cheered at the close of a toilsome march by the gurgling fountains of +Alpheus. + +There are few books which are fit to be remembered in our wisest hours, +but the Iliad is brightest in the serenest days, and embodies still all +the sunlight that fell on Asia Minor. No modern joy or ecstasy of ours +can lower its height or dim its lustre, but there it lies in the east +of literature, as it were the earliest and latest production of the +mind. The ruins of Egypt oppress and stifle us with their dust, +foulness preserved in cassia and pitch, and swathed in linen; the death +of that which never lived. But the rays of Greek poetry struggle down +to us, and mingle with the sunbeams of the recent day. The statue of +Memnon is cast down, but the shaft of the Iliad still meets the sun in +his rising. + +“Homer is gone; and where is Jove? and where +The rival cities seven? His song outlives +Time, tower, and god,—all that then was, save Heaven.” + + +So too, no doubt, Homer had his Homer, and Orpheus his Orpheus, in the +dim antiquity which preceded them. The mythological system of the +ancients, and it is still the mythology of the moderns, the poem of +mankind, interwoven so wonderfully with their astronomy, and matching +in grandeur and harmony the architecture of the heavens themselves, +seems to point to a time when a mightier genius inhabited the earth. +But, after all, man is the great poet, and not Homer nor Shakespeare; +and our language itself, and the common arts of life, are his work. +Poetry is so universally true and independent of experience, that it +does not need any particular biography to illustrate it, but we refer +it sooner or later to some Orpheus or Linus, and after ages to the +genius of humanity and the gods themselves. + +It would be worth the while to select our reading, for books are the +society we keep; to read only the serenely true; never statistics, nor +fiction, nor news, nor reports, nor periodicals, but only great poems, +and when they failed, read them again, or perchance write more. Instead +of other sacrifice, we might offer up our perfect (τελεία) thoughts to +the gods daily, in hymns or psalms. For we should be at the helm at +least once a day. The whole of the day should not be daytime; there +should be one hour, if no more, which the day did not bring forth. +Scholars are wont to sell their birthright for a mess of learning. But +is it necessary to know what the speculator prints, or the thoughtless +study, or the idle read, the literature of the Russians and the +Chinese, or even French philosophy and much of German criticism. Read +the best books first, or you may not have a chance to read them at all. +“There are the worshippers with offerings, and the worshippers with +mortifications; and again the worshippers with enthusiastic devotion; +so there are those the wisdom of whose reading is their worship, men of +subdued passions and severe manners;—This world is not for him who doth +not worship; and where, O Arjoon, is there another?” Certainly, we do +not need to be soothed and entertained always like children. He who +resorts to the easy novel, because he is languid, does no better than +if he took a nap. The front aspect of great thoughts can only be +enjoyed by those who stand on the side whence they arrive. Books, not +which afford us a cowering enjoyment, but in which each thought is of +unusual daring; such as an idle man cannot read, and a timid one would +not be entertained by, which even make us dangerous to existing +institutions,—such call I good books. + +All that are printed and bound are not books; they do not necessarily +belong to letters, but are oftener to be ranked with the other luxuries +and appendages of civilized life. Base wares are palmed off under a +thousand disguises. “The way to trade,” as a pedler once told me, “is +to _put it right through_,” no matter what it is, anything that is +agreed on. + +“You grov’ling worldlings, you whose wisdom trades +Where light ne’er shot his golden ray.” + + +By dint of able writing and pen-craft, books are cunningly compiled, +and have their run and success even among the learned, as if they were +the result of a new man’s thinking, and their birth were attended with +some natural throes. But in a little while their covers fall off, for +no binding will avail, and it appears that they are not Books or Bibles +at all. There are new and patented inventions in this shape, purporting +to be for the elevation of the race, which many a pure scholar and +genius who has learned to read is for a moment deceived by, and finds +himself reading a horse-rake, or spinning-jenny, or wooden nutmeg, or +oak-leaf cigar, or steam-power press, or kitchen range, perchance, when +he was seeking serene and biblical truths. + + “Merchants, arise, +And mingle conscience with your merchandise.” + + +Paper is cheap, and authors need not now erase one book before they +write another. Instead of cultivating the earth for wheat and potatoes, +they cultivate literature, and fill a place in the Republic of Letters. +Or they would fain write for fame merely, as others actually raise +crops of grain to be distilled into brandy. Books are for the most part +wilfully and hastily written, as parts of a system, to supply a want +real or imagined. Books of natural history aim commonly to be hasty +schedules, or inventories of God’s property, by some clerk. They do not +in the least teach the divine view of nature, but the popular view, or +rather the popular method of studying nature, and make haste to conduct +the persevering pupil only into that dilemma where the professors +always dwell. + +“To Athens gowned he goes, and from that school +Returns unsped, a more instructed fool.” + + +They teach the elements really of ignorance, not of knowledge, for, to +speak deliberately and in view of the highest truths, it is not easy to +distinguish elementary knowledge. There is a chasm between knowledge +and ignorance which the arches of science can never span. A book should +contain pure discoveries, glimpses of _terra firma_, though by +shipwrecked mariners, and not the art of navigation by those who have +never been out of sight of land. _They_ must not yield wheat and +potatoes, but must themselves be the unconstrained and natural harvest +of their author’s lives. + +“What I have learned is mine; I’ve had my thought, +And me the Muses noble truths have taught.” + + +We do not learn much from learned books, but from true, sincere, human +books, from frank and honest biographies. The life of a good man will +hardly improve us more than the life of a freebooter, for the +inevitable laws appear as plainly in the infringement as in the +observance, and our lives are sustained by a nearly equal expense of +virtue of some kind. The decaying tree, while yet it lives, demands +sun, wind, and rain no less than the green one. It secretes sap and +performs the functions of health. If we choose, we may study the +alburnum only. The gnarled stump has as tender a bud as the sapling. + +At least let us have healthy books, a stout horse-rake or a kitchen +range which is not cracked. Let not the poet shed tears only for the +public weal. He should be as vigorous as a sugar-maple, with sap enough +to maintain his own verdure, beside what runs into the troughs, and not +like a vine, which being cut in the spring bears no fruit, but bleeds +to death in the endeavor to heal its wounds. The poet is he that hath +fat enough, like bears and marmots, to suck his claws all winter. He +hibernates in this world, and feeds on his own marrow. We love to think +in winter, as we walk over the snowy pastures, of those happy dreamers +that lie under the sod, of dormice and all that race of dormant +creatures, which have such a superfluity of life enveloped in thick +folds of fur, impervious to cold. Alas, the poet too is, in one sense, +a sort of dormouse gone into winter quarters of deep and serene +thoughts, insensible to surrounding circumstances; his words are the +relation of his oldest and finest memory, a wisdom drawn from the +remotest experience. Other men lead a starved existence, meanwhile, +like hawks, that would fain keep on the wing, and trust to pick up a +sparrow now and then. + +There are already essays and poems, the growth of this land, which are +not in vain, all which, however, we could conveniently have stowed in +the till of our chest. If the gods permitted their own inspiration to +be breathed in vain, these might be overlooked in the crowd, but the +accents of truth are as sure to be heard at last on earth as in heaven. +They already seem ancient, and in some measure have lost the traces of +their modern birth. Here are they who + +—“ask for that which is our whole life’s light, +For the perpetual, true and clear insight.” + + +I remember a few sentences which spring like the sward in its native +pasture, where its roots were never disturbed, and not as if spread +over a sandy embankment; answering to the poet’s prayer, + + “Let us set so just +A rate on knowledge, that the world may trust +The poet’s sentence, and not still aver +Each art is to itself a flatterer.” + + +But, above all, in our native port, did we not frequent the peaceful +games of the Lyceum, from which a new era will be dated to New England, +as from the games of Greece. For if Herodotus carried his history to +Olympia to read, after the cestus and the race, have we not heard such +histories recited there, which since our countrymen have read, as made +Greece sometimes to be forgotten?—Philosophy, too, has there her grove +and portico, not wholly unfrequented in these days. + +Lately the victor, whom all Pindars praised, has won another palm, +contending with + +“Olympian bards who sung +Divine ideas below, +Which always find us young, +And always keep us so.” + + +What earth or sea, mountain or stream, or Muses’ spring or grove, is +safe from his all-searching ardent eye, who drives off Phœbus’ beaten +track, visits unwonted zones, makes the gelid Hyperboreans glow, and +the old polar serpent writhe, and many a Nile flow back and hide his +head! + +That Phaeton of our day, +Who’d make another milky way, +And burn the world up with his ray; + +By us an undisputed seer,— +Who’d drive his flaming car so near +Unto our shuddering mortal sphere, + +Disgracing all our slender worth, +And scorching up the living earth, +To prove his heavenly birth. + +The silver spokes, the golden tire, +Are glowing with unwonted fire, +And ever nigher roll and nigher; + +The pins and axle melted are, +The silver radii fly afar, +Ah, he will spoil his Father’s car! + +Who let him have the steeds he cannot steer? +Henceforth the sun will not shine for a year; +And we shall Ethiops all appear. + + +From _his_ + +“lips of cunning fell + The thrilling Delphic oracle.” + + +And yet, sometimes, + +We should not mind if on our ear there fell +Some less of cunning, more of oracle. + + +It is Apollo shining in your face. O rare Contemporary, let us have +far-off heats. Give us the subtler, the heavenlier though fleeting +beauty, which passes through and through, and dwells not in the verse; +even pure water, which but reflects those tints which wine wears in its +grain. Let epic trade-winds blow, and cease this waltz of inspirations. +Let us oftener feel even the gentle southwest wind upon our cheeks +blowing from the Indian’s heaven. What though we lose a thousand +meteors from the sky, if skyey depths, if star-dust and undissolvable +nebulæ remain? What though we lose a thousand wise responses of the +oracle, if we may have instead some natural acres of Ionian earth? + +Though we know well, + +“That’t is not in the power of kings [or presidents] to raise +A spirit for verse that is not born thereto, +Nor are they born in every prince’s days”; + + +yet spite of all they sang in praise of their “Eliza’s reign,” we have +evidence that poets may be born and sing in _our_ day, in the +presidency of James K. Polk, + +“And that the utmost powers of English rhyme,” +_Were not_ “within _her_ peaceful reign confined.” + + +The prophecy of the poet Daniel is already how much more than +fulfilled! + +“And who in time knows whither we may vent +The treasure of our tongue? To what strange shores +This gain of our best glory shall be sent, +T’ enrich unknowing nations with our stores? +What worlds in th’ yet unformed occident, +May come refined with the accents that are ours.” + + +Enough has been said in these days of the charm of fluent writing. We +hear it complained of some works of genius, that they have fine +thoughts, but are irregular and have no flow. But even the mountain +peaks in the horizon are, to the eye of science, parts of one range. We +should consider that the flow of thought is more like a tidal wave than +a prone river, and is the result of a celestial influence, not of any +declivity in its channel. The river flows because it runs down hill, +and flows the faster the faster it descends. The reader who expects to +float down stream for the whole voyage, may well complain of nauseating +swells and choppings of the sea when his frail shore-craft gets amidst +the billows of the ocean stream, which flows as much to sun and moon as +lesser streams to it. But if we would appreciate the flow that is in +these books, we must expect to feel it rise from the page like an +exhalation, and wash away our critical brains like burr millstones, +flowing to higher levels above and behind ourselves. There is many a +book which ripples on like a freshet, and flows as glibly as a +mill-stream sucking under a causeway; and when their authors are in the +full tide of their discourse, Pythagoras and Plato and Jamblichus halt +beside them. Their long, stringy, slimy sentences are of that +consistency that they naturally flow and run together. They read as if +written for military men, for men of business, there is such a despatch +in them. Compared with these, the grave thinkers and philosophers seem +not to have got their swaddling-clothes off; they are slower than a +Roman army in its march, the rear camping to-night where the van camped +last night. The wise Jamblichus eddies and gleams like a watery slough. + +“How many thousands never heard the name + Of Sidney, or of Spenser, or their books? +And yet brave fellows, and presume of fame, + And seem to bear down all the world with looks.” + + +The ready writer seizes the pen, and shouts, Forward! Alamo and +Fanning! and after rolls the tide of war. The very walls and fences +seem to travel. But the most rapid trot is no flow after all; and +thither, reader, you and I, at least, will not follow. + +A perfectly healthy sentence, it is true, is extremely rare. For the +most part we miss the hue and fragrance of the thought; as if we could +be satisfied with the dews of the morning or evening without their +colors, or the heavens without their azure. The most attractive +sentences are, perhaps, not the wisest, but the surest and roundest. +They are spoken firmly and conclusively, as if the speaker had a right +to know what he says, and if not wise, they have at least been well +learned. Sir Walter Raleigh might well be studied if only for the +excellence of his style, for he is remarkable in the midst of so many +masters. There is a natural emphasis in his style, like a man’s tread, +and a breathing space between the sentences, which the best of modern +writing does not furnish. His chapters are like English parks, or say +rather like a Western forest, where the larger growth keeps down the +underwood, and one may ride on horseback through the openings. All the +distinguished writers of that period possess a greater vigor and +naturalness than the more modern,—for it is allowed to slander our own +time,—and when we read a quotation from one of them in the midst of a +modern author, we seem to have come suddenly upon a greener ground, a +greater depth and strength of soil. It is as if a green bough were laid +across the page, and we are refreshed as by the sight of fresh grass in +midwinter or early spring. You have constantly the warrant of life and +experience in what you read. The little that is said is eked out by +implication of the much that was done. The sentences are verdurous and +blooming as evergreen and flowers, because they are rooted in fact and +experience, but our false and florid sentence have only the tints of +flowers without their sap or roots. All men are really most attracted +by the beauty of plain speech, and they even write in a florid style in +imitation of this. They prefer to be misunderstood rather than to come +short of its exuberance. Hussein Effendi praised the epistolary style +of Ibrahim Pasha to the French traveller Botta, because of “the +difficulty of understanding it; there was,” he said, “but one person at +Jidda, who was capable of understanding and explaining the Pasha’s +correspondence.” A man’s whole life is taxed for the least thing well +done. It is its net result. Every sentence is the result of a long +probation. Where shall we look for standard English, but to the words +of a standard man? The word which is best said came nearest to not +being spoken at all, for it is cousin to a deed which the speaker could +have better done. Nay, almost it must have taken the place of a deed by +some urgent necessity, even by some misfortune, so that the truest +writer will be some captive knight, after all. And perhaps the fates +had such a design, when, having stored Raleigh so richly with the +substance of life and experience, they made him a fast prisoner, and +compelled him to make his words his deeds, and transfer to his +expression the emphasis and sincerity of his action. + +Men have a respect for scholarship and learning greatly out of +proportion to the use they commonly serve. We are amused to read how +Ben Jonson engaged, that the dull masks with which the royal family and +nobility were to be entertained should be “grounded upon antiquity and +solid learning.” Can there be any greater reproach than an idle +learning? Learn to split wood, at least. The necessity of labor and +conversation with many men and things, to the scholar is rarely well +remembered; steady labor with the hands, which engrosses the attention +also, is unquestionably the best method of removing palaver and +sentimentality out of one’s style, both of speaking and writing. If he +has worked hard from morning till night, though he may have grieved +that he could not be watching the train of his thoughts during that +time, yet the few hasty lines which at evening record his day’s +experience will be more musical and true than his freest but idle fancy +could have furnished. Surely the writer is to address a world of +laborers, and such therefore must be his own discipline. He will not +idly dance at his work who has wood to cut and cord before nightfall in +the short days of winter; but every stroke will be husbanded, and ring +soberly through the wood; and so will the strokes of that scholar’s +pen, which at evening record the story of the day, ring soberly, yet +cheerily, on the ear of the reader, long after the echoes of his axe +have died away. The scholar may be sure that he writes the tougher +truth for the calluses on his palms. They give firmness to the +sentence. Indeed, the mind never makes a great and successful effort, +without a corresponding energy of the body. We are often struck by the +force and precision of style to which hard-working men, unpractised in +writing, easily attain when required to make the effort. As if +plainness, and vigor, and sincerity, the ornaments of style, were +better learned on the farm and in the workshop, than in the schools. +The sentences written by such rude hands are nervous and tough, like +hardened thongs, the sinews of the deer, or the roots of the pine. As +for the graces of expression, a great thought is never found in a mean +dress; but though it proceed from the lips of the Woloffs, the nine +Muses and the three Graces will have conspired to clothe it in fit +phrase. Its education has always been liberal, and its implied wit can +endow a college. The world, which the Greeks called Beauty, has been +made such by being gradually divested of every ornament which was not +fitted to endure. The Sibyl, “speaking with inspired mouth, smileless, +inornate, and unperfumed, pierces through centuries by the power of the +god.” The scholar might frequently emulate the propriety and emphasis +of the farmer’s call to his team, and confess that if that were written +it would surpass his labored sentences. Whose are the truly _labored_ +sentences? From the weak and flimsy periods of the politician and +literary man, we are glad to turn even to the description of work, the +simple record of the month’s labor in the farmer’s almanac, to restore +our tone and spirits. A sentence should read as if its author, had he +held a plough instead of a pen, could have drawn a furrow deep and +straight to the end. The scholar requires hard and serious labor to +give an impetus to his thought. He will learn to grasp the pen firmly +so, and wield it gracefully and effectively, as an axe or a sword. When +we consider the weak and nerveless periods of some literary men, who +perchance in feet and inches come up to the standard of their race, and +are not deficient in girth also, we are amazed at the immense sacrifice +of thews and sinews. What! these proportions,—these bones,—and this +their work! Hands which could have felled an ox have hewed this fragile +matter which would not have tasked a lady’s fingers! Can this be a +stalwart man’s work, who has a marrow in his back and a tendon Achilles +in his heel? They who set up the blocks of Stonehenge did somewhat, if +they only laid out their strength for once, and stretched themselves. + +Yet, after all, the truly efficient laborer will not crowd his day with +work, but will saunter to his task surrounded by a wide halo of ease +and leisure, and then do but what he loves best. He is anxious only +about the fruitful kernels of time. Though the hen should sit all day, +she could lay only one egg, and, besides, would not have picked up +materials for another. Let a man take time enough for the most trivial +deed, though it be but the paring of his nails. The buds swell +imperceptibly, without hurry or confusion, as if the short spring days +were an eternity. + +Then spend an age in whetting thy desire, +Thou needs’t not _hasten_ if thou dost _stand fast_. + + +Some hours seem not to be occasion for any deed, but for resolves to +draw breath in. We do not directly go about the execution of the +purpose that thrills us, but shut our doors behind us and ramble with +prepared mind, as if the half were already done. Our resolution is +taking root or hold on the earth then, as seeds first send a shoot +downward which is fed by their own albumen, ere they send one upward to +the light. + +There is a sort of homely truth and naturalness in some books which is +very rare to find, and yet looks cheap enough. There may be nothing +lofty in the sentiment, or fine in the expression, but it is careless +country talk. Homeliness is almost as great a merit in a book as in a +house, if the reader would abide there. It is next to beauty, and a +very high art. Some have this merit only. The scholar is not apt to +make his most familiar experience come gracefully to the aid of his +expression. Very few men can speak of Nature, for instance, with any +truth. They overstep her modesty, somehow or other, and confer no +favor. They do not speak a good word for her. Most cry better than they +speak, and you can get more nature out of them by pinching than by +addressing them. The surliness with which the woodchopper speaks of his +woods, handling them as indifferently as his axe, is better than the +mealy-mouthed enthusiasm of the lover of nature. Better that the +primrose by the river’s brim be a yellow primrose, and nothing more, +than that it be something less. Aubrey relates of Thomas Fuller that +his was “a very working head, insomuch that, walking and meditating +before dinner, he would eat up a penny loaf, not knowing that he did +it. His natural memory was very great, to which he added the art of +memory. He would repeat to you forwards and backwards all the signs +from Ludgate to Charing Cross.” He says of Mr. John Hales, that, “He +loved Canarie,” and was buried “under an altar monument of black +marble—— with a too long epitaph”; of Edmund Halley, that he “at +sixteen could make a dial, and then, he said, he thought himself a +brave fellow”; of William Holder, who wrote a book upon his curing one +Popham who was deaf and dumb, “he was beholding to no author; did only +consult with nature.” For the most part, an author consults only with +all who have written before him upon a subject, and his book is but the +advice of so many. But a good book will never have been forestalled, +but the topic itself will in one sense be new, and its author, by +consulting with nature, will consult not only with those who have gone +before, but with those who may come after. There is always room and +occasion enough for a true book on any subject; as there is room for +more light the brightest day and more rays will not interfere with the +first. + +We thus worked our way up this river, gradually adjusting our thoughts +to novelties, beholding from its placid bosom a new nature and new +works of men, and, as it were with increasing confidence, finding +nature still habitable, genial, and propitious to us; not following any +beaten path, but the windings of the river, as ever the nearest way for +us. Fortunately we had no business in this country. The Concord had +rarely been a river, or _rivus_, but barely _fluvius_, or between +_fluvius_ and _lacus_. This Merrimack was neither _rivus_ nor _fluvius_ +nor _lacus_, but rather _amnis_ here, a gently swelling and stately +rolling flood approaching the sea. We could even sympathize with its +buoyant tide, going to seek its fortune in the ocean, and, anticipating +the time when “being received within the plain of its freer water,” it +should “beat the shores for banks,”— + + “campoque recepta +Liberioris aquæ, pro ripis litora pulsant.” + + +At length we doubled a low shrubby islet, called Rabbit Island, +subjected alternately to the sun and to the waves, as desolate as if it +lay some leagues within the icy sea, and found ourselves in a narrower +part of the river, near the sheds and yards for picking the stone known +as the Chelmsford granite, which is quarried in Westford and the +neighboring towns. We passed Wicasuck Island, which contains seventy +acres or more, on our right, between Chelmsford and Tyngsborough. This +was a favorite residence of the Indians. According to the History of +Dunstable, “About 1663, the eldest son of Passaconaway [Chief of the +Penacooks] was thrown into jail for a debt of £45, due to John Tinker, +by one of his tribe, and which he had promised verbally should be paid. +To relieve him from his imprisonment, his brother Wannalancet and +others, who owned Wicasuck Island, sold it and paid the debt.” It was, +however, restored to the Indians by the General Court in 1665. After +the departure of the Indians in 1683, it was granted to Jonathan Tyng +in payment for his services to the colony, in maintaining a garrison at +his house. Tyng’s house stood not far from Wicasuck Falls. Gookin, who, +in his Epistle Dedicatory to Robert Boyle, apologizes for presenting +his “matter clothed in a wilderness dress,” says that on the breaking +out of Philip’s war in 1675, there were taken up by the Christian +Indians and the English in Marlborough, and sent to Cambridge, seven +“Indians belonging to Narragansett, Long Island, and Pequod, who had +all been at work about seven weeks with one Mr. Jonathan Tyng, of +Dunstable, upon Merrimack River; and, hearing of the war, they reckoned +with their master, and getting their wages, conveyed themselves away +without his privity, and, being afraid, marched secretly through the +woods, designing to go to their own country.” However, they were +released soon after. Such were the hired men in those days. Tyng was +the first permanent settler of Dunstable, which then embraced what is +now Tyngsborough and many other towns. In the winter of 1675, in +Philip’s war, every other settler left the town, but “he,” says the +historian of Dunstable, “fortified his house; and, although ‘obliged to +send to Boston for his food,’ sat himself down in the midst of his +savage enemies, alone, in the wilderness, to defend his home. Deeming +his position an important one for the defence of the frontiers, in +February, 1676, he petitioned the Colony for aid,” humbly showing, as +his petition runs, that, as he lived “in the uppermost house on +Merrimac river, lying open to ye enemy, yet being so seated that it is, +as it were, a watch-house to the neighboring towns,” he could render +important service to his country if only he had some assistance, “there +being,” he said, “never an inhabitant left in the town but myself.” +Wherefore he requests that their “Honors would be pleased to order him +_three or four men_ to help garrison his said house,” which they did. +But methinks that such a garrison would be weakened by the addition of +a man. + +“Make bandog thy scout watch to bark at a thief, +Make courage for life, to be capitain chief; +Make trap-door thy bulwark, make bell to begin, +Make gunstone and arrow show who is within.” + + +Thus he earned the title of first permanent settler. In 1694 a law was +passed “that every settler who deserted a town for fear of the Indians +should forfeit all his rights therein.” But now, at any rate, as I have +frequently observed, a man may desert the fertile frontier territories +of truth and justice, which are the State’s best lands, for fear of far +more insignificant foes, without forfeiting any of his civil rights +therein. Nay, townships are granted to deserters, and the General +Court, as I am sometimes inclined to regard it, is but a deserters’ +camp itself. + +As we rowed along near the shore of Wicasuck Island, which was then +covered with wood, in order to avoid the current, two men, who looked +as if they had just run out of Lowell, where they had been waylaid by +the Sabbath, meaning to go to Nashua, and who now found themselves in +the strange, natural, uncultivated, and unsettled part of the globe +which intervenes, full of walls and barriers, a rough and uncivil place +to them, seeing our boat moving so smoothly up the stream, called out +from the high bank above our heads to know if we would take them as +passengers, as if this were the street they had missed; that they might +sit and chat and drive away the time, and so at last find themselves in +Nashua. This smooth way they much preferred. But our boat was crowded +with necessary furniture, and sunk low in the water, and moreover +required to be worked, for even _it_ did not progress against the +stream without effort; so we were obliged to deny them passage. As we +glided away with even sweeps, while the fates scattered oil in our +course, the sun now sinking behind the alders on the distant shore, we +could still see them far off over the water, running along the shore +and climbing over the rocks and fallen trees like insects,—for they did +not know any better than we that they were on an island,—the +unsympathizing river ever flowing in an opposite direction; until, +having reached the entrance of the island brook, which they had +probably crossed upon the locks below, they found a more effectual +barrier to their progress. They seemed to be learning much in a little +time. They ran about like ants on a burning brand, and once more they +tried the river here, and once more there, to see if water still indeed +was not to be walked on, as if a new thought inspired them, and by some +peculiar disposition of the limbs they could accomplish it. At length +sober common sense seemed to have resumed its sway, and they concluded +that what they had so long heard must be true, and resolved to ford the +shallower stream. When nearly a mile distant we could see them +stripping off their clothes and preparing for this experiment; yet it +seemed likely that a new dilemma would arise, they were so +thoughtlessly throwing away their clothes on the wrong side of the +stream, as in the case of the countryman with his corn, his fox, and +his goose, which had to be transported one at a time. Whether they got +safely through, or went round by the locks, we never learned. We could +not help being struck by the seeming, though innocent indifference of +Nature to these men’s necessities, while elsewhere she was equally +serving others. Like a true benefactress, the secret of her service is +unchangeableness. Thus is the busiest merchant, though within sight of +his Lowell, put to pilgrim’s shifts, and soon comes to staff and scrip +and scallop shell. + +We, too, who held the middle of the stream, came near experiencing a +pilgrim’s fate, being tempted to pursue what seemed a sturgeon or +larger fish, for we remembered that this was the Sturgeon River, its +dark and monstrous back alternately rising and sinking in mid-stream. +We kept falling behind, but the fish kept his back well out, and did +not dive, and seemed to prefer to swim against the stream, so, at any +rate, he would not escape us by going out to sea. At length, having got +as near as was convenient, and looking out not to get a blow from his +tail, now the bow-gunner delivered his charge, while the stern-man held +his ground. But the halibut-skinned monster, in one of these +swift-gliding pregnant moments, without ever ceasing his bobbing up and +down, saw fit, without a chuckle or other prelude, to proclaim himself +a huge imprisoned spar, placed there as a buoy, to warn sailors of +sunken rocks. So, each casting some blame upon the other, we withdrew +quickly to safer waters. + +The Scene-shifter saw fit here to close the drama, of this day, without +regard to any unities which we mortals prize. Whether it might have +proved tragedy, or comedy, or tragi-comedy, or pastoral, we cannot +tell. This Sunday ended by the going down of the sun, leaving us still +on the waves. But they who are on the water enjoy a longer and brighter +twilight than they who are on the land, for here the water, as well as +the atmosphere, absorbs and reflects the light, and some of the day +seems to have sunk down into the waves. The light gradually forsook the +deep water, as well as the deeper air, and the gloaming came to the +fishes as well as to us, and more dim and gloomy to them, whose day is +a perpetual twilight, though sufficiently bright for their weak and +watery eyes. Vespers had already rung in many a dim and watery chapel +down below, where the shadows of the weeds were extended in length over +the sandy floor. The vespertinal pout had already begun to flit on +leathern fin, and the finny gossips withdrew from the fluvial street to +creeks and coves, and other private haunts, excepting a few of stronger +fin, which anchored in the stream, stemming the tide even in their +dreams. Meanwhile, like a dark evening cloud, we were wafted over the +cope of their sky, deepening the shadows on their deluged fields. + +Having reached a retired part of the river where it spread out to sixty +rods in width, we pitched our tent on the east side, in Tyngsborough, +just above some patches of the beach plum, which was now nearly ripe, +where the sloping bank was a sufficient pillow, and with the bustle of +sailors making the land, we transferred such stores as were required +from boat to tent, and hung a lantern to the tent-pole, and so our +house was ready. With a buffalo spread on the grass, and a blanket for +our covering our bed was soon made. A fire crackled merrily before the +entrance, so near that we could tend it without stepping abroad, and +when we had supped, we put out the blaze, and closed the door, and with +the semblance of domestic comfort, sat up to read the Gazetteer, to +learn our latitude and longitude, and write the journal of the voyage, +or listened to the wind and the rippling of the river till sleep +overtook us. There we lay under an oak on the bank of the stream, near +to some farmer’s cornfield, getting sleep, and forgetting where we +were; a great blessing, that we are obliged to forget our enterprises +every twelve hours. Minks, muskrats, meadow-mice, woodchucks, +squirrels, skunks, rabbits, foxes, and weasels, all inhabit near, but +keep very close while you are there. The river sucking and eddying away +all night down toward the marts and the seaboard, a great wash and +freshet, and no small enterprise to reflect on. Instead of the Scythian +vastness of the Billerica night, and its wild musical sounds, we were +kept awake by the boisterous sport of some Irish laborers on the +railroad, wafted to us over the water, still unwearied and unresting on +this seventh day, who would not have done with whirling up and down the +track with ever increasing velocity and still reviving shouts, till +late in the night. + +One sailor was visited in his dreams this night by the Evil Destinies, +and all those powers that are hostile to human life, which constrain +and oppress the minds of men, and make their path seem difficult and +narrow, and beset with dangers, so that the most innocent and worthy +enterprises appear insolent and a tempting of fate, and the gods go not +with us. But the other happily passed a serene and even ambrosial or +immortal night, and his sleep was dreamless, or only the atmosphere of +pleasant dreams remained, a happy natural sleep until the morning; and +his cheerful spirit soothed and reassured his brother, for whenever +they meet, the Good Genius is sure to prevail. + + + + +MONDAY + + +“I thynke for to touche also +The worlde whiche neweth everie daie, +So as I can, so as I maie.” + +GOWER. + + +“The hye sheryfe of Notynghame, + Hym holde in your mynd.” + +_Robin Hood Ballads_. + + +“His shoote it was but loosely shott, + Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine, +For it mett one of the sheriffe’s men, + And William a Trent was slaine.” + +_Robin Hood Ballads_ + + +“Gazed on the heavens for what he missed on Earth.” + +_Britania’s Pastorals_ + + +When the first light dawned on the earth and the birds, awoke, and the +brave river was heard rippling confidently seaward, and the nimble +early rising wind rustled the oak leaves about our tent, all men having +reinforced their bodies and their souls with sleep, and cast aside +doubt and fear, were invited to unattempted adventures. + +“All courageous knichtis +Agains the day dichtis +The breest-plate that bricht is, + To feght with their foue. +The stoned steed stampis +Throw curage and crampis, +Syne on the land lampis; + The night is neir gone.” + + +One of us took the boat over to the opposite shore, which was flat and +accessible, a quarter of a mile distant, to empty it of water and wash +out the clay, while the other kindled a fire and got breakfast ready. +At an early hour we were again on our way, rowing through the fog as +before, the river already awake, and a million crisped waves come forth +to meet the sun when he should show himself. The countrymen, recruited +by their day of rest, were already stirring, and had begun to cross the +ferry on the business of the week. This ferry was as busy as a beaver +dam, and all the world seemed anxious to get across the Merrimack River +at this particular point, waiting to get set over,—children with their +two cents done up in paper, jail-birds broke loose and constable with +warrant, travellers from distant lands to distant lands, men and women +to whom the Merrimack River was a bar. There stands a gig in the gray +morning, in the mist, the impatient traveller pacing the wet shore with +whip in hand, and shouting through the fog after the regardless Charon +and his retreating ark, as if he might throw that passenger overboard +and return forthwith for himself; he will compensate him. He is to +break his fast at some unseen place on the opposite side. It may be +Ledyard or the Wandering Jew. Whence, pray, did he come out of the +foggy night? and whither through the sunny day will he go? We observe +only his transit; important to us, forgotten by him, transiting all +day. There are two of them. May be, they are Virgil and Dante. But when +they crossed the Styx, none were seen bound up or down the stream, that +I remember. It is only a _transjectus_, a transitory voyage, like life +itself, none but the long-lived gods bound up or down the stream. Many +of these Monday men are ministers, no doubt, reseeking their parishes +with hired horses, with sermons in their valises all read and gutted, +the day after never with them. They cross each other’s routes all the +country over like woof and warp, making a garment of loose texture; +vacation now for six days. They stop to pick nuts and berries, and +gather apples by the wayside at their leisure. Good religious men, with +the love of men in their hearts, and the means to pay their toll in +their pockets. We got over this ferry chain without scraping, rowing +athwart the tide of travel,—no toll for us that day. + +The fog dispersed and we rowed leisurely along through Tyngsborough, +with a clear sky and a mild atmosphere, leaving the habitations of men +behind and penetrating yet farther into the territory of ancient +Dunstable. It was from Dunstable, then a frontier town, that the famous +Captain Lovewell, with his company, marched in quest of the Indians on +the 18th of April, 1725. He was the son of “an ensign in the army of +Oliver Cromwell, who came to this country, and settled at Dunstable, +where he died at the great age of one hundred and twenty years.” In the +words of the old nursery tale, sung about a hundred years ago,— + +“He and his valiant soldiers did range the woods full wide, +And hardships they endured to quell the Indian’s pride.” + + +In the shaggy pine forest of Pequawket they met the “rebel Indians,” +and prevailed, after a bloody fight, and a remnant returned home to +enjoy the fame of their victory. A township called Lovewell’s Town, but +now, for some reason, or perhaps without reason, Pembroke, was granted +them by the State. + +“Of all our valiant English, there were but thirty-four, +And of the rebel Indians, there were about four-score; +And sixteen of our English did safely home return, +The rest were killed and wounded, for which we all must mourn. + +“Our worthy Capt. Lovewell among them there did die, +They killed Lieut. Robbins, and wounded good young Frye, +Who was our English Chaplin; he many Indians slew, +And some of them he scalped while bullets round him flew.” + + +Our brave forefathers have exterminated all the Indians, and their +degenerate children no longer dwell in garrisoned houses nor hear any +war-whoop in their path. It would be well, perchance, if many an +“English Chaplin” in these days could exhibit as unquestionable +trophies of his valor as did “good young Frye.” We have need to be as +sturdy pioneers still as Miles Standish, or Church, or Lovewell. We are +to follow on another trail, it is true, but one as convenient for +ambushes. What if the Indians are exterminated, are not savages as grim +prowling about the clearings to-day?— + +“And braving many dangers and hardships in the way, +They safe arrived at Dunstable the thirteenth (?) day of May.” + + +But they did not all “safe arrive in Dunstable the thirteenth,” or the +fifteenth, or the thirtieth “day of May.” Eleazer Davis and Josiah +Jones, both of Concord, for our native town had seven men in this +fight, Lieutenant Farwell, of Dunstable, and Jonathan Frye, of Andover, +who were all wounded, were left behind, creeping toward the +settlements. “After travelling several miles, Frye was left and lost,” +though a more recent poet has assigned him company in his last hours. + +“A man he was of comely form, + Polished and brave, well learned and kind; +Old Harvard’s learned halls he left + Far in the wilds a grave to find. + +“Ah! now his blood-red arm he lifts; + His closing lids he tries to raise; +And speak once more before he dies, + In supplication and in praise. + +“He prays kind Heaven to grant success, + Brave Lovewell’s men to guide and bless, +And when they’ve shed their heart-blood true, + To raise them all to happiness.” . . . + +“Lieutenant Farwell took his hand, + His arm around his neck he threw, +And said, ‘Brave Chaplain, I could wish + That Heaven had made me die for you.’” + + +Farwell held out eleven days. “A tradition says,” as we learn from the +History of Concord, “that arriving at a pond with Lieut. Farwell, Davis +pulled off one of his moccasins, cut it in strings, on which he +fastened a hook, caught some fish, fried and ate them. They refreshed +him, but were injurious to Farwell, who died soon after.” Davis had a +ball lodged in his body, and his right hand shot off; but on the whole, +he seems to have been less damaged than his companion. He came into +Berwick after being out fourteen days. Jones also had a ball lodged in +his body, but he likewise got into Saco after fourteen days, though not +in the best condition imaginable. “He had subsisted,” says an old +journal, “on the spontaneous vegetables of the forest; and cranberries +which he had eaten came out of wounds he had received in his body.” +This was also the case with Davis. The last two reached home at length, +safe if not sound, and lived many years in a crippled state to enjoy +their pension. + +But alas! of the crippled Indians, and their adventures in the woods,— + +“For as we are informed, so thick and fast they fell, +Scarce twenty of their number at night did get home well,”— + + +how many balls lodged with them, how fared their cranberries, what +Berwick or Saco they got into, and finally what pension or township was +granted them, there is no journal to tell. + +It is stated in the History of Dunstable, that just before his last +march, Lovewell was warned to beware of the ambuscades of the enemy, +but “he replied, ‘that he did not care for them,’ and bending down a +small elm beside which he was standing into a bow, declared ‘that he +would treat the Indians in the same way.’ This elm is still standing +[in Nashua], a venerable and magnificent tree.” + +Meanwhile, having passed the Horseshoe Interval in Tyngsborough, where +the river makes a sudden bend to the northwest,—for our reflections +have anticipated our progress somewhat,—we were advancing farther into +the country and into the day, which last proved almost as golden as the +preceding, though the slight bustle and activity of the Monday seemed +to penetrate even to this scenery. Now and then we had to muster all +our energy to get round a point, where the river broke rippling over +rocks, and the maples trailed their branches in the stream, but there +was generally a backwater or eddy on the side, of which we took +advantage. The river was here about forty rods wide and fifteen feet +deep. Occasionally one ran along the shore, examining the country, and +visiting the nearest farm-houses, while the other followed the windings +of the stream alone, to meet his companion at some distant point, and +hear the report of his adventures; how the farmer praised the coolness +of his well, and his wife offered the stranger a draught of milk, or +the children quarrelled for the only transparency in the window that +they might get sight of the man at the well. For though the country +seemed so new, and no house was observed by us, shut in between the +banks that sunny day, we did not have to travel far to find where men +inhabited, like wild bees, and had sunk wells in the loose sand and +loam of the Merrimack. There dwelt the subject of the Hebrew +scriptures, and the Esprit des Lois, where a thin vaporous smoke curled +up through the noon. All that is told of mankind, of the inhabitants of +the Upper Nile, and the Sunderbunds, and Timbuctoo, and the Orinoko, +was experience here. Every race and class of men was represented. +According to Belknap, the historian of New Hampshire, who wrote sixty +years ago, here too, perchance, dwelt “new lights,” and free thinking +men even then. “The people in general throughout the State,” it is +written, “are professors of the Christian religion in some form or +other. There is, however, a sort of _wise men_ who pretend to reject +it; but they have not yet been able to substitute a better in its +place.” + +The other voyageur, perhaps, would in the mean while have seen a brown +hawk, or a woodchuck, or a musquash creeping under the alders. + +We occasionally rested in the shade of a maple or a willow, and drew +forth a melon for our refreshment, while we contemplated at our leisure +the lapse of the river and of human life; and as that current, with its +floating twigs and leaves, so did all things pass in review before us, +while far away in cities and marts on this very stream, the old routine +was proceeding still. There is, indeed, a tide in the affairs of men, +as the poet says, and yet as things flow they circulate, and the ebb +always balances the flow. All streams are but tributary to the ocean, +which itself does not stream, and the shores are unchanged, but in +longer periods than man can measure. Go where we will, we discover +infinite change in particulars only, not in generals. When I go into a +museum and see the mummies wrapped in their linen bandages, I see that +the lives of men began to need reform as long ago as when they walked +the earth. I come out into the streets, and meet men who declare that +the time is near at hand for the redemption of the race. But as men +lived in Thebes, so do they live in Dunstable to-day. “Time drinketh up +the essence of every great and noble action which ought to be +performed, and is delayed in the execution.” So says Veeshnoo Sarma; +and we perceive that the schemers return again and again to common +sense and labor. Such is the evidence of history. + +“Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, +And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the Suns.” + + +There are secret articles in our treaties with the gods, of more +importance than all the rest, which the historian can never know. + +There are many skilful apprentices, but few master workmen. On every +hand we observe a truly wise practice, in education, in morals, and in +the arts of life, the embodied wisdom of many an ancient philosopher. +Who does not see that heresies have some time prevailed, that reforms +have already taken place? All this worldly wisdom might be regarded as +the once unamiable heresy of some wise man. Some interests have got a +footing on the earth which we have not made sufficient allowance for. +Even they who first built these barns and cleared the land thus, had +some valor. The abrupt epochs and chasms are smoothed down in history +as the inequalities of the plain are concealed by distance. But unless +we do more than simply learn the trade of our time, we are but +apprentices, and not yet masters of the art of life. + +Now that we are casting away these melon seeds, how can we help feeling +reproach? He who eats the fruit, should at least plant the seed; aye, +if possible, a better seed than that whose fruit he has enjoyed. Seeds! +there are seeds enough which need only to be stirred in with the soil +where they lie, by an inspired voice or pen, to bear fruit of a divine +flavor. O thou spendthrift! Defray thy debt to the world; eat not the +seed of institutions, as the luxurious do, but plant it rather, while +thou devourest the pulp and tuber for thy subsistence; that so, +perchance, one variety may at last be found worthy of preservation. + +There are moments when all anxiety and stated toil are becalmed in the +infinite leisure and repose of nature. All laborers must have their +nooning, and at this season of the day, we are all, more or less, +Asiatics, and give over all work and reform. While lying thus on our +oars by the side of the stream, in the heat of the day, our boat held +by an osier put through the staple in its prow, and slicing the melons, +which are a fruit of the East, our thoughts reverted to Arabia, Persia, +and Hindostan, the lands of contemplation and dwelling-places of the +ruminant nations. In the experience of this noontide we could find some +apology even for the instinct of the opium, betel, and tobacco chewers. +Mount Sabér, according to the French traveller and naturalist, Botta, +is celebrated for producing the Kát-tree, of which “the soft tops of +the twigs and tender leaves are eaten,” says his reviewer, “and produce +an agreeable soothing excitement, restoring from fatigue, banishing +sleep, and disposing to the enjoyment of conversation.” We thought that +we might lead a dignified Oriental life along this stream as well, and +the maple and alders would be our Kát-trees. + +It is a great pleasure to escape sometimes from the restless class of +Reformers. What if these grievances exist? So do you and I. Think you +that sitting hens are troubled with ennui these long summer days, +sitting on and on in the crevice of a hay-loft, without active +employment? By the faint cackling in distant barns, I judge that dame +Nature is interested still to know how many eggs her hens lay. The +Universal Soul, as it is called, has an interest in the stacking of +hay, the foddering of cattle, and the draining of peat-meadows. Away in +Scythia, away in India, it makes butter and cheese. Suppose that all +farms _are_ run out, and we youths must buy old land and bring it to, +still everywhere the relentless opponents of reform bear a strange +resemblance to ourselves; or, perchance, they are a few old maids and +bachelors, who sit round the kitchen hearth and listen to the singing +of the kettle. “The oracles often give victory to our choice, and not +to the order alone of the mundane periods. As, for instance, when they +say that our voluntary sorrows germinate in us as the growth of the +particular life we lead.” The reform which you talk about can be +undertaken any morning before unbarring our doors. We need not call any +convention. When two neighbors begin to eat corn bread, who before ate +wheat, then the gods smile from ear to ear, for it is very pleasant to +them. Why do you not try it? Don’t let me hinder you. + +There are theoretical reformers at all times, and all the world over, +living on anticipation. Wolff, travelling in the deserts of Bokhara, +says, “Another party of derveeshes came to me and observed, ‘The time +will come when there shall be no difference between rich and poor, +between high and low, when property will be in common, even wives and +children.’” But forever I ask of such, What then? The derveeshes in the +deserts of Bokhara and the reformers in Marlboro’ Chapel sing the same +song. “There’s a good time coming, boys,” but, asked one of the +audience, in good faith, “Can you fix the date?” Said I, “Will you help +it along?” + +The nonchalance and _dolce-far-niente_ air of nature and society hint +at infinite periods in the progress of mankind. The States have leisure +to laugh from Maine to Texas at some newspaper joke, and New England +shakes at the double-entendres of Australian circles, while the poor +reformer cannot get a hearing. + +Men do not fail commonly for want of knowledge, but for want of +prudence to give wisdom the preference. What we need to know in any +case is very simple. It is but too easy to establish another durable +and harmonious routine. Immediately all parts of nature consent to it. +Only make something to take the place of something, and men will behave +as if it was the very thing they wanted. They _must_ behave, at any +rate, and will work up any material. There is always a present and +extant life, be it better or worse, which all combine to uphold. We +should be slow to mend, my friends, as slow to require mending, “Not +hurling, according to the oracle, a transcendent foot towards piety.” +The language of excitement is at best picturesque merely. You must be +calm before you can utter oracles. What was the excitement of the +Delphic priestess compared with the calm wisdom of Socrates?—or whoever +it was that was wise.—Enthusiasm is a supernatural serenity. + +“Men find that action is another thing + Than what they in discoursing papers read; +The world’s affairs require in managing + More arts than those wherein you clerks proceed.” + + +As in geology, so in social institutions, we may discover the causes of +all past change in the present invariable order of society. The +greatest appreciable physical revolutions are the work of the +light-footed air, the stealthy-paced water, and the subterranean fire. +Aristotle said, “As time never fails, and the universe is eternal, +neither the Tanais nor the Nile can have flowed forever.” We are +independent of the change we detect. The longer the lever the less +perceptible its motion. It is the slowest pulsation which is the most +vital. The hero then will know how to wait, as well as to make haste. +All good abides with him who waiteth _wisely_; we shall sooner overtake +the dawn by remaining here than by hurrying over the hills of the west. +Be assured that every man’s success is in proportion to his _average_ +ability. The meadow flowers spring and bloom where the waters annually +deposit their slime, not where they reach in some freshet only. A man +is not his hope, nor his despair, nor yet his past deed. We know not +yet what we have done, still less what we are doing. Wait till evening, +and other parts of our day’s work will shine than we had thought at +noon, and we shall discover the real purport of our toil. As when the +farmer has reached the end of the furrow and looks back, he can tell +best where the pressed earth shines most. + +To one who habitually endeavors to contemplate the true state of +things, the political state can hardly be said to have any existence +whatever. It is unreal, incredible, and insignificant to him, and for +him to endeavor to extract the truth from such lean material is like +making sugar from linen rags, when sugar-cane may be had. Generally +speaking, the political news, whether domestic or foreign, might be +written to-day for the next ten years, with sufficient accuracy. Most +revolutions in society have not power to interest, still less alarm us; +but tell me that our rivers are drying up, or the genus pine dying out +in the country, and I might attend. Most events recorded in history are +more remarkable than important, like eclipses of the sun and moon, by +which all are attracted, but whose effects no one takes the trouble to +calculate. + +But will the government never be so well administered, inquired one, +that we private men shall hear nothing about it? “The king answered: At +all events, I require a prudent and able man, who is capable of +managing the state affairs of my kingdom. The ex-minister said: The +criterion, O Sire! of a wise and competent man is, that he will not +meddle with such like matters.” Alas that the ex-minister should have +been so nearly right! + +In my short experience of human life, the _outward_ obstacles, if there +were any such, have not been living men, but the institutions of the +dead. It is grateful to make one’s way through this latest generation +as through dewy grass. Men are as innocent as the morning to the +unsuspicious. + +“And round about good morrows fly, +As if day taught humanity.” + + +Not being Reve of this Shire, + +“The early pilgrim blithe he hailed, + That o’er the hills did stray, +And many an early husbandman, + That he met on the way”;— + + +thieves and robbers all, nevertheless. I have not so surely foreseen +that any Cossack or Chippeway would come to disturb the honest and +simple commonwealth, as that some monster institution would at length +embrace and crush its free members in its scaly folds; for it is not to +be forgotten, that while the law holds fast the thief and murderer, it +lets itself go loose. When I have not paid the tax which the State +demanded for that protection which I did not want, itself has robbed +me; when I have asserted the liberty it presumed to declare, itself has +imprisoned me. Poor creature! if it knows no better I will not blame +it. If it cannot live but by these means, I can. I do not wish, it +happens, to be associated with Massachusetts, either in holding slaves +or in conquering Mexico. I am a little better than herself in these +respects.—As for Massachusetts, that huge she Briareus, Argus and +Colchian Dragon conjoined, set to watch the Heifer of the Constitution +and the Golden Fleece, we would not warrant our respect for her, like +some compositions, to preserve its qualities through all weathers.—Thus +it has happened, that not the Arch Fiend himself has been in my way, +but these toils which tradition says were originally spun to obstruct +him. They are cobwebs and trifling obstacles in an earnest man’s path, +it is true, and at length one even becomes attached to his unswept and +undusted garret. I love man—kind, but I hate the institutions of the +dead un-kind. Men execute nothing so faithfully as the wills of the +dead, to the last codicil and letter. _They_ rule this world, and the +living are but their executors. Such foundation too have our lectures +and our sermons, commonly. They are all _Dudleian;_ and piety derives +its origin still from that exploit of _pius Æneas_, who bore his +father, Anchises, on his shoulders from the ruins of Troy. Or rather, +like some Indian tribes, we bear about with us the mouldering relics of +our ancestors on our shoulders. If, for instance, a man asserts the +value of individual liberty over the merely political commonweal, his +neighbor still tolerates him, that he who is _living near_ him, +sometimes even sustains him, but never the State. Its officer, as a +living man, may have human virtues and a thought in his brain, but as +the tool of an institution, a jailer or constable it may be, he is not +a whit superior to his prison key or his staff. Herein is the tragedy; +that men doing outrage to their proper natures, even those called wise +and good, lend themselves to perform the office of inferior and brutal +ones. Hence come war and slavery in; and what else may not come in by +this opening? But certainly there are modes by which a man may put +bread into his mouth which will not prejudice him as a companion and +neighbor. + +“Now turn again, turn again, said the pindèr, + For a wrong way you have gone, +For you have forsaken the king’s highway, + And made a path over the corn.” + + +Undoubtedly, countless reforms are called for, because society is not +animated, or instinct enough with life, but in the condition of some +snakes which I have seen in early spring, with alternate portions of +their bodies torpid and flexible, so that they could wriggle neither +way. All men are partially buried in the grave of custom, and of some +we see only the crown of the head above ground. Better are the +physically dead, for they more lively rot. Even virtue is no longer +such if it be stagnant. A man’s life should be constantly as fresh as +this river. It should be the same channel, but a new water every +instant. + + “Virtues as rivers pass, +But still remains that virtuous man there was.” + + +Most men have no inclination, no rapids, no cascades, but marshes, and +alligators, and miasma instead. We read that when in the expedition of +Alexander, Onesicritus was sent forward to meet certain of the Indian +sect of Gymnosophists, and he had told them of those new philosophers +of the West, Pythagoras, Socrates, and Diogenes, and their doctrines, +one of them named Dandamis answered, that “They appeared to him to have +been men of genius, but to have lived with too passive a regard for the +laws.” The philosophers of the West are liable to this rebuke still. +“They say that Lieou-hia-hoei, and Chao-lien did not sustain to the end +their resolutions, and that they dishonored their character. Their +language was in harmony with reason and justice; while their acts were +in harmony with the sentiments of men.” + +Chateaubriand said: “There are two things which grow stronger in the +breast of man, in proportion as he advances in years: the love of +country and religion. Let them be never so much forgotten in youth, +they sooner or later present themselves to us arrayed in all their +charms, and excite in the recesses of our hearts an attachment justly +due to their beauty.” It may be so. But even this infirmity of noble +minds marks the gradual decay of youthful hope and faith. It is the +allowed infidelity of age. There is a saying of the Yoloffs, “He who +was born first has the greatest number of old clothes,” consequently M. +Chateaubriand has more old clothes than I have. It is comparatively a +faint and reflected beauty that is admired, not an essential and +intrinsic one. It is because the old are weak, feel their mortality, +and think that they have measured the strength of man. They will not +boast; they will be frank and humble. Well, let them have the few poor +comforts they can keep. Humility is still a very human virtue. They +look back on life, and so see not into the future. The prospect of the +young is forward and unbounded, mingling the future with the present. +In the declining day the thoughts make haste to rest in darkness, and +hardly look forward to the ensuing morning. The thoughts of the old +prepare for night and slumber. The same hopes and prospects are not for +him who stands upon the rosy mountain-tops of life, and him who expects +the setting of his earthly day. + +I must conclude that Conscience, if that be the name of it, was not +given us for no purpose, or for a hinderance. However flattering order +and expediency may look, it is but the repose of a lethargy, and we +will choose rather to be awake, though it be stormy, and maintain +ourselves on this earth and in this life, as we may, without signing +our death-warrant. Let us see if we cannot stay here, where He has put +us, on his own conditions. Does not his law reach as far as his light? +The expedients of the nations clash with one another, only the +absolutely right is expedient for all. + +There are some passages in the Antigone of Sophocles, well known to +scholars, of which I am reminded in this connection. Antigone has +resolved to sprinkle sand on the dead body of her brother Polynices, +notwithstanding the edict of King Creon condemning to death that one +who should perform this service, which the Greeks deemed so important, +for the enemy of his country; but Ismene, who is of a less resolute and +noble spirit, declines taking part with her sister in this work, and +says,— + +“I, therefore, asking those under the earth to consider me, that I am +compelled to do thus, will obey those who are placed in office; for to +do extreme things is not wise.” + +ANTIGONE. + + +“I would not ask you, nor would you, if you still wished, do it +joyfully with me. Be such as seems good to you. But I will bury him. It +is glorious for me doing this to die. I beloved will lie with him +beloved, having, like a criminal, done what is holy; since the time is +longer which it is necessary for me to please those below, than those +here, for there I shall always lie. But if it seems good to you, hold +in dishonor things which are honored by the gods.” + +ISMENE. + + +“I indeed do not hold them in dishonor; but to act in opposition to the +citizens I am by nature unable.” + +Antigone being at length brought before King Creon, he asks,— + +“Did you then dare to transgress these laws?” + +ANTIGONE. + + +“For it was not Zeus who proclaimed these to me, nor Justice who dwells +with the gods below; it was not they who established these laws among +men. Nor did I think that your proclamations were so strong, as, being +a mortal, to be able to transcend the unwritten and immovable laws of +the gods. For not something now and yesterday, but forever these live, +and no one knows from what time they appeared. I was not about to pay +the penalty of violating these to the gods, fearing the presumption of +any man. For I well knew that I should die, and why not? even if you +had not proclaimed it.” + +This was concerning the burial of a dead body. + +The wisest conservatism is that of the Hindoos. “Immemorial custom is +transcendent law,” says Menu. That is, it was the custom of the gods +before men used it. The fault of our New England custom is that it is +memorial. What is morality but immemorial custom? Conscience is the +chief of conservatives. “Perform the settled functions,” says Kreeshna +in the Bhagvat-Geeta; “action is preferable to inaction. The journey of +thy mortal frame may not succeed from inaction.”—“A man’s own calling +with all its faults, ought not to be forsaken. Every undertaking is +involved in its faults as the fire in its smoke.”—“The man who is +acquainted with the whole, should not drive those from their works who +are slow of comprehension, and less experienced than +himself.”—“Wherefore, O Arjoon, resolve to fight,” is the advice of the +God to the irresolute soldier who fears to slay his best friends. It is +a sublime conservatism; as wide as the world, and as unwearied as time; +preserving the universe with Asiatic anxiety, in that state in which it +appeared to their minds. These philosophers dwell on the inevitability +and unchangeableness of laws, on the power of temperament and +constitution, the three goon or qualities, and the circumstances of +birth and affinity. The end is an immense consolation; eternal +absorption in Brahma. Their speculations never venture beyond their own +table-lands, though they are high and vast as they. Buoyancy, freedom, +flexibility, variety, possibility, which also are qualities of the +Unnamed, they deal not with. The undeserved reward is to be earned by +an everlasting moral drudgery; the incalculable promise of the morrow +is, as it were, weighed. And who will say that their conservatism has +not been effectual? “Assuredly,” says a French translator, speaking of +the antiquity and durability of the Chinese and Indian nations, and of +the wisdom of their legislators, “there are there some vestiges of the +eternal laws which govern the world.” + +Christianity, on the other hand, is humane, practical, and, in a large +sense, radical. So many years and ages of the gods those Eastern sages +sat contemplating Brahm, uttering in silence the mystic “Om,” being +absorbed into the essence of the Supreme Being, never going out of +themselves, but subsiding farther and deeper within; so infinitely +wise, yet infinitely stagnant; until, at last, in that same Asia, but +in the western part of it, appeared a youth, wholly unforetold by +them,—not being absorbed into Brahm, but bringing Brahm down to earth +and to mankind; in whom Brahm had awaked from his long sleep, and +exerted himself, and the day began,—a new avatar. The Brahman had never +thought to be a brother of mankind as well as a child of God. Christ is +the prince of Reformers and Radicals. Many expressions in the New +Testament come naturally to the lips of all Protestants, and it +furnishes the most pregnant and practical texts. There is no harmless +dreaming, no wise speculation in it, but everywhere a substratum of +good sense. It never _reflects_, but it _repents_. There is no poetry +in it, we may say nothing regarded in the light of beauty merely, but +moral truth is its object. All mortals are convicted by its conscience. + +The New Testament is remarkable for its pure morality; the best of the +Hindo Scripture, for its pure intellectuality. The reader is nowhere +raised into and sustained in a higher, purer, or _rarer_ region of +thought than in the Bhagvat-Geeta. Warren Hastings, in his sensible +letter recommending the translation of this book to the Chairman of the +East India Company, declares the original to be “of a sublimity of +conception, reasoning, and diction almost unequalled,” and that the +writings of the Indian philosophers “will survive when the British +dominion in India shall have long ceased to exist, and when the sources +which it once yielded of wealth and power are lost to remembrance.” It +is unquestionably one of the noblest and most sacred scriptures which +have come down to us. Books are to be distinguished by the grandeur of +their topics, even more than by the manner in which they are treated. +The Oriental philosophy approaches, easily, loftier themes than the +modern aspires to; and no wonder if it sometimes prattle about them. +_It_ only assigns their due rank respectively to Action and +Contemplation, or rather does full justice to the latter. Western +philosophers have not conceived of the significance of Contemplation in +their sense. Speaking of the spiritual discipline to which the Brahmans +subjected themselves, and the wonderful power of abstraction to which +they attained, instances of which had come under his notice, Hastings +says:— + +“To those who have never been accustomed to the separation of the mind +from the notices of the senses, it may not be easy to conceive by what +means such a power is to be attained; since even the most studious men +of our hemisphere will find it difficult so to restrain their +attention, but that it will wander to some object of present sense or +recollection; and even the buzzing of a fly will sometimes have the +power to disturb it. But if we are told that there have been men who +were successively, for ages past, in the daily habit of abstracted +contemplation, begun in the earliest period of youth, and continued in +many to the maturity of age, each adding some portion of knowledge to +the store accumulated by his predecessors; it is not assuming too much +to conclude, that as the mind ever gathers strength, like the body, by +exercise, so in such an exercise it may in each have acquired the +faculty to which they aspired, and that their collective studies may +have led them to the discovery of new tracts and combinations of +sentiment, totally different from the doctrines with which the learned +of other nations are acquainted; doctrines which, however speculative +and subtle, still as they possess the advantage of being derived from a +source so free from every adventitious mixture, may be equally founded +in truth with the most simple of our own.” + +“The forsaking of works” was taught by Kreeshna to the most ancient of +men, and handed down from age to age, + +“until at length, in the course of time, the mighty art was lost. + +“In wisdom is to be found every work without exception,” says +Kreeshna. + +“Although thou wert the greatest of all offenders, thou shalt +be able to cross the gulf of sin with the bark of wisdom.” + +“There is not anything in this world to be compared with wisdom +for purity.” + +“The action stands at a distance inferior to the application of +wisdom.” + +The wisdom of a Moonee “is confirmed, when, like the tortoise, he can +draw in all his members, and restrain them from their wonted purposes.” + +“Children only, and not the learned, speak of the speculative and the +practical doctrines as two. They are but one. For both obtain the +selfsame end, and the place which is gained by the followers of the one +is gained by the followers of the other.” + +“The man enjoyeth not freedom from action, from the non-commencement of +that which he hath to do; nor doth he obtain happiness from a total +inactivity. No one ever resteth a moment inactive. Every man is +involuntarily urged to act by those principles which are inherent in +his nature. The man who restraineth his active faculties, and sitteth +down with his mind attentive to the objects of his senses, is called +one of an astrayed soul, and the practiser of deceit. So the man is +praised, who, having subdued all his passions, performeth with his +active faculties all the functions of life, unconcerned about the +event.” + +“Let the motive be in the deed and not in the event. Be not one whose +motive for action is the hope of reward. Let not thy life be spent in +inaction.” + +“For the man who doeth that which he hath to do, without affection, +obtaineth the Supreme.” + +“He who may behold, as it were inaction in action, and action in +inaction, is wise amongst mankind. He is a perfect performer of all +duty.” + +“Wise men call him a _Pandeet_, whose every undertaking is free from +the idea of desire, and whose actions are consumed by the fire of +wisdom. He abandoneth the desire of a reward of his actions; he is +always contented and independent; and although he may be engaged in a +work, he, as it were, doeth nothing.” + +“He is both a Yogee and a Sannyasee who performeth that which he hath +to do independent of the fruit thereof; not he who liveth without the +sacrificial fire and without action.” + +“He who enjoyeth but the Amreeta which is left of his offerings, +obtaineth the eternal spirit of Brahm, the Supreme.” + +What, after all, does the practicalness of life amount to? The things +immediate to be done are very trivial. I could postpone them all to +hear this locust sing. The most glorious fact in my experience is not +anything that I have done or may hope to do, but a transient thought, +or vision, or dream, which I have had. I would give all the wealth of +the world, and all the deeds of all the heroes, for one true vision. +But how can I communicate with the gods who am a pencil-maker on the +earth, and not be insane? + +“I am the same to all mankind,” says Kreeshna; “there is not one who is +worthy of my love or hatred.” + +This teaching is not practical in the sense in which the New Testament +is. It is not always sound sense in practice. The Brahman never +proposes courageously to assault evil, but patiently to starve it out. +His active faculties are paralyzed by the idea of cast, of impassable +limits, of destiny and the tyranny of time. Kreeshna’s argument, it +must be allowed, is defective. No sufficient reason is given why Arjoon +should fight. Arjoon may be convinced, but the reader is not, for his +judgment is _not_ “formed upon the speculative doctrines of the +_Sankhya Sastra_.” “Seek an asylum in wisdom alone”; but what is wisdom +to a Western mind? The duty of which he speaks is an arbitrary one. +When was it established? The Brahman’s virtue consists in doing, not +right, but arbitrary things. What is that which a man “hath to do”? +What is “action”? What are the “settled functions”? What is “a man’s +own religion,” which is so much better than another’s? What is “a man’s +own particular calling”? What are the duties which are appointed by +one’s birth? It is a defence of the institution of casts, of what is +called the “natural duty” of the Kshetree, or soldier, “to attach +himself to the discipline,” “not to flee from the field,” and the like. +But they who are unconcerned about the consequences of their actions +are not therefore unconcerned about their actions. + +Behold the difference between the Oriental and the Occidental. The +former has nothing to do in this world; the latter is full of activity. +The one looks in the sun till his eyes are put out; the other follows +him prone in his westward course. There is such a thing as caste, even +in the West; but it is comparatively faint; it is conservatism here. It +says, forsake not your calling, outrage no institution, use no +violence, rend no bonds; the State is thy parent. Its virtue or manhood +is wholly filial. There is a struggle between the Oriental and +Occidental in every nation; some who would be forever contemplating the +sun, and some who are hastening toward the sunset. The former class +says to the latter, When you have reached the sunset, you will be no +nearer to the sun. To which the latter replies, But we so prolong the +day. The former “walketh but in that night, when all things go to rest +the night of _time_. The contemplative Moonee sleepeth but in the day +of _time_, when all things wake.” + +To conclude these extracts, I can say, in the words of Sanjay, “As, O +mighty Prince! I recollect again and again this holy and wonderful +dialogue of Kreeshna and Arjoon, I continue more and more to rejoice; +and as I recall to my memory the more than miraculous form of Haree, my +astonishment is great, and I marvel and rejoice again and again! +Wherever Kreeshna the God of devotion may be, wherever Arjoon the +mighty bowman may be, there too, without doubt, are fortune, riches, +victory, and good conduct. This is my firm belief.” + +I would say to the readers of Scriptures, if they wish for a good book, +read the Bhagvat-Geeta, an episode to the Mahabharat, said to have been +written by Kreeshna Dwypayen Veias,—known to have been written by——, +more than four thousand years ago,—it matters not whether three or +four, or when,—translated by Charles Wilkins. It deserves to be read +with reverence even by Yankees, as a part of the sacred writings of a +devout people; and the intelligent Hebrew will rejoice to find in it a +moral grandeur and sublimity akin to those of his own Scriptures. + +To an American reader, who, by the advantage of his position, can see +over that strip of Atlantic coast to Asia and the Pacific, who, as it +were, sees the shore slope upward over the Alps to the Himmaleh +Mountains, the comparatively recent literature of Europe often appears +partial and clannish, and, notwithstanding the limited range of his own +sympathies and studies, the European writer who presumes that he is +speaking for the world, is perceived by him to speak only for that +corner of it which he inhabits. One of the rarest of England’s scholars +and critics, in his classification of the worthies of the world, +betrays the narrowness of his European culture and the exclusiveness of +his reading. None of her children has done justice to the poets and +philosophers of Persia or of India. They have even been better known to +her merchant scholars than to her poets and thinkers by profession. You +may look in vain through English poetry for a single memorable verse +inspired by these themes. Nor is Germany to be excepted, though her +philological industry is indirectly serving the cause of philosophy and +poetry. Even Goethe wanted that universality of genius which could have +appreciated the philosophy of India, if he had more nearly approached +it. His genius was more practical, dwelling much more in the regions of +the understanding, and was less native to contemplation than the genius +of those sages. It is remarkable that Homer and a few Hebrews are the +most Oriental names which modern Europe, whose literature has taken its +rise since the decline of the Persian, has admitted into her list of +Worthies, and perhaps the _worthiest_ of mankind, and the fathers of +modern thinking,—for the contemplations of those Indian sages have +influenced, and still influence, the intellectual development of +mankind,—whose works even yet survive in wonderful completeness, are, +for the most part, not recognized as ever having existed. If the lions +had been the painters it would have been otherwise. In every one’s +youthful dreams philosophy is still vaguely but inseparably, and with +singular truth, associated with the East, nor do after years discover +its local habitation in the Western world. In comparison with the +philosophers of the East, we may say that modern Europe has yet given +birth to none. Beside the vast and cosmogonal philosophy of the +Bhagvat-Geeta, even our Shakespeare seems sometimes youthfully green +and practical merely. Some of these sublime sentences, as the Chaldaean +oracles of Zoroaster, still surviving after a thousand revolutions and +translations, alone make us doubt if the poetic form and dress are not +transitory, and not essential to the most effective and enduring +expression of thought. _Ex oriente lux_ may still be the motto of +scholars, for the Western world has not yet derived from the East all +the light which it is destined to receive thence. + +It would be worthy of the age to print together the collected +Scriptures or Sacred Writings of the several nations, the Chinese, the +Hindoos, the Persians, the Hebrews, and others, as the Scripture of +mankind. The New Testament is still, perhaps, too much on the lips and +in the hearts of men to be called a Scripture in this sense. Such a +juxtaposition and comparison might help to liberalize the faith of men. +This is a work which Time will surely edit, reserved to crown the +labors of the printing-press. This would be the Bible, or Book of +Books, which let the missionaries carry to the uttermost parts of the +earth. + +While engaged in these reflections, thinking ourselves the only +navigators of these waters, suddenly a canal-boat, with its sail set, +glided round a point before us, like some huge river beast, and changed +the scene in an instant; and then another and another glided into +sight, and we found ourselves in the current of commerce once more. So +we threw our rinds in the water for the fishes to nibble, and added our +breath to the life of living men. Little did we think, in the distant +garden in which we had planted the seed and reared this fruit, where it +would be eaten. Our melons lay at home on the sandy bottom of the +Merrimack, and our potatoes in the sun and water at the bottom of the +boat looked like a fruit of the country. Soon, however, we were +delivered from this fleet of junks, and possessed the river in +solitude, once more rowing steadily upward through the noon, between +the territories of Nashua on the one hand, and Hudson, once Nottingham, +on the other. From time to time we scared up a kingfisher or a summer +duck, the former flying rather by vigorous impulses than by steady and +patient steering with that short rudder of his, sounding his rattle +along the fluvial street. + +Erelong another scow hove in sight, creeping down the river; and +hailing it, we attached ourselves to its side, and floated back in +company, chatting with the boatmen, and obtaining a draught of cooler +water from their jug. They appeared to be green hands from far among +the hills, who had taken this means to get to the seaboard, and see the +world; and would possibly visit the Falkland Isles, and the China seas, +before they again saw the waters of the Merrimack, or, perchance, they +would not return this way forever. They had already embarked the +private interests of the landsman in the larger venture of the race, +and were ready to mess with mankind, reserving only the till of a chest +to themselves. But they too were soon lost behind a point, and we went +croaking on our way alone. What grievance has its root among the New +Hampshire hills? we asked; what is wanting to human life here, that +these men should make such haste to the antipodes? We prayed that their +bright anticipations might not be rudely disappointed. + +Though all the fates should prove unkind, +Leave not your native land behind. +The ship, becalmed, at length stands still; +The steed must rest beneath the hill; +But swiftly still our fortunes pace +To find us out in every place. + +The vessel, though her masts be firm, +Beneath her copper bears a worm; +Around the cape, across the line, +Till fields of ice her course confine; +It matters not how smooth the breeze, +How shallow or how deep the seas, +Whether she bears Manilla twine, +Or in her hold Madeira wine, +Or China teas, or Spanish hides, +In port or quarantine she rides; +Far from New England’s blustering shore, +New England’s worm her hulk shall bore, +And sink her in the Indian seas, +Twine, wine, and hides, and China teas. + + +We passed a small desert here on the east bank, between Tyngsborough +and Hudson, which was interesting and even refreshing to our eyes in +the midst of the almost universal greenness. This sand was indeed +somewhat impressive and beautiful to us. A very old inhabitant, who was +at work in a field on the Nashua side, told us that he remembered when +corn and grain grew there, and it was a cultivated field. But at length +the fishermen, for this was a fishing place, pulled up the bushes on +the shore, for greater convenience in hauling their seines, and when +the bank was thus broken, the wind began to blow up the sand from the +shore, until at length it had covered about fifteen acres several feet +deep. We saw near the river, where the sand was blown off down to some +ancient surface, the foundation of an Indian wigwam exposed, a perfect +circle of burnt stones, four or five feet in diameter, mingled with +fine charcoal, and the bones of small animals which had been preserved +in the sand. The surrounding sand was sprinkled with other burnt stones +on which their fires had been built, as well as with flakes of +arrow-head stone, and we found one perfect arrow-head. In one place we +noticed where an Indian had sat to manufacture arrow-heads out of +quartz, and the sand was sprinkled with a quart of small glass-like +chips about as big as a fourpence, which he had broken off in his work. +Here, then, the Indians must have fished before the whites arrived. +There was another similar sandy tract about half a mile above this. + +Still the noon prevailed, and we turned the prow aside to bathe, and +recline ourselves under some buttonwoods, by a ledge of rocks, in a +retired pasture sloping to the water’s edge, and skirted with pines and +hazels, in the town of Hudson. Still had India, and that old noontide +philosophy, the better part of our thoughts. + +It is always singular, but encouraging, to meet with common sense in +very old books, as the Heetopades of Veeshnoo Sarma; a playful wisdom +which has eyes behind as well as before, and oversees itself. It +asserts their health and independence of the experience of later times. +This pledge of sanity cannot be spared in a book, that it sometimes +pleasantly reflect upon itself. The story and fabulous portion of this +book winds loosely from sentence to sentence as so many oases in a +desert, and is as indistinct as a camel’s track between Mourzouk and +Darfour. It is a comment on the flow and freshet of modern books. The +reader leaps from sentence to sentence, as from one stepping-stone to +another, while the stream of the story rushes past unregarded. The +Bhagvat-Geeta is less sententious and poetic, perhaps, but still more +wonderfully sustained and developed. Its sanity and sublimity have +impressed the minds even of soldiers and merchants. It is the +characteristic of great poems that they will yield of their sense in +due proportion to the hasty and the deliberate reader. To the practical +they will be common sense, and to the wise wisdom; as either the +traveller may wet his lips, or an army may fill its water-casks at a +full stream. + +One of the most attractive of those ancient books that I have met with +is the Laws of Menu. According to Sir William Jones, “Vyasa, the son of +Parasara, has decided that the Veda, with its Angas, or the six +compositions deduced from it, the revealed system of medicine, the +Puranas or sacred histories, and the code of Menu, were four works of +supreme authority, which ought never to be shaken by arguments merely +human.” The last is believed by the Hindoos “to have been promulged in +the beginning of time, by Menu, son or grandson of Brahma,” and “first +of created beings”; and Brahma is said to have “taught his laws to Menu +in a hundred thousand verses, which Menu explained to the primitive +world in the very words of the book now translated.” Others affirm that +they have undergone successive abridgments for the convenience of +mortals, “while the gods of the lower heaven and the band of celestial +musicians are engaged in studying the primary code.”—“A number of +glosses or comments on Menu were composed by the Munis, or old +philosophers, whose treatises, together with that before us, constitute +the Dherma Sastra, in a collective sense, or Body of Law.” Culluca +Bhatta was one of the more modern of these. + +Every sacred book, successively, has been accepted in the faith that it +was to be the final resting-place of the sojourning soul; but after +all, it was but a caravansary which supplied refreshment to the +traveller, and directed him farther on his way to Isphahan or Bagdat. +Thank God, no Hindoo tyranny prevailed at the framing of the world, but +we are freemen of the universe, and not sentenced to any caste. + +I know of no book which has come down to us with grander pretensions +than this, and it is so impersonal and sincere that it is never +offensive nor ridiculous. Compare the modes in which modern literature +is advertised with the prospectus of this book, and think what a +reading public it addresses, what criticism it expects. It seems to +have been uttered from some eastern summit, with a sober morning +prescience in the dawn of time, and you cannot read a sentence without +being elevated as upon the table-land of the Ghauts. It has such a +rhythm as the winds of the desert, such a tide as the Ganges, and is as +superior to criticism as the Himmaleh Mountains. Its tone is of such +unrelaxed fibre, that even at this late day, unworn by time, it wears +the English and the Sanscrit dress indifferently; and its fixed +sentences keep up their distant fires still, like the stars, by whose +dissipated rays this lower world is illumined. The whole book by noble +gestures and inclinations renders many words unnecessary. English sense +has toiled, but Hindoo wisdom never perspired. Though the sentences +open as we read them, unexpensively, and at first almost unmeaningly, +as the petals of a flower, they sometimes startle us with that rare +kind of wisdom which could only have been learned from the most trivial +experience; but it comes to us as refined as the porcelain earth which +subsides to the bottom of the ocean. They are clean and dry as fossil +truths, which have been exposed to the elements for thousands of years, +so impersonally and scientifically true that they are the ornament of +the parlor and the cabinet. Any _moral_ philosophy is exceedingly rare. +This of Menu addresses our privacy more than most. It is a more private +and familiar, and, at the same time, a more public and universal word, +than is spoken in parlor or pulpit now-a-days. As our domestic fowls +are said to have their original in the wild pheasant of India, so our +domestic thoughts have their prototypes in the thoughts of her +philosophers. We are dabbling in the very elements of our present +conventional and actual life; as if it were the primeval conventicle +where how to eat, and to drink, and to sleep, and maintain life with +adequate dignity and sincerity, were the questions to be decided. It is +later and more intimate with us even than the advice of our nearest +friends. And yet it is true for the widest horizon, and read out of +doors has relation to the dim mountain line, and is native and +aboriginal there. Most books belong to the house and street only, and +in the fields their leaves feel very thin. They are bare and obvious, +and have no halo nor haze about them. Nature lies far and fair behind +them all. But this, as it proceeds from, so it addresses, what is +deepest and most abiding in man. It belongs to the noontide of the day, +the midsummer of the year, and after the snows have melted, and the +waters evaporated in the spring, still its truth speaks freshly to our +experience. It helps the sun to shine, and his rays fall on its page to +illustrate it. It spends the mornings and the evenings, and makes such +an impression on us overnight as to awaken us before dawn, and its +influence lingers around us like a fragrance late into the day. It +conveys a new gloss to the meadows and the depths of the wood, and its +spirit, like a more subtile ether, sweeps along with the prevailing +winds of a country. The very locusts and crickets of a summer day are +but later or earlier glosses on the Dherma Sastra of the Hindoos, a +continuation of the sacred code. As we have said, there is an +orientalism in the most restless pioneer, and the farthest west is but +the farthest east. While we are reading these sentences, this fair +modern world seems only a reprint of the Laws of Menu with the gloss of +Culluca. Tried by a New England eye, or the mere practical wisdom of +modern times, they are the oracles of a race already in its dotage, but +held up to the sky, which is the only impartial and incorruptible +ordeal, they are of a piece with its depth and serenity, and I am +assured that they will have a place and significance as long as there +is a sky to test them by. + +Give me a sentence which no intelligence can understand. There must be +a kind of life and palpitation to it, and under its words a kind of +blood must circulate forever. It is wonderful that this sound should +have come down to us from so far, when the voice of man can be heard so +little way, and we are not now within ear-shot of any contemporary. The +woodcutters have here felled an ancient pine forest, and brought to +light to these distant hills a fair lake in the southwest; and now in +an instant it is distinctly shown to these woods as if its image had +travelled hither from eternity. Perhaps these old stumps upon the knoll +remember when anciently this lake gleamed in the horizon. One wonders +if the bare earth itself did not experience emotion at beholding again +so fair a prospect. That fair water lies there in the sun thus +revealed, so much the prouder and fairer because its beauty needed not +to be seen. It seems yet lonely, sufficient to itself, and superior to +observation.—So are these old sentences like serene lakes in the +southwest, at length revealed to us, which have so long been reflecting +our own sky in their bosom. + +The great plain of India lies as in a cup between the Himmaleh and the +ocean on the north and south, and the Brahmapootra and Indus, on the +east and west, wherein the primeval race was received. We will not +dispute the story. We are pleased to read in the natural history of the +country, of the “pine, larch, spruce, and silver fir,” which cover the +southern face of the Himmaleh range; of the “gooseberry, raspberry, +strawberry,” which from an imminent temperate zone overlook the torrid +plains. So did this active modern life have even then a foothold and +lurking-place in the midst of the stateliness and contemplativeness of +those Eastern plains. In another era the “lily of the valley, cowslip, +dandelion,” were to work their way down into the plain, and bloom in a +level zone of their own reaching round the earth. Already has the era +of the temperate zone arrived, the era of the pine and the oak, for the +palm and the banian do not supply the wants of this age. The lichens on +the summits of the rocks will perchance find their level erelong. + +As for the tenets of the Brahmans, we are not so much concerned to know +what doctrines they held, as that they were held by any. We can +tolerate all philosophies, Atomists, Pneumatologists, Atheists, +Theists,—Plato, Aristotle, Leucippus, Democritus, Pythagoras, +Zoroaster, and Confucius. It is the attitude of these men, more than +any communication which they make, that attracts us. Between them and +their commentators, it is true, there is an endless dispute. But if it +comes to this, that you compare notes, then you are all wrong. As it +is, each takes us up into the serene heavens, whither the smallest +bubble rises as surely as the largest, and paints earth and sky for us. +Any sincere thought is irresistible. The very austerity of the Brahmans +is tempting to the devotional soul, as a more refined and nobler +luxury. Wants so easily and gracefully satisfied seem like a more +refined pleasure. Their conception of creation is peaceful as a dream. +“When that power awakes, then has this world its full expansion; but +when he slumbers with a tranquil spirit, then the whole system fades +away.” In the very indistinctness of their theogony a sublime truth is +implied. It hardly allows the reader to rest in any supreme first +cause, but directly it hints at a supremer still which created the +last, and the Creator is still behind increate. + +Nor will we disturb the antiquity of this Scripture; “From fire, from +air, and from the sun,” it was “milked out.” One might as well +investigate the chronology of light and heat. Let the sun shine. Menu +understood this matter best, when he said, “Those best know the +divisions of days and nights who understand that the day of Brahma, +which endures to the end of a thousand such ages, [infinite ages, +nevertheless, according to mortal reckoning,] gives rise to virtuous +exertions; and that his night endures as long as his day.” Indeed, the +Mussulman and Tartar dynasties are beyond all dating. Methinks I have +lived under them myself. In every man’s brain is the Sanscrit. The +Vedas and their Angas are not so ancient as serene contemplation. Why +will we be imposed on by antiquity? Is the babe young? When I behold +it, it seems more venerable than the oldest man; it is more ancient +than Nestor or the Sibyls, and bears the wrinkles of father Saturn +himself. And do we live but in the present? How broad a line is that? I +sit now on a stump whose rings number centuries of growth. If I look +around I see that the soil is composed of the remains of just such +stumps, ancestors to this. The earth is covered with mould. I thrust +this stick many æons deep into its surface, and with my heel make a +deeper furrow than the elements have ploughed here for a thousand +years. If I listen, I hear the peep of frogs which is older than the +slime of Egypt, and the distant drumming of a partridge on a log, as if +it were the pulse-beat of the summer air. I raise my fairest and +freshest flowers in the old mould. Why, what we would fain call new is +not skin deep; the earth is not yet stained by it. It is not the +fertile ground which we walk on, but the leaves which flutter over our +heads. The newest is but the oldest made visible to our senses. When we +dig up the soil from a thousand feet below the surface, we call it new, +and the plants which spring from it; and when our vision pierces deeper +into space, and detects a remoter star, we call that new also. The +place where we sit is called Hudson,—once it was Nottingham,—once — + +We should read history as little critically as we consider the +landscape, and be more interested by the atmospheric tints and various +lights and shades which the intervening spaces create, than by its +groundwork and composition. It is the morning now turned evening and +seen in the west,—the same sun, but a new light and atmosphere. Its +beauty is like the sunset; not a fresco painting on a wall, flat and +bounded, but atmospheric and roving or free. In reality, history +fluctuates as the face of the landscape from morning to evening. What +is of moment is its hue and color. Time hides no treasures; we want not +its _then_, but its _now_. We do not complain that the mountains in the +horizon are blue and indistinct; they are the more like the heavens. + +Of what moment are facts that can be lost,—which need to be +commemorated? The monument of death will outlast the memory of the +dead. The pyramids do not tell the tale which was confided to them; the +living fact commemorates itself. Why look in the dark for light? +Strictly speaking, the historical societies have not recovered one fact +from oblivion, but are themselves, instead of the fact, that is lost. +The researcher is more memorable than the researched. The crowd stood +admiring the mist and the dim outlines of the trees seen through it, +when one of their number advanced to explore the phenomenon, and with +fresh admiration all eyes were turned on his dimly retreating figure. +It is astonishing with how little co-operation of the societies the +past is remembered. Its story has indeed had another muse than has been +assigned it. There is a good instance of the manner in which all +history began, in Alwákidis’ Arabian Chronicle: “I was informed by +_Ahmed Almatin Aljorhami_, who had it from _Rephâa Ebn Kais Alámiri_, +who had it from _Saiph Ebn Fabalah Alchâtquarmi_, who had it from +_Thabet Ebn Alkamah_, who said he was present at the action.” These +fathers of history were not anxious to preserve, but to learn the fact; +and hence it was not forgotten. Critical acumen is exerted in vain to +uncover the past; the _past_ cannot be _presented_; we cannot know what +we are not. But one veil hangs over past, present, and future, and it +is the province of the historian to find out, not what was, but what +is. Where a battle has been fought, you will find nothing but the bones +of men and beasts; where a battle is being fought, there are hearts +beating. We will sit on a mound and muse, and not try to make these +skeletons stand on their legs again. Does Nature remember, think you, +that they _were_ men, or not rather that they _are_ bones? + +Ancient history has an air of antiquity. It should be more modern. It +is written as if the spectator should be thinking of the backside of +the picture on the wall, or as if the author expected that the dead +would be his readers, and wished to detail to them their own +experience. Men seem anxious to accomplish an orderly retreat through +the centuries, earnestly rebuilding the works behind, as they are +battered down by the encroachments of time; but while they loiter, they +and their works both fall a prey to the arch enemy. History has neither +the venerableness of antiquity, nor the freshness of the modern. It +does as if it would go to the beginning of things, which natural +history might with reason assume to do; but consider the Universal +History, and then tell us,—when did burdock and plantain sprout first? +It has been so written for the most part, that the times it describes +are with remarkable propriety called _dark ages_. They are dark, as one +has observed, because we are so in the dark about them. The sun rarely +shines in history, what with the dust and confusion; and when we meet +with any cheering fact which implies the presence of this luminary, we +excerpt and modernize it. As when we read in the history of the Saxons +that Edwin of Northumbria “caused stakes to be fixed in the highways +where he had seen a clear spring,” and “brazen dishes were chained to +them to refresh the weary sojourner, whose fatigues Edwin had himself +experienced.” This is worth all Arthur’s twelve battles. + +“Through the shadow of the world we sweep into the younger day: +Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.” +Than fifty years of Europe better one New England ray! + + +Biography, too, is liable to the same objection; it should be +autobiography. Let us not, as the Germans advise, endeavor to go abroad +and vex our bowels that we may be somebody else to explain him. If I am +not I, who will be? + +But it is fit that the Past should be dark; though the darkness is not +so much a quality of the past as of tradition. It is not a distance of +time, but a distance of relation, which makes thus dusky its memorials. +What is near to the heart of this generation is fair and bright still. +Greece lies outspread fair and sunshiny in floods of light, for there +is the sun and daylight in her literature and art. Homer does not allow +us to forget that the sun shone,—nor Phidias, nor the Parthenon. Yet no +era has been wholly dark, nor will we too hastily submit to the +historian, and congratulate ourselves on a blaze of light. If we could +pierce the obscurity of those remote years, we should find it light +enough; only _there_ is not our day. Some creatures are made to see in +the dark. There has always been the same amount of light in the world. +The new and missing stars, the comets and eclipses, do not affect the +general illumination, for only our glasses appreciate them. The eyes of +the oldest fossil remains, they tell us, indicate that the same laws of +light prevailed then as now. Always the laws of light are the same, but +the modes and degrees of seeing vary. The gods are partial to no era, +but steadily shines their light in the heavens, while the eye of the +beholder is turned to stone. There was but the sun and the eye from the +first. The ages have not added a new ray to the one, nor altered a +fibre of the other. + +If we will admit time into our thoughts at all, the mythologies, those +vestiges of ancient poems, wrecks of poems, so to speak, the world’s +inheritance, still reflecting some of their original splendor, like the +fragments of clouds tinted by the rays of the departed sun; reaching +into the latest summer day, and allying this hour to the morning of +creation; as the poet sings:— + + “Fragments of the lofty strain + Float down the tide of years, +As buoyant on the stormy main + A parted wreck appears.” + + +These are the materials and hints for a history of the rise and +progress of the race; how, from the condition of ants, it arrived at +the condition of men, and arts were gradually invented. Let a thousand +surmises shed some light on this story. We will not be confined by +historical, even geological periods which would allow us to doubt of a +progress in human affairs. If we rise above this wisdom for the day, we +shall expect that this morning of the race, in which it has been +supplied with the simplest necessaries, with corn, and wine, and honey, +and oil, and fire, and articulate speech, and agricultural and other +arts, reared up by degrees from the condition of ants to men, will be +succeeded by a day of equally progressive splendor; that, in the lapse +of the divine periods, other divine agents and godlike men will assist +to elevate the race as much above its present condition. But we do not +know much about it. + +Thus did one voyageur waking dream, while his companion slumbered on +the bank. Suddenly a boatman’s horn was heard echoing from shore to +shore, to give notice of his approach to the farmer’s wife with whom he +was to take his dinner, though in that place only muskrats and +kingfishers seemed to hear. The current of our reflections and our +slumbers being thus disturbed, we weighed anchor once more. + +As we proceeded on our way in the afternoon, the western bank became +lower, or receded farther from the channel in some places, leaving a +few trees only to fringe the water’s edge; while the eastern rose +abruptly here and there into wooded hills fifty or sixty feet high. The +bass, _Tilia Americana_, also called the lime or linden, which was a +new tree to us, overhung the water with its broad and rounded leaf, +interspersed with clusters of small hard berries now nearly ripe, and +made an agreeable shade for us sailors. The inner bark of this genus is +the bast, the material of the fisherman’s matting, and the ropes and +peasant’s shoes of which the Russians make so much use, and also of +nets and a coarse cloth in some places. According to poets, this was +once Philyra, one of the Oceanides. The ancients are said to have used +its bark for the roofs of cottages, for baskets, and for a kind of +paper called Philyra. They also made bucklers of its wood, “on account +of its flexibility, lightness, and resiliency.” It was once much used +for carving, and is still in demand for sounding-boards of piano-fortes +and panels of carriages, and for various uses for which toughness and +flexibility are required. Baskets and cradles are made of the twigs. +Its sap affords sugar, and the honey made from its flowers is said to +be preferred to any other. Its leaves are in some countries given to +cattle, a kind of chocolate has been made of its fruit, a medicine has +been prepared from an infusion of its flowers, and finally, the +charcoal made of its wood is greatly valued for gunpowder. + +The sight of this tree reminded us that we had reached a strange land +to us. As we sailed under this canopy of leaves we saw the sky through +its chinks, and, as it were, the meaning and idea of the tree stamped +in a thousand hieroglyphics on the heavens. The universe is so aptly +fitted to our organization that the eye wanders and reposes at the same +time. On every side there is something to soothe and refresh this +sense. Look up at the tree-tops and see how finely Nature finishes off +her work there. See how the pines spire without end higher and higher, +and make a graceful fringe to the earth. And who shall count the finer +cobwebs that soar and float away from their utmost tops, and the myriad +insects that dodge between them. Leaves are of more various forms than +the alphabets of all languages put together; of the oaks alone there +are hardly two alike, and each expresses its own character. + +In all her products Nature only develops her simplest germs. One would +say that it was no great stretch of invention to create birds. The +hawk, which now takes his flight over the top of the wood, was at +first, perchance, only a leaf which fluttered in its aisles. From +rustling leaves she came in the course of ages to the loftier flight +and clear carol of the bird. + +Salmon Brook comes in from the west under the railroad, a mile and a +half below the village of Nashua. We rowed up far enough into the +meadows which border it to learn its piscatorial history from a +haymaker on its banks. He told us that the silver eel was formerly +abundant here, and pointed to some sunken creels at its mouth. This +man’s memory and imagination were fertile in fishermen’s tales of +floating isles in bottomless ponds, and of lakes mysteriously stocked +with fishes, and would have kept us till nightfall to listen, but we +could not afford to loiter in this roadstead, and so stood out to our +sea again. Though we never trod in those meadows, but only touched +their margin with our hands, we still retain a pleasant memory of them. + +Salmon Brook, whose name is said to be a translation from the Indian, +was a favorite haunt of the aborigines. Here, too, the first white +settlers of Nashua planted, and some dents in the earth where their +houses stood and the wrecks of ancient apple-trees are still visible. +About one mile up this stream stood the house of old John Lovewell, who +was an ensign in the army of Oliver Cromwell, and the father of “famous +Captain Lovewell.” He settled here before 1690, and died about 1754, at +the age of one hundred and twenty years. He is thought to have been +engaged in the famous Narragansett swamp fight, which took place in +1675, before he came here. The Indians are said to have spared him in +succeeding wars on account of his kindness to them. Even in 1700 he was +so old and gray-headed that his scalp was worth nothing, since the +French Governor offered no bounty for such. I have stood in the dent of +his cellar on the bank of the brook, and talked there with one whose +grandfather had, whose father might have, talked with Lovewell. Here +also he had a mill in his old age, and kept a small store. He was +remembered by some who were recently living, as a hale old man who +drove the boys out of his orchard with his cane. Consider the triumphs +of the mortal man, and what poor trophies it would have to show, to +wit:—He cobbled shoes without glasses at a hundred, and cut a handsome +swath at a hundred and five! Lovewell’s house is said to have been the +first which Mrs. Dustan reached on her escape from the Indians. Here +probably the hero of Pequawket was born and bred. Close by may be seen +the cellar and the gravestone of Joseph Hassell, who, as is elsewhere +recorded, with his wife Anna, and son Benjamin, and Mary Marks, “were +slain by our Indian enemies on September 2d, [1691,] in the evening.” +As Gookin observed on a previous occasion, “The Indian rod upon the +English backs had not yet done God’s errand.” Salmon Brook near its +mouth is still a solitary stream, meandering through woods and meadows, +while the then uninhabited mouth of the Nashua now resounds with the +din of a manufacturing town. + +A stream from Otternic Pond in Hudson comes in just above Salmon Brook, +on the opposite side. There was a good view of Uncannunuc, the most +conspicuous mountain in these parts, from the bank here, seen rising +over the west end of the bridge above. We soon after passed the village +of Nashua, on the river of the same name, where there is a covered +bridge over the Merrimack. The Nashua, which is one of the largest +tributaries, flows from Wachusett Mountain, through Lancaster, Groton, +and other towns, where it has formed well-known elm-shaded meadows, but +near its mouth it is obstructed by falls and factories, and did not +tempt us to explore it. + +Far away from here, in Lancaster, with another companion, I have +crossed the broad valley of the Nashua, over which we had so long +looked westward from the Concord hills without seeing it to the blue +mountains in the horizon. So many streams, so many meadows and woods +and quiet dwellings of men had lain concealed between us and those +Delectable Mountains;—from yonder hill on the road to Tyngsborough you +may get a good view of them. There where it seemed uninterrupted forest +to our youthful eyes, between two neighboring pines in the horizon, lay +the valley of the Nashua, and this very stream was even then winding at +its bottom, and then, as now, it was here silently mingling its waters +with the Merrimack. The clouds which floated over its meadows and were +born there, seen far in the west, gilded by the rays of the setting +sun, had adorned a thousand evening skies for us. But as it were, by a +turf wall this valley was concealed, and in our journey to those hills +it was first gradually revealed to us. Summer and winter our eyes had +rested on the dim outline of the mountains, to which distance and +indistinctness lent a grandeur not their own, so that they served to +interpret all the allusions of poets and travellers. Standing on the +Concord Cliffs we thus spoke our mind to them:— + +With frontier strength ye stand your ground, +With grand content ye circle round, +Tumultuous silence for all sound, +Ye distant nursery of rills, +Monadnock and the Peterborough Hills;— +Firm argument that never stirs, +Outcircling the philosophers,— +Like some vast fleet, +Sailing through rain and sleet, +Through winter’s cold and summer’s heat; +Still holding on upon your high emprise, +Until ye find a shore amid the skies; +Not skulking close to land, +With cargo contraband, +For they who sent a venture out by ye +Have set the Sun to see +Their honesty. + +Ships of the line, each one, +Ye westward run, +Convoying clouds, +Which cluster in your shrouds, +Always before the gale, +Under a press of sail, +With weight of metal all untold,— +I seem to feel ye in my firm seat here, +Immeasurable depth of hold, +And breadth of beam, and length of running gear + +Methinks ye take luxurious pleasure +In your novel western leisure; +So cool your brows and freshly blue, +As Time had naught for ye to do; +For ye lie at your length, +An unappropriated strength, +Unhewn primeval timber, +For knees so stiff, for masts so limber; +The stock of which new earths are made, +One day to be our _western_ trade, +Fit for the stanchions of a world +Which through the seas of space is hurled. + +While we enjoy a lingering ray, +Ye still o’ertop the western day, +Reposing yonder on God’s croft +Like solid stacks of hay; +So bold a line as ne’er was writ +On any page by human wit; +The forest glows as if +An enemy’s camp-fires shone +Along the horizon, +Or the day’s funeral pyre +Were lighted there; +Edged with silver and with gold, +The clouds hang o’er in damask fold, +And with such depth of amber light +The west is dight, +Where still a few rays slant, +That even Heaven seems extravagant. +Watatic Hill +Lies on the horizon’s sill +Like a child’s toy left overnight, +And other duds to left and right, +On the earth’s edge, mountains and trees +Stand as they were on air graven, +Or as the vessels in a haven +Await the morning breeze. +I fancy even +Through your defiles windeth the way to heaven; +And yonder still, in spite of history’s page, +Linger the golden and the silver age; +Upon the laboring gale +The news of future centuries is brought, +And of new dynasties of thought, +From your remotest vale. + +But special I remember thee, +Wachusett, who like me +Standest alone without society. +Thy far blue eye, +A remnant of the sky, +Seen through the clearing or the gorge, +Or from the windows of the forge, +Doth leaven all it passes by. +Nothing is true +But stands ’tween me and you, +Thou western pioneer, +Who know’st not shame nor fear, +By venturous spirit driven +Under the eaves of heaven; +And canst expand thee there, +And breathe enough of air? +Even beyond the West +Thou migratest, +Into unclouded tracts, +Without a pilgrim’s axe, +Cleaving thy road on high +With thy well-tempered brow, +And mak’st thyself a clearing in the sky. +Upholding heaven, holding down earth, +Thy pastime from thy birth; +Not steadied by the one, nor leaning on the other, +May I approve myself thy worthy brother! + + +At length, like Rasselas and other inhabitants of happy valleys, we had +resolved to scale the blue wall which bounded the western horizon, +though not without misgivings that thereafter no visible fairy-land +would exist for us. But it would be long to tell of our adventures, and +we have no time this afternoon, transporting ourselves in imagination +up this hazy Nashua valley, to go over again that pilgrimage. We have +since made many similar excursions to the principal mountains of New +England and New York, and even far in the wilderness, and have passed a +night on the summit of many of them. And now, when we look again +westward from our native hills, Wachusett and Monadnock have retreated +once more among the blue and fabulous mountains in the horizon, though +our eyes rest on the very rocks on both of them, where we have pitched +our tent for a night, and boiled our hasty-pudding amid the clouds. + +As late as 1724 there was no house on the north side of the Nashua, but +only scattered wigwams and grisly forests between this frontier and +Canada. In September of that year, two men who were engaged in making +turpentine on that side, for such were the first enterprises in the +wilderness, were taken captive and carried to Canada by a party of +thirty Indians. Ten of the inhabitants of Dunstable, going to look for +them, found the hoops of their barrel cut, and the turpentine spread on +the ground. I have been told by an inhabitant of Tyngsborough, who had +the story from his ancestors, that one of these captives, when the +Indians were about to upset his barrel of turpentine, seized a pine +knot and flourishing it, swore so resolutely that he would kill the +first who touched it, that they refrained, and when at length he +returned from Canada he found it still standing. Perhaps there was more +than one barrel. However this may have been, the scouts knew by marks +on the trees, made with coal mixed with grease, that the men were not +killed, but taken prisoners. One of the company, named Farwell, +perceiving that the turpentine had not done spreading, concluded that +the Indians had been gone but a short time, and they accordingly went +in instant pursuit. Contrary to the advice of Farwell, following +directly on their trail up the Merrimack, they fell into an ambuscade +near Thornton’s Ferry, in the present town of Merrimack, and nine were +killed, only one, Farwell, escaping after a vigorous pursuit. The men +of Dunstable went out and picked up their bodies, and carried them all +down to Dunstable and buried them. It is almost word for word as in the +Robin Hood ballad:— + +“They carried these foresters into fair Nottingham, + As many there did know, +They digged them graves in their churchyard, + And they buried them all a-row.” + + +Nottingham is only the other side of the river, and they were not +exactly all a-row. You may read in the churchyard at Dunstable, under +the “Memento Mori,” and the name of one of them, how they “departed +this life,” and + +“This man with seven more that lies in + this grave was slew all in a day by + the Indians.” + + +The stones of some others of the company stand around the common grave +with their separate inscriptions. Eight were buried here, but nine were +killed, according to the best authorities. + +“Gentle river, gentle river, + Lo, thy streams are stained with gore, +Many a brave and noble captain + Floats along thy willowed shore. + +“All beside thy limpid waters, + All beside thy sands so bright, +_Indian_ Chiefs and Christian warriors + Joined in fierce and mortal fight.” + + +It is related in the History of Dunstable, that on the return of +Farwell the Indians were engaged by a fresh party which they compelled +to retreat, and pursued as far as the Nashua, where they fought across +the stream at its mouth. After the departure of the Indians, the figure +of an Indian’s head was found carved by them on a large tree by the +shore, which circumstance has given its name to this part of the +village of Nashville,—the “Indian Head.” “It was observed by some +judicious,” says Gookin, referring to Philip’s war, “that at the +beginning of the war the English soldiers made a nothing of the +Indians, and many spake words to this effect: that one Englishman was +sufficient to chase ten Indians; many reckoned it was no other but +_Veni, vidi, vici._” But we may conclude that the judicious would by +this time have made a different observation. + +Farwell appears to have been the only one who had studied his +profession, and understood the business of hunting Indians. He lived to +fight another day, for the next year he was Lovewell’s lieutenant at +Pequawket, but that time, as we have related, he left his bones in the +wilderness. His name still reminds us of twilight days and forest +scouts on Indian trails, with an uneasy scalp;—an indispensable hero to +New England. As the more recent poet of Lovewell’s fight has sung, +halting a little but bravely still:— + +“Then did the crimson streams that flowed + Seem like the waters of the brook, +That brightly shine, that loudly dash, + Far down the cliffs of Agiochook.” + + +These battles sound incredible to us. I think that posterity will doubt +if such things ever were; if our bold ancestors who settled this land +were not struggling rather with the forest shadows, and not with a +copper-colored race of men. They were vapors, fever and ague of the +unsettled woods. Now, only a few arrow-heads are turned up by the +plough. In the Pelasgic, the Etruscan, or the British story, there is +nothing so shadowy and unreal. + +It is a wild and antiquated looking graveyard, overgrown with bushes, +on the high-road, about a quarter of a mile from and overlooking the +Merrimack, with a deserted mill-stream bounding it on one side, where +lie the earthly remains of the ancient inhabitants of Dunstable. We +passed it three or four miles below here. You may read there the names +of Lovewell, Farwell, and many others whose families were distinguished +in Indian warfare. We noticed there two large masses of granite more +than a foot thick and rudely squared, lying flat on the ground over the +remains of the first pastor and his wife. + +It is remarkable that the dead lie everywhere under stones,— + +“Strata jacent passim _suo_ quæque sub” _lapide_— + + +_corpora_, we might say, if the measure allowed. When the stone is a +slight one, it does not oppress the spirits of the traveller to +meditate by it; but these did seem a little heathenish to us; and so +are all large monuments over men’s bodies, from the pyramids down. A +monument should at least be “star-y-pointing,” to indicate whither the +spirit is gone, and not prostrate, like the body it has deserted. There +have been some nations who could do nothing but construct tombs, and +these are the only traces which they have left. They are the heathen. +But why these stones, so upright and emphatic, like exclamation-points? +What was there so remarkable that lived? Why should the monument be so +much more enduring than the fame which it is designed to perpetuate,—a +stone to a bone? “Here lies,”—“Here lies”;—why do they not sometimes +write, There rises? Is it a monument to the body only that is intended? +“Having reached the term of his _natural_ life”;—would it not be truer +to say, Having reached the term of his _unnatural_ life? The rarest +quality in an epitaph is truth. If any character is given, it should be +as severely true as the decision of the three judges below, and not the +partial testimony of friends. Friends and contemporaries should supply +only the name and date, and leave it to posterity to write the epitaph. + +Here lies an honest man, +Rear-Admiral Van. + + ——— + +Faith, then ye have +Two in one grave, +For in his favor, +Here too lies the Engraver. + + +Fame itself is but an epitaph; as late, as false, as true. But they +only are the true epitaphs which Old Mortality retouches. + +A man might well pray that he may not taboo or curse any portion of +nature by being buried in it. For the most part, the best man’s spirit +makes a fearful sprite to haunt his grave, and it is therefore much to +the credit of Little John, the famous follower of Robin Hood, and +reflecting favorably on his character, that his grave was “long +celebrous for the yielding of excellent whetstones.” I confess that I +have but little love for such collections as they have at the +Catacombs, Père la Chaise, Mount Auburn, and even this Dunstable +graveyard. At any rate, nothing but great antiquity can make graveyards +interesting to me. I have no friends there. It may be that I am not +competent to write the poetry of the grave. The farmer who has skimmed +his farm might perchance leave his body to Nature to be ploughed in, +and in some measure restore its fertility. We should not retard but +forward her economies. + +Soon the village of Nashua was out of sight, and the woods were gained +again, and we rowed slowly on before sunset, looking for a solitary +place in which to spend the night. A few evening clouds began to be +reflected in the water and the surface was dimpled only here and there +by a muskrat crossing the stream. We camped at length near Penichook +Brook, on the confines of what is now Nashville, by a deep ravine, +under the skirts of a pine wood, where the dead pine-leaves were our +carpet, and their tawny boughs stretched overhead. But fire and smoke +soon tamed the scene; the rocks consented to be our walls, and the +pines our roof. A woodside was already the fittest locality for us. + +The wilderness is near as well as dear to every man. Even the oldest +villages are indebted to the border of wild wood which surrounds them, +more than to the gardens of men. There is something indescribably +inspiriting and beautiful in the aspect of the forest skirting and +occasionally jutting into the midst of new towns, which, like the +sand-heaps of fresh fox-burrows, have sprung up in their midst. The +very uprightness of the pines and maples asserts the ancient rectitude +and vigor of nature. Our lives need the relief of such a background, +where the pine flourishes and the jay still screams. + +We had found a safe harbor for our boat, and as the sun was setting +carried up our furniture, and soon arranged our house upon the bank, +and while the kettle steamed at the tent door, we chatted of distant +friends and of the sights which we were to behold, and wondered which +way the towns lay from us. Our cocoa was soon boiled, and supper set +upon our chest, and we lengthened out this meal, like old voyageurs, +with our talk. Meanwhile we spread the map on the ground, and read in +the Gazetteer when the first settlers came here and got a township +granted. Then, when supper was done and we had written the journal of +our voyage, we wrapped our buffaloes about us and lay down with our +heads pillowed on our arms listening awhile to the distant baying of a +dog, or the murmurs of the river, or to the wind, which had not gone to +rest:— + +The western wind came lumbering in, +Bearing a faint Pacific din, +Our evening mail, swift at the call +Of its Postmaster General; +Laden with news from Californ’, +Whate’er transpired hath since morn, +How wags the world by brier and brake +From hence to Athabasca Lake;— + + +or half awake and half asleep, dreaming of a star which glimmered +through our cotton roof. Perhaps at midnight one was awakened by a +cricket shrilly singing on his shoulder, or by a hunting spider in his +eye, and was lulled asleep again by some streamlet purling its way +along at the bottom of a wooded and rocky ravine in our neighborhood. +It was pleasant to lie with our heads so low in the grass, and hear +what a tinkling ever-busy laboratory it was. A thousand little artisans +beat on their anvils all night long. + +Far in the night as we were falling asleep on the bank of the +Merrimack, we heard some tyro beating a drum incessantly, in +preparation for a country muster, as we learned, and we thought of the +line,— + +“When the drum beat at dead of night.” + + +We could have assured him that his beat would be answered, and the +forces be mustered. Fear not, thou drummer of the night, we too will be +there. And still he drummed on in the silence and the dark. This stray +sound from a far-off sphere came to our ears from time to time, far, +sweet, and significant, and we listened with such an unprejudiced sense +as if for the first time we heard at all. No doubt he was an +insignificant drummer enough, but his music afforded us a prime and +leisure hour, and we felt that we were in season wholly. These simple +sounds related us to the stars. Ay, there was a logic in them so +convincing that the combined sense of mankind could never make me doubt +their conclusions. I stop my habitual thinking, as if the plough had +suddenly run deeper in its furrow through the crust of the world. How +can I go on, who have just stepped over such a bottomless skylight in +the bog of my life. Suddenly old Time winked at me,—Ah, you know me, +you rogue,—and news had come that IT was well. That ancient universe is +in such capital health, I think undoubtedly it will never die. Heal +yourselves, doctors; by God, I live. + + Then idle Time ran gadding by + And left me with Eternity alone; +I hear beyond the range of sound, +I see beyond the verge of sight,— + + +I see, smell, taste, hear, feel, that everlasting Something to which we +are allied, at once our maker, our abode, our destiny, our very Selves; +the one historic truth, the most remarkable fact which can become the +distinct and uninvited subject of our thought, the actual glory of the +universe; the only fact which a human being cannot avoid recognizing, +or in some way forget or dispense with. + + It doth expand my privacies +To all, and leave me single in the crowd. + + +I have seen how the foundations of the world are laid, and I have not +the least doubt that it will stand a good while. + +Now chiefly is my natal hour, +And only now my prime of life. +I will not doubt the love untold, +Which not my worth nor want hath bought, +Which wooed me young and wooes me old, +And to this evening hath me brought. + + +What are ears? what is Time? that this particular series of sounds +called a strain of music, an invisible and fairy troop which never +brushed the dew from any mead, can be wafted down through the centuries +from Homer to me, and he have been conversant with that same aerial and +mysterious charm which now so tingles my ears? What a fine +communication from age to age, of the fairest and noblest thoughts, the +aspirations of ancient men, even such as were never communicated by +speech, is music! It is the flower of language, thought colored and +curved, fluent and flexible, its crystal fountain tinged with the sun’s +rays, and its purling ripples reflecting the grass and the clouds. A +strain of music reminds me of a passage of the Vedas, and I associate +with it the idea of infinite remoteness, as well as of beauty and +serenity, for to the senses that is farthest from us which addresses +the greatest depth within us. It teaches us again and again to trust +the remotest and finest as the divinest instinct, and makes a dream our +only real experience. We feel a sad cheer when we hear it, perchance +because we that hear are not one with that which is heard. + +Therefore a torrent of sadness deep, +Through the strains of thy triumph is heard to sweep. + + +The sadness is ours. The Indian poet Calidas says in the Sacontala: +“Perhaps the sadness of men on seeing beautiful forms and hearing sweet +music arises from some faint remembrance of past joys, and the traces +of connections in a former state of existence.” As polishing expresses +the vein in marble, and grain in wood, so music brings out what of +heroic lurks anywhere. The hero is the sole patron of music. That +harmony which exists naturally between the hero’s moods and the +universe the soldier would fain imitate with drum and trumpet. When we +are in health all sounds fife and drum for us; we hear the notes of +music in the air, or catch its echoes dying away when we awake in the +dawn. Marching is when the pulse of the hero beats in unison with the +pulse of Nature, and he steps to the measure of the universe; then +there is true courage and invincible strength. + +Plutarch says that “Plato thinks the gods never gave men music, the +science of melody and harmony, for mere delectation or to tickle the +ear; but that the discordant parts of the circulations and beauteous +fabric of the soul, and that of it that roves about the body, and many +times, for want of tune and air, breaks forth into many extravagances +and excesses, might be sweetly recalled and artfully wound up to their +former consent and agreement.” + +Music is the sound of the universal laws promulgated. It is the only +assured tone. There are in it such strains as far surpass any man’s +faith in the loftiness of his destiny. Things are to be learned which +it will be worth the while to learn. Formerly I heard these + +RUMORS FROM AN ÆOLIAN HARP. + + +There is a vale which none hath seen, +Where foot of man has never been, +Such as here lives with toil and strife, +An anxious and a sinful life. + +There every virtue has its birth, +Ere it descends upon the earth, +And thither every deed returns, +Which in the generous bosom burns. + +There love is warm, and youth is young, +And poetry is yet unsung, +For Virtue still adventures there, +And freely breathes her native air. + +And ever, if you hearken well, +You still may hear its vesper bell, +And tread of high-souled men go by, +Their thoughts conversing with the sky. + + +According to Jamblichus, “Pythagoras did not procure for himself a +thing of this kind through instruments or the voice, but employing a +certain ineffable divinity, and which it is difficult to apprehend, he +extended his ears and fixed his intellect in the sublime symphonies of +the world, he alone hearing and understanding, as it appears, the +universal harmony and consonance of the spheres, and the stars that are +moved through them, and which produce a fuller and more intense melody +than anything effected by mortal sounds.” + +Travelling on foot very early one morning due east from here about +twenty miles, from Caleb Harriman’s tavern in Hampstead toward +Haverhill, when I reached the railroad in Plaistow, I heard at some +distance a faint music in the air like an Æolian harp, which I +immediately suspected to proceed from the cord of the telegraph +vibrating in the just awakening morning wind, and applying my ear to +one of the posts I was convinced that it was so. It was the telegraph +harp singing its message through the country, its message sent not by +men, but by gods. Perchance, like the statue of Memnon, it resounds +only in the morning, when the first rays of the sun fall on it. It was +like the first lyre or shell heard on the sea-shore,—that vibrating +cord high in the air over the shores of earth. So have all things their +higher and their lower uses. I heard a fairer news than the journals +ever print. It told of things worthy to hear, and worthy of the +electric fluid to carry the news of, not of the price of cotton and +flour, but it hinted at the price of the world itself and of things +which are priceless, of absolute truth and beauty. + +Still the drum rolled on, and stirred our blood to fresh extravagance +that night. The clarion sound and clang of corselet and buckler were +heard from many a hamlet of the soul, and many a knight was arming for +the fight behind the encamped stars. + + “Before each van +Prick forth the aery knights, and couch their spears +Till thickest legions close; with feats of arms +From either end of Heaven the welkin burns.” + + ————— + +Away! away! away! away! + Ye have not kept your secret well, +I will abide that other day, + Those other lands ye tell. + +Has time no leisure left for these, + The acts that ye rehearse? +Is not eternity a lease + For better deeds than verse? + +’T is sweet to hear of heroes dead, + To know them still alive, +But sweeter if we earn their bread, + And in us they survive. + +Our life should feed the springs of fame + With a perennial wave. +As ocean feeds the babbling founts + Which find in it their grave. + +Ye skies drop gently round my breast, + And be my corselet blue, +Ye earth receive my lance in rest, + My faithful charger you; + +Ye stars my spear-heads in the sky, + My arrow-tips ye are; +I see the routed foemen fly, + My bright spears fixed are. + +Give me an angel for a foe, + Fix now the place and time, +And straight to meet him I will go + Above the starry chime. + +And with our clashing bucklers’ clang + The heavenly spheres shall ring, +While bright the northern lights shall hang + Beside our tourneying. + +And if she lose her champion true, + Tell Heaven not despair, +For I will be her champion new, + Her fame I will repair. + + +There was a high wind this night, which we afterwards learned had been +still more violent elsewhere, and had done much injury to the +cornfields far and near; but we only heard it sigh from time to time, +as if it had no license to shake the foundations of our tent; the pines +murmured, the water rippled, and the tent rocked a little, but we only +laid our ears closer to the ground, while the blast swept on to alarm +other men, and long before sunrise we were ready to pursue our voyage +as usual. + + + + +TUESDAY + + +“On either side the river lie +Long fields of barley and of rye, +That clothe the wold and meet the sky; +And through the fields the road runs by + To many-towered Camelot.” + +TENNYSON. + +Long before daylight we ranged abroad, hatchet in hand, in search of +fuel, and made the yet slumbering and dreaming wood resound with our +blows. Then with our fire we burned up a portion of the loitering +night, while the kettle sang its homely strain to the morning star. We +tramped about the shore, waked all the muskrats, and scared up the +bittern and birds that were asleep upon their roosts; we hauled up and +upset our boat and washed it and rinsed out the clay, talking aloud as +if it were broad day, until at length, by three o’clock, we had +completed our preparations and were ready to pursue our voyage as +usual; so, shaking the clay from our feet, we pushed into the fog. + +Though we were enveloped in mist as usual, we trusted that there was a +bright day behind it. + + Ply the oars! away! away! +In each dew-drop of the morning + Lies the promise of a day. + +Rivers from the sunrise flow, + Springing with the dewy morn; +Voyageurs ’gainst time do row, +Idle noon nor sunset know, + Ever even with the dawn. + + +Belknap, the historian of this State, says that, “In the neighborhood +of fresh rivers and ponds, a whitish fog in the morning lying over the +water is a sure indication of fair weather for that day; and when no +fog is seen, rain is expected before night.” That which seemed to us to +invest the world was only a narrow and shallow wreath of vapor +stretched over the channel of the Merrimack from the seaboard to the +mountains. More extensive fogs, however, have their own limits. I once +saw the day break from the top of Saddle-back Mountain in +Massachusetts, above the clouds. As we cannot distinguish objects +through this dense fog, let me tell this story more at length. + +I had come over the hills on foot and alone in serene summer days, +plucking the raspberries by the wayside, and occasionally buying a loaf +of bread at a farmer’s house, with a knapsack on my back which held a +few traveller’s books and a change of clothing, and a staff in my hand. +I had that morning looked down from the Hoosack Mountain, where the +road crosses it, on the village of North Adams in the valley three +miles away under my feet, showing how uneven the earth may sometimes +be, and making it seem an accident that it should ever be level and +convenient for the feet of man. Putting a little rice and sugar and a +tin cup into my knapsack at this village, I began in the afternoon to +ascend the mountain, whose summit is three thousand six hundred feet +above the level of the sea, and was seven or eight miles distant by the +path. My route lay up a long and spacious valley called the Bellows, +because the winds rush up or down it with violence in storms, sloping +up to the very clouds between the principal range and a lower mountain. +There were a few farms scattered along at different elevations, each +commanding a fine prospect of the mountains to the north, and a stream +ran down the middle of the valley on which near the head there was a +mill. It seemed a road for the pilgrim to enter upon who would climb to +the gates of heaven. Now I crossed a hay-field, and now over the brook +on a slight bridge, still gradually ascending all the while with a sort +of awe, and filled with indefinite expectations as to what kind of +inhabitants and what kind of nature I should come to at last. It now +seemed some advantage that the earth was uneven, for one could not +imagine a more noble position for a farm-house than this vale afforded, +farther from or nearer to its head, from a glen-like seclusion +overlooking the country at a great elevation between these two mountain +walls. + +It reminded me of the homesteads of the Huguenots, on Staten Island, +off the coast of New Jersey. The hills in the interior of this island, +though comparatively low, are penetrated in various directions by +similar sloping valleys on a humble scale, gradually narrowing and +rising to the centre, and at the head of these the Huguenots, who were +the first settlers, placed their houses quite within the land, in rural +and sheltered places, in leafy recesses where the breeze played with +the poplar and the gum-tree, from which, with equal security in calm +and storm, they looked out through a widening vista, over miles of +forest and stretching salt marsh, to the Huguenot’s Tree, an old elm on +the shore at whose root they had landed, and across the spacious outer +bay of New York to Sandy Hook and the Highlands of Neversink, and +thence over leagues of the Atlantic, perchance to some faint vessel in +the horizon, almost a day’s sail on her voyage to that Europe whence +they had come. When walking in the interior there, in the midst of +rural scenery, where there was as little to remind me of the ocean as +amid the New Hampshire hills, I have suddenly, through a gap, a cleft +or “clove road,” as the Dutch settlers called it, caught sight of a +ship under full sail, over a field of corn, twenty or thirty miles at +sea. The effect was similar, since I had no means of measuring +distances, to seeing a painted ship passed backwards and forwards +through a magic-lantern. + +But to return to the mountain. It seemed as if he must be the most +singular and heavenly minded man whose dwelling stood highest up the +valley. The thunder had rumbled at my heels all the way, but the shower +passed off in another direction, though if it had not, I half believed +that I should get above it. I at length reached the last house but one, +where the path to the summit diverged to the right, while the summit +itself rose directly in front. But I determined to follow up the valley +to its head, and then find my own route up the steep as the shorter and +more adventurous way. I had thoughts of returning to this house, which +was well kept and so nobly placed, the next day, and perhaps remaining +a week there, if I could have entertainment. Its mistress was a frank +and hospitable young woman, who stood before me in a dishabille, busily +and unconcernedly combing her long black hair while she talked, giving +her head the necessary toss with each sweep of the comb, with lively, +sparkling eyes, and full of interest in that lower world from which I +had come, talking all the while as familiarly as if she had known me +for years, and reminding me of a cousin of mine. She at first had taken +me for a student from Williamstown, for they went by in parties, she +said, either riding or walking, almost every pleasant day, and were a +pretty wild set of fellows; but they never went by the way I was going. +As I passed the last house, a man called out to know what I had to +sell, for seeing my knapsack, he thought that I might be a pedler who +was taking this unusual route over the ridge of the valley into South +Adams. He told me that it was still four or five miles to the summit by +the path which I had left, though not more than two in a straight line +from where I was, but that nobody ever went this way; there was no +path, and I should find it as steep as the roof of a house. But I knew +that I was more used to woods and mountains than he, and went along +through his cow-yard, while he, looking at the sun, shouted after me +that I should not get to the top that night. I soon reached the head of +the valley, but as I could not see the summit from this point, I +ascended a low mountain on the opposite side, and took its bearing with +my compass. I at once entered the woods, and began to climb the steep +side of the mountain in a diagonal direction, taking the bearing of a +tree every dozen rods. The ascent was by no means difficult or +unpleasant, and occupied much less time than it would have taken to +follow the path. Even country people, I have observed, magnify the +difficulty of travelling in the forest, and especially among mountains. +They seem to lack their usual common sense in this. I have climbed +several higher mountains without guide or path, and have found, as +might be expected, that it takes only more time and patience commonly +than to travel the smoothest highway. It is very rare that you meet +with obstacles in this world which the humblest man has not faculties +to surmount. It is true we may come to a perpendicular precipice, but +we need not jump off nor run our heads against it. A man may jump down +his own cellar stairs or dash his brains out against his chimney, if he +is mad. So far as my experience goes, travellers generally exaggerate +the difficulties of the way. Like most evil, the difficulty is +imaginary; for what’s the hurry? If a person lost would conclude that +after all he is not lost, he is not beside himself, but standing in his +own old shoes on the very spot where he is, and that for the time being +he will live there; but the places that have known him, _they_ are +lost,—how much anxiety and danger would vanish. I am not alone if I +stand by myself. Who knows where in space this globe is rolling? Yet we +will not give ourselves up for lost, let it go where it will. + +I made my way steadily upward in a straight line through a dense +undergrowth of mountain laurel, until the trees began to have a scraggy +and infernal look, as if contending with frost goblins, and at length I +reached the summit, just as the sun was setting. Several acres here had +been cleared, and were covered with rocks and stumps, and there was a +rude observatory in the middle which overlooked the woods. I had one +fair view of the country before the sun went down, but I was too +thirsty to waste any light in viewing the prospect, and set out +directly to find water. First, going down a well-beaten path for half a +mile through the low scrubby wood, till I came to where the water stood +in the tracks of the horses which had carried travellers up, I lay down +flat, and drank these dry, one after another, a pure, cold, spring-like +water, but yet I could not fill my dipper, though I contrived little +siphons of grass-stems, and ingenious aqueducts on a small scale; it +was too slow a process. Then remembering that I had passed a moist +place near the top, on my way up, I returned to find it again, and +here, with sharp stones and my hands, in the twilight, I made a well +about two feet deep, which was soon filled with pure cold water, and +the birds too came and drank at it. So I filled my dipper, and, making +my way back to the observatory, collected some dry sticks, and made a +fire on some flat stones which had been placed on the floor for that +purpose, and so I soon cooked my supper of rice, having already +whittled a wooden spoon to eat it with. + +I sat up during the evening, reading by the light of the fire the +scraps of newspapers in which some party had wrapped their luncheon; +the prices current in New York and Boston, the advertisements, and the +singular editorials which some had seen fit to publish, not foreseeing +under what critical circumstances they would be read. I read these +things at a vast advantage there, and it seemed to me that the +advertisements, or what is called the business part of a paper, were +greatly the best, the most useful, natural, and respectable. Almost all +the opinions and sentiments expressed were so little considered, so +shallow and flimsy, that I thought the very texture of the paper must +be weaker in that part and tear the more easily. The advertisements and +the prices current were more closely allied to nature, and were +respectable in some measure as tide and meteorological tables are; but +the reading-matter, which I remembered was most prized down below, +unless it was some humble record of science, or an extract from some +old classic, struck me as strangely whimsical, and crude, and +one-idea’d, like a school-boy’s theme, such as youths write and after +burn. The opinions were of that kind that are doomed to wear a +different aspect to-morrow, like last year’s fashions; as if mankind +were very green indeed, and would be ashamed of themselves in a few +years, when they had outgrown this verdant period. There was, moreover, +a singular disposition to wit and humor, but rarely the slightest real +success; and the apparent success was a terrible satire on the attempt; +the Evil Genius of man laughed the loudest at his best jokes. The +advertisements, as I have said, such as were serious, and not of the +modern quack kind, suggested pleasing and poetic thoughts; for commerce +is really as interesting as nature. The very names of the commodities +were poetic, and as suggestive as if they had been inserted in a +pleasing poem,—Lumber, Cotton, Sugar, Hides, Guano, Logwood. Some +sober, private, and original thought would have been grateful to read +there, and as much in harmony with the circumstances as if it had been +written on a mountain-top; for it is of a fashion which never changes, +and as respectable as hides and logwood, or any natural product. What +an inestimable companion such a scrap of paper would have been, +containing some fruit of a mature life. What a relic! What a recipe! It +seemed a divine invention, by which not mere shining coin, but shining +and current thoughts, could be brought up and left there. + +As it was cold, I collected quite a pile of wood and lay down on a +board against the side of the building, not having any blanket to cover +me, with my head to the fire, that I might look after it, which is not +the Indian rule. But as it grew colder towards midnight, I at length +encased myself completely in boards, managing even to put a board on +top of me, with a large stone on it, to keep it down, and so slept +comfortably. I was reminded, it is true, of the Irish children, who +inquired what their neighbors did who had no door to put over them in +winter nights as they had; but I am convinced that there was nothing +very strange in the inquiry. Those who have never tried it can have no +idea how far a door, which keeps the single blanket down, may go toward +making one comfortable. We are constituted a good deal like chickens, +which taken from the hen, and put in a basket of cotton in the +chimney-corner, will often peep till they die, nevertheless, but if you +put in a book, or anything heavy, which will press down the cotton, and +feel like the hen, they go to sleep directly. My only companions were +the mice, which came to pick up the crumbs that had been left in those +scraps of paper; still, as everywhere, pensioners on man, and not +unwisely improving this elevated tract for their habitation. They +nibbled what was for them; I nibbled what was for me. Once or twice in +the night, when I looked up, I saw a white cloud drifting through the +windows, and filling the whole upper story. + +This observatory was a building of considerable size, erected by the +students of Williamstown College, whose buildings might be seen by +daylight gleaming far down in the valley. It would be no small +advantage if every college were thus located at the base of a mountain, +as good at least as one well-endowed professorship. It were as well to +be educated in the shadow of a mountain as in more classical shades. +Some will remember, no doubt, not only that they went to the college, +but that they went to the mountain. Every visit to its summit would, as +it were, generalize the particular information gained below, and +subject it to more catholic tests. + +I was up early and perched upon the top of this tower to see the +daybreak, for some time reading the names that had been engraved there, +before I could distinguish more distant objects. An “untamable fly” +buzzed at my elbow with the same nonchalance as on a molasses hogshead +at the end of Long Wharf. Even there I must attend to his stale +humdrum. But now I come to the pith of this long digression.—As the +light increased I discovered around me an ocean of mist, which by +chance reached up exactly to the base of the tower, and shut out every +vestige of the earth, while I was left floating on this fragment of the +wreck of a world, on my carved plank, in cloudland; a situation which +required no aid from the imagination to render it impressive. As the +light in the east steadily increased, it revealed to me more clearly +the new world into which I had risen in the night, the new _terra +firma_ perchance of my future life. There was not a crevice left +through which the trivial places we name Massachusetts or Vermont or +New York could be seen, while I still inhaled the clear atmosphere of a +July morning,—if it were July there. All around beneath me was spread +for a hundred miles on every side, as far as the eye could reach, an +undulating country of clouds, answering in the varied swell of its +surface to the terrestrial world it veiled. It was such a country as we +might see in dreams, with all the delights of paradise. There were +immense snowy pastures, apparently smooth-shaven and firm, and shady +vales between the vaporous mountains; and far in the horizon I could +see where some luxurious misty timber jutted into the prairie, and +trace the windings of a water-course, some unimagined Amazon or +Orinoko, by the misty trees on its brink. As there was wanting the +symbol, so there was not the substance of impurity, no spot nor stain. +It was a favor for which to be forever silent to be shown this vision. +The earth beneath had become such a flitting thing of lights and +shadows as the clouds had been before. It was not merely veiled to me, +but it had passed away like the phantom of a shadow, σκιᾶς ὄναρ, and +this new platform was gained. As I had climbed above storm and cloud, +so by successive days’ journeys I might reach the region of eternal +day, beyond the tapering shadow of the earth; ay, + + “Heaven itself shall slide, +And roll away, like melting stars that glide +Along their oily threads.” + + +But when its own sun began to rise on this pure world, I found myself a +dweller in the dazzling halls of Aurora, into which poets have had but +a partial glance over the eastern hills, drifting amid the +saffron-colored clouds, and playing with the rosy fingers of the Dawn, +in the very path of the Sun’s chariot, and sprinkled with its dewy +dust, enjoying the benignant smile, and near at hand the far-darting +glances of the god. The inhabitants of earth behold commonly but the +dark and shadowy under-side of heaven’s pavement; it is only when seen +at a favorable angle in the horizon, morning or evening, that some +faint streaks of the rich lining of the clouds are revealed. But my +muse would fail to convey an impression of the gorgeous tapestry by +which I was surrounded, such as men see faintly reflected afar off in +the chambers of the east. Here, as on earth, I saw the gracious god + +“Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, + +. . . . . . + +Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy.” + + +But never here did “Heaven’s sun” stain himself. + +But, alas, owing, as I think, to some unworthiness in myself, my +private sun did stain himself, and + +“Anon permit the basest clouds to ride +With ugly wrack on his celestial face,”— + + +for before the god had reached the zenith the heavenly pavement rose +and embraced my wavering virtue, or rather I sank down again into that +“forlorn world,” from which the celestial sun had hid his visage,— + +“How may a worm that crawls along the dust, +Clamber the azure mountains, thrown so high, +And fetch from thence thy fair idea just, +That in those sunny courts doth hidden lie, +Clothed with such light as blinds the angel’s eye? + How may weak mortal ever hope to file + His unsmooth tongue, and his deprostrate style? +O, raise thou from his corse thy now entombed exile!” + + +In the preceding evening I had seen the summits of new and yet higher +mountains, the Catskills, by which I might hope to climb to heaven +again, and had set my compass for a fair lake in the southwest, which +lay in my way, for which I now steered, descending the mountain by my +own route, on the side opposite to that by which I had ascended, and +soon found myself in the region of cloud and drizzling rain, and the +inhabitants affirmed that it had been a cloudy and drizzling day +wholly. + +But now we must make haste back before the fog disperses to the blithe +Merrimack water. + +Since that first “Away! away!” + Many a lengthy reach we’ve rowed, +Still the sparrow on the spray +Hastes to usher in the day + With her simple stanza’d ode. + + +We passed a canal-boat before sunrise, groping its way to the seaboard, +and, though we could not see it on account of the fog, the few dull, +thumping, stertorous sounds which we heard, impressed us with a sense +of weight and irresistible motion. One little rill of commerce already +awake on this distant New Hampshire river. The fog, as it required more +skill in the steering, enhanced the interest of our early voyage, and +made the river seem indefinitely broad. A slight mist, through which +objects are faintly visible, has the effect of expanding even ordinary +streams, by a singular mirage, into arms of the sea or inland lakes. In +the present instance it was even fragrant and invigorating, and we +enjoyed it as a sort of earlier sunshine, or dewy and embryo light. + +Low-anchored cloud, +Newfoundland air, +Fountain-head and source of rivers, +Dew-cloth, dream drapery, +And napkin spread by fays; +Drifting meadow of the air, +Where bloom the daisied banks and violets, +And in whose fenny labyrinth +The bittern booms and heron wades; +Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers, +Bear only perfumes and the scent +Of healing herbs to just men’s fields! + + +The same pleasant and observant historian whom we quoted above says, +that, “In the mountainous parts of the country, the ascent of vapors, +and their formation into clouds, is a curious and entertaining object. +The vapors are seen rising in small columns like smoke from many +chimneys. When risen to a certain height, they spread, meet, condense, +and are attracted to the mountains, where they either distil in gentle +dews, and replenish the springs, or descend in showers, accompanied +with thunder. After short intermissions, the process is repeated many +times in the course of a summer day, affording to travellers a lively +illustration of what is observed in the Book of Job, ‘They are wet with +the showers of the mountains.’” + +Fogs and clouds which conceal the overshadowing mountains lend the +breadth of the plains to mountain vales. Even a small-featured country +acquires some grandeur in stormy weather when clouds are seen drifting +between the beholder and the neighboring hills. When, in travelling +toward Haverhill through Hampstead in this State, on the height of land +between the Merrimack and the Piscataqua or the sea, you commence the +descent eastward, the view toward the coast is so distant and +unexpected, though the sea is invisible, that you at first suppose the +unobstructed atmosphere to be a fog in the lowlands concealing hills of +corresponding elevation to that you are upon; but it is the mist of +prejudice alone, which the winds will not disperse. The most stupendous +scenery ceases to be sublime when it becomes distinct, or in other +words limited, and the imagination is no longer encouraged to +exaggerate it. The actual height and breadth of a mountain or a +waterfall are always ridiculously small; they are the imagined only +that content us. Nature is not made after such a fashion as we would +have her. We piously exaggerate her wonders, as the scenery around our +home. + +Such was the heaviness of the dews along this river that we were +generally obliged to leave our tent spread over the bows of the boat +till the sun had dried it, to avoid mildew. We passed the mouth of +Penichook Brook, a wild salmon-stream, in the fog, without seeing it. +At length the sun’s rays struggled through the mist and showed us the +pines on shore dripping with dew, and springs trickling from the moist +banks,— + +“And now the taller sons, whom Titan warms, +Of unshorn mountains blown with easy winds, +Dandle the morning’s childhood in their arms, +And, if they chanced to slip the prouder pines, +The under corylets did catch their shines, +To gild their leaves.” + + +We rowed for some hours between glistening banks before the sun had +dried the grass and leaves, or the day had established its character. +Its serenity at last seemed the more profound and secure for the +denseness of the morning’s fog. The river became swifter, and the +scenery more pleasing than before. The banks were steep and clayey for +the most part, and trickling with water, and where a spring oozed out a +few feet above the river the boatmen had cut a trough out of a slab +with their axes, and placed it so as to receive the water and fill +their jugs conveniently. Sometimes this purer and cooler water, +bursting out from under a pine or a rock, was collected into a basin +close to the edge of and level with the river, a fountain-head of the +Merrimack. So near along life’s stream are the fountains of innocence +and youth making fertile its sandy margin; and the voyageur will do +well to replenish his vessels often at these uncontaminated sources. +Some youthful spring, perchance, still empties with tinkling music into +the oldest river, even when it is falling into the sea, and we imagine +that its music is distinguished by the river-gods from the general +lapse of the stream, and falls sweeter on their ears in proportion as +it is nearer to the ocean. As the evaporations of the river feed thus +these unsuspected springs which filter through its banks, so, +perchance, our aspirations fall back again in springs on the margin of +life’s stream to refresh and purify it. The yellow and tepid river may +float his scow, and cheer his eye with its reflections and its ripples, +but the boatman quenches his thirst at this small rill alone. It is +this purer and cooler element that chiefly sustains his life. The race +will long survive that is thus discreet. + +Our course this morning lay between the territories of Merrimack, on +the west, and Litchfield, once called Brenton’s Farm, on the east, +which townships were anciently the Indian Naticook. Brenton was a +fur-trader among the Indians, and these lands were granted to him in +1656. The latter township contains about five hundred inhabitants, of +whom, however, we saw none, and but few of their dwellings. Being on +the river, whose banks are always high and generally conceal the few +houses, the country appeared much more wild and primitive than to the +traveller on the neighboring roads. The river is by far the most +attractive highway, and those boatmen who have spent twenty or +twenty-five years on it must have had a much fairer, more wild, and +memorable experience than the dusty and jarring one of the teamster who +has driven, during the same time, on the roads which run parallel with +the stream. As one ascends the Merrimack he rarely sees a village, but +for the most part alternate wood and pasture lands, and sometimes a +field of corn or potatoes, of rye or oats or English grass, with a few +straggling apple-trees, and, at still longer intervals, a farmer’s +house. The soil, excepting the best of the interval, is commonly as +light and sandy as a patriot could desire. Sometimes this forenoon the +country appeared in its primitive state, and as if the Indian still +inhabited it, and, again, as if many free, new settlers occupied it, +their slight fences straggling down to the water’s edge; and the +barking of dogs, and even the prattle of children, were heard, and +smoke was seen to go up from some hearthstone, and the banks were +divided into patches of pasture, mowing, tillage, and woodland. But +when the river spread out broader, with an uninhabited islet, or a +long, low sandy shore which ran on single and devious, not answering to +its opposite, but far off as if it were sea-shore or single coast, and +the land no longer nursed the river in its bosom, but they conversed as +equals, the rustling leaves with rippling waves, and few fences were +seen, but high oak woods on one side, and large herds of cattle, and +all tracks seemed a point to one centre behind some statelier grove,—we +imagined that the river flowed through an extensive manor, and that the +few inhabitants were retainers to a lord, and a feudal state of things +prevailed. + +When there was a suitable reach, we caught sight of the Goffstown +mountain, the Indian Uncannunuc, rising before us on the west side. It +was a calm and beautiful day, with only a slight zephyr to ripple the +surface of the water, and rustle the woods on shore, and just warmth +enough to prove the kindly disposition of Nature to her children. With +buoyant spirits and vigorous impulses we tossed our boat rapidly along +into the very middle of this forenoon. The fish-hawk sailed and +screamed overhead. The chipping or striped squirrel, _Sciurus striatus_ +(_Tamias Lysteri_, Aud.), sat upon the end of some Virginia fence or +rider reaching over the stream, twirling a green nut with one paw, as +in a lathe, while the other held it fast against its incisors as +chisels. Like an independent russet leaf, with a will of its own, +rustling whither it could; now under the fence, now over it, now +peeping at the voyageurs through a crack with only its tail visible, +now at its lunch deep in the toothsome kernel, and now a rod off +playing at hide-and-seek, with the nut stowed away in its chops, where +were half a dozen more besides, extending its cheeks to a ludicrous +breadth,—as if it were devising through what safe valve of frisk or +somerset to let its superfluous life escape; the stream passing +harmlessly off, even while it sits, in constant electric flashes +through its tail. And now with a chuckling squeak it dives into the +root of a hazel, and we see no more of it. Or the larger red squirrel +or chickaree, sometimes called the Hudson Bay squirrel (_Scriurus +Hudsonius_), gave warning of our approach by that peculiar alarum of +his, like the winding up of some strong clock, in the top of a +pine-tree, and dodged behind its stem, or leaped from tree to tree with +such caution and adroitness, as if much depended on the fidelity of his +scout, running along the white-pine boughs sometimes twenty rods by our +side, with such speed, and by such unerring routes, as if it were some +well-worn familiar path to him; and presently, when we have passed, he +returns to his work of cutting off the pine-cones, and letting them +fall to the ground. + +We passed Cromwell’s Falls, the first we met with on this river, this +forenoon, by means of locks, without using our wheels. These falls are +the Nesenkeag of the Indians. Great Nesenkeag Stream comes in on the +right just above, and Little Nesenkeag some distance below, both in +Litchfield. We read in the Gazetteer, under the head of Merrimack, that +“The first house in this town was erected on the margin of the river +[soon after 1665] for a house of traffic with the Indians. For some +time one Cromwell carried on a lucrative trade with them, weighing +their furs with his foot, till, enraged at his supposed or real +deception, they formed the resolution to murder him. This intention +being communicated to Cromwell, he buried his wealth and made his +escape. Within a few hours after his flight, a party of the Penacook +tribe arrived, and, not finding the object of their resentment, burnt +his habitation.” Upon the top of the high bank here, close to the +river, was still to be seen his cellar, now overgrown with trees. It +was a convenient spot for such a traffic, at the foot of the first +falls above the settlements, and commanding a pleasant view up the +river, where he could see the Indians coming down with their furs. The +lock-man told us that his shovel and tongs had been ploughed up here, +and also a stone with his name on it. But we will not vouch for the +truth of this story. In the New Hampshire Historical Collections for +1815 it says, “Some time after pewter was found in the well, and an +iron pot and trammel in the sand; the latter are preserved.” These were +the traces of the white trader. On the opposite bank, where it jutted +over the stream cape-wise, we picked up four arrow-heads and a small +Indian tool made of stone, as soon as we had climbed it, where plainly +there had once stood a wigwam of the Indians with whom Cromwell traded, +and who fished and hunted here before he came. + +As usual the gossips have not been silent respecting Cromwell’s buried +wealth, and it is said that some years ago a farmer’s plough, not far +from here, slid over a flat stone which emitted a hollow sound, and, on +its being raised, a small hole six inches in diameter was discovered, +stoned about, from which a sum of money was taken. The lock-man told us +another similar story about a farmer in a neighboring town, who had +been a poor man, but who suddenly bought a good farm, and was well to +do in the world, and, when he was questioned, did not give a +satisfactory account of the matter; how few, alas, could! This caused +his hired man to remember that one day, as they were ploughing +together, the plough struck something, and his employer, going back to +look, concluded not to go round again, saying that the sky looked +rather lowering, and so put up his team. The like urgency has caused +many things to be remembered which never transpired. The truth is, +there is money buried everywhere, and you have only to go to work to +find it. + +Not far from these falls stands an oak-tree, on the interval, about a +quarter of a mile from the river, on the farm of a Mr. Lund, which was +pointed out to us as the spot where French, the leader of the party +which went in pursuit of the Indians from Dunstable, was killed. +Farwell dodged them in the thick woods near. It did not look as if men +had ever had to run for their lives on this now open and peaceful +interval. + +Here too was another extensive desert by the side of the road in +Litchfield, visible from the bank of the river. The sand was blown off +in some places to the depth of ten or twelve feet, leaving small +grotesque hillocks of that height, where there was a clump of bushes +firmly rooted. Thirty or forty years ago, as we were told, it was a +sheep-pasture, but the sheep, being worried by the fleas, began to paw +the ground, till they broke the sod, and so the sand began to blow, +till now it had extended over forty or fifty acres. This evil might +easily have been remedied, at first, by spreading birches with their +leaves on over the sand, and fastening them down with stakes, to break +the wind. The fleas bit the sheep, and the sheep bit the ground, and +the sore had spread to this extent. It is astonishing what a great sore +a little scratch breedeth. Who knows but Sahara, where caravans and +cities are buried, began with the bite of an African flea? This poor +globe, how it must itch in many places! Will no god be kind enough to +spread a salve of birches over its sores? Here too we noticed where the +Indians had gathered a heap of stones, perhaps for their council-fire, +which, by their weight having prevented the sand under them from +blowing away, were left on the summit of a mound. They told us that +arrow-heads, and also bullets of lead and iron, had been found here. We +noticed several other sandy tracts in our voyage; and the course of the +Merrimack can be traced from the nearest mountain by its yellow +sandbanks, though the river itself is for the most part invisible. +Lawsuits, as we hear, have in some cases grown out of these causes. +Railroads have been made through certain irritable districts, breaking +their sod, and so have set the sand to blowing, till it has converted +fertile farms into deserts, and the company has had to pay the damages. + +This sand seemed to us the connecting link between land and water. It +was a kind of water on which you could walk, and you could see the +ripple-marks on its surface, produced by the winds, precisely like +those at the bottom of a brook or lake. We had read that Mussulmen are +permitted by the Koran to perform their ablutions in sand when they +cannot get water, a necessary indulgence in Arabia, and we now +understood the propriety of this provision. + +Plum Island, at the mouth of this river, to whose formation, perhaps, +these very banks have sent their contribution, is a similar desert of +drifting sand, of various colors, blown into graceful curves by the +wind. It is a mere sand-bar exposed, stretching nine miles parallel to +the coast, and, exclusive of the marsh on the inside, rarely more than +half a mile wide. There are but half a dozen houses on it, and it is +almost without a tree, or a sod, or any green thing with which a +countryman is familiar. The thin vegetation stands half buried in sand, +as in drifting snow. The only shrub, the beach-plum, which gives the +island its name, grows but a few feet high; but this is so abundant +that parties of a hundred at once come from the main-land and down the +Merrimack, in September, pitch their tents, and gather the plums, which +are good to eat raw and to preserve. The graceful and delicate +beach-pea, too, grows abundantly amid the sand, and several strange, +moss-like and succulent plants. The island for its whole length is +scalloped into low hills, not more than twenty feet high, by the wind, +and, excepting a faint trail on the edge of the marsh, is as trackless +as Sahara. There are dreary bluffs of sand and valleys ploughed by the +wind, where you might expect to discover the bones of a caravan. +Schooners come from Boston to load with the sand for masons’ uses, and +in a few hours the wind obliterates all traces of their work. Yet you +have only to dig a foot or two anywhere to come to fresh water; and you +are surprised to learn that woodchucks abound here, and foxes are +found, though you see not where they can burrow or hide themselves. I +have walked down the whole length of its broad beach at low tide, at +which time alone you can find a firm ground to walk on, and probably +Massachusetts does not furnish a more grand and dreary walk. On the +seaside there are only a distant sail and a few coots to break the +grand monotony. A solitary stake stuck up, or a sharper sand-hill than +usual, is remarkable as a landmark for miles; while for music you hear +only the ceaseless sound of the surf, and the dreary peep of the +beach-birds. + +There were several canal-boats at Cromwell’s Falls passing through the +locks, for which we waited. In the forward part of one stood a brawny +New Hampshire man, leaning on his pole, bareheaded and in shirt and +trousers only, a rude Apollo of a man, coming down from that “vast +uplandish country” to the main; of nameless age, with flaxen hair, and +vigorous, weather-bleached countenance, in whose wrinkles the sun still +lodged, as little touched by the heats and frosts and withering cares +of life as a maple of the mountain; an undressed, unkempt, uncivil man, +with whom we parleyed awhile, and parted not without a sincere interest +in one another. His humanity was genuine and instinctive, and his +rudeness only a manner. He inquired, just as we were passing out of +earshot, if we had killed anything, and we shouted after him that we +had shot a _buoy_, and could see him for a long while scratching his +head in vain to know if he had heard aright. + +There is reason in the distinction of civil and uncivil. The manners +are sometimes so rough a rind that we doubt whether they cover any core +or sap-wood at all. We sometimes meet uncivil men, children of Amazons, +who dwell by mountain paths, and are said to be inhospitable to +strangers; whose salutation is as rude as the grasp of their brawny +hands, and who deal with men as unceremoniously as they are wont to +deal with the elements. They need only to extend their clearings, and +let in more sunlight, to seek out the southern slopes of the hills, +from which they may look down on the civil plain or ocean, and temper +their diet duly with the cereal fruits, consuming less wild meat and +acorns, to become like the inhabitants of cities. A true politeness +does not result from any hasty and artificial polishing, it is true, +but grows naturally in characters of the right grain and quality, +through a long fronting of men and events, and rubbing on good and bad +fortune. Perhaps I can tell a tale to the purpose while the lock is +filling,—for our voyage this forenoon furnishes but few incidents of +importance. + +Early one summer morning I had left the shores of the Connecticut, and +for the livelong day travelled up the bank of a river, which came in +from the west; now looking down on the stream, foaming and rippling +through the forest a mile off, from the hills over which the road led, +and now sitting on its rocky brink and dipping my feet in its rapids, +or bathing adventurously in mid-channel. The hills grew more and more +frequent, and gradually swelled into mountains as I advanced, hemming +in the course of the river, so that at last I could not see where it +came from, and was at liberty to imagine the most wonderful meanderings +and descents. At noon I slept on the grass in the shade of a maple, +where the river had found a broader channel than usual, and was spread +out shallow, with frequent sand-bars exposed. In the names of the towns +I recognized some which I had long ago read on teamsters’ wagons, that +had come from far up country; quiet, uplandish towns, of mountainous +fame. I walked along, musing and enchanted, by rows of sugar-maples, +through the small and uninquisitive villages, and sometimes was pleased +with the sight of a boat drawn up on a sand-bar, where there appeared +no inhabitants to use it. It seemed, however, as essential to the river +as a fish, and to lend a certain dignity to it. It was like the trout +of mountain streams to the fishes of the sea, or like the young of the +land-crab born far in the interior, who have never yet heard the sound +of the ocean’s surf. The hills approached nearer and nearer to the +stream, until at last they closed behind me, and I found myself just +before nightfall in a romantic and retired valley, about half a mile in +length, and barely wide enough for the stream at its bottom. I thought +that there could be no finer site for a cottage among mountains. You +could anywhere run across the stream on the rocks, and its constant +murmuring would quiet the passions of mankind forever. Suddenly the +road, which seemed aiming for the mountain-side, turned short to the +left, and another valley opened, concealing the former, and of the same +character with it. It was the most remarkable and pleasing scenery I +had ever seen. I found here a few mild and hospitable inhabitants, who, +as the day was not quite spent, and I was anxious to improve the light, +directed me four or five miles farther on my way to the dwelling of a +man whose name was Rice, who occupied the last and highest of the +valleys that lay in my path, and who, they said, was a rather rude and +uncivil man. But “what is a foreign country to those who have science? +Who is a stranger to those who have the habit of speaking kindly?” + +At length, as the sun was setting behind the mountains in a still +darker and more solitary vale, I reached the dwelling of this man. +Except for the narrowness of the plain, and that the stones were solid +granite, it was the counterpart of that retreat to which Belphœbe bore +the wounded Timias,— + + “In a pleasant glade, +With mountains round about environed, +And mighty woods, which did the valley shade, +And like a stately theatre it made, +Spreading itself into a spacious plain; +And in the midst a little river played +Amongst the pumy stones which seemed to plain, +With gentle murmur, that his course they did restrain.” + + +I observed, as I drew near, that he was not so rude as I had +anticipated, for he kept many cattle, and dogs to watch them, and I saw +where he had made maple-sugar on the sides of the mountains, and above +all distinguished the voices of children mingling with the murmur of +the torrent before the door. As I passed his stable I met one whom I +supposed to be a hired man, attending to his cattle, and I inquired if +they entertained travellers at that house. “Sometimes we do,” he +answered, gruffly, and immediately went to the farthest stall from me, +and I perceived that it was Rice himself whom I had addressed. But +pardoning this incivility to the wildness of the scenery, I bent my +steps to the house. There was no sign-post before it, nor any of the +usual invitations to the traveller, though I saw by the road that many +went and came there, but the owner’s name only was fastened to the +outside; a sort of implied and sullen invitation, as I thought. I +passed from room to room without meeting any one, till I came to what +seemed the guests’ apartment, which was neat, and even had an air of +refinement about it, and I was glad to find a map against the wall +which would direct me on my journey on the morrow. At length I heard a +step in a distant apartment, which was the first I had entered, and +went to see if the landlord had come in; but it proved to be only a +child, one of those whose voices I had heard, probably his son, and +between him and me stood in the doorway a large watch-dog, which +growled at me, and looked as if he would presently spring, but the boy +did not speak to him; and when I asked for a glass of water, he briefly +said, “It runs in the corner.” So I took a mug from the counter and +went out of doors, and searched round the corner of the house, but +could find neither well nor spring, nor any water but the stream which +ran all along the front. I came back, therefore, and, setting down the +mug, asked the child if the stream was good to drink; whereupon he +seized the mug, and, going to the corner of the room, where a cool +spring which issued from the mountain behind trickled through a pipe +into the apartment, filled it, and drank, and gave it to me empty +again, and, calling to the dog, rushed out of doors. Erelong some of +the hired men made their appearance, and drank at the spring, and +lazily washed themselves and combed their hair in silence, and some sat +down as if weary, and fell asleep in their seats. But all the while I +saw no women, though I sometimes heard a bustle in that part of the +house from which the spring came. + +At length Rice himself came in, for it was now dark, with an ox-whip in +his hand, breathing hard, and he too soon settled down into his seat +not far from me, as if, now that his day’s work was done, he had no +farther to travel, but only to digest his supper at his leisure. When I +asked him if he could give me a bed, he said there was one ready, in +such a tone as implied that I ought to have known it, and the less said +about that the better. So far so good. And yet he continued to look at +me as if he would fain have me say something further like a traveller. +I remarked, that it was a wild and rugged country he inhabited, and +worth coming many miles to see. “Not so very rough neither,” said he, +and appealed to his men to bear witness to the breadth and smoothness +of his fields, which consisted in all of one small interval, and to the +size of his crops; “and if we have some hills,” added he, “there’s no +better pasturage anywhere.” I then asked if this place was the one I +had heard of, calling it by a name I had seen on the map, or if it was +a certain other; and he answered, gruffly, that it was neither the one +nor the other; that he had settled it and cultivated it, and made it +what it was, and I could know nothing about it. Observing some guns and +other implements of hunting hanging on brackets around the room, and +his hounds now sleeping on the floor, I took occasion to change the +discourse, and inquired if there was much game in that country, and he +answered this question more graciously, having some glimmering of my +drift; but when I inquired if there were any bears, he answered +impatiently that he was no more in danger of losing his sheep than his +neighbors; he had tamed and civilized that region. After a pause, +thinking of my journey on the morrow, and the few hours of daylight in +that hollow and mountainous country, which would require me to be on my +way betimes, I remarked that the day must be shorter by an hour there +than on the neighboring plains; at which he gruffly asked what I knew +about it, and affirmed that he had as much daylight as his neighbors; +he ventured to say, the days were longer there than where I lived, as I +should find if I stayed; that in some way, I could not be expected to +understand how, the sun came over the mountains half an hour earlier, +and stayed half an hour later there than on the neighboring plains. And +more of like sort he said. He was, indeed, as rude as a fabled satyr. +But I suffered him to pass for what he was,—for why should I quarrel +with nature?—and was even pleased at the discovery of such a singular +natural phenomenon. I dealt with him as if to me all manners were +indifferent, and he had a sweet, wild way with him. I would not +question nature, and I would rather have him as he was than as I would +have him. For I had come up here not for sympathy, or kindness, or +society, but for novelty and adventure, and to see what nature had +produced here. I therefore did not repel his rudeness, but quite +innocently welcomed it all, and knew how to appreciate it, as if I were +reading in an old drama a part well sustained. He was indeed a coarse +and sensual man, and, as I have said, uncivil, but he had his just +quarrel with nature and mankind, I have no doubt, only he had no +artificial covering to his ill-humors. He was earthy enough, but yet +there was good soil in him, and even a long-suffering Saxon probity at +bottom. If you could represent the case to him, he would not let the +race die out in him, like a red Indian. + +At length I told him that he was a fortunate man, and I trusted that he +was grateful for so much light; and, rising, said I would take a lamp, +and that I would pay him then for my lodging, for I expected to +recommence my journey even as early as the sun rose in his country; but +he answered in haste, and this time civilly, that I should not fail to +find some of his household stirring, however early, for they were no +sluggards, and I could take my breakfast with them before I started, if +I chose; and as he lighted the lamp I detected a gleam of true +hospitality and ancient civility, a beam of pure and even gentle +humanity, from his bleared and moist eyes. It was a look more intimate +with me, and more explanatory, than any words of his could have been if +he had tried to his dying day. It was more significant than any Rice of +those parts could even comprehend, and long anticipated this man’s +culture,—a glance of his pure genius, which did not much enlighten him, +but did impress and rule him for the moment, and faintly constrain his +voice and manner. He cheerfully led the way to my apartment, stepping +over the limbs of his men, who were asleep on the floor in an +intervening chamber, and showed me a clean and comfortable bed. For +many pleasant hours after the household was asleep I sat at the open +window, for it was a sultry night, and heard the little river + +“Amongst the pumy stones, which seemed to plain, +With gentle murmur, that his course they did restrain.” + + +But I arose as usual by starlight the next morning, before my host, or +his men, or even his dogs, were awake; and, having left a ninepence on +the counter, was already half-way over the mountain with the sun before +they had broken their fast. + +Before I had left the country of my host, while the first rays of the +sun slanted over the mountains, as I stopped by the wayside to gather +some raspberries, a very old man, not far from a hundred, came along +with a milking-pail in his hand, and turning aside began to pluck the +berries near me:— + + “His reverend locks +In comelye curles did wave; +And on his aged temples grew + The blossoms of the grave.” + + +But when I inquired the way, he answered in a low, rough voice, without +looking up or seeming to regard my presence, which I imputed to his +years; and presently, muttering to himself, he proceeded to collect his +cows in a neighboring pasture; and when he had again returned near to +the wayside, he suddenly stopped, while his cows went on before, and, +uncovering his head, prayed aloud in the cool morning air, as if he had +forgotten this exercise before, for his daily bread, and also that He +who letteth his rain fall on the just and on the unjust, and without +whom not a sparrow falleth to the ground, would not neglect the +stranger (meaning me), and with even more direct and personal +applications, though mainly according to the long-established formula +common to lowlanders and the inhabitants of mountains. When he had done +praying, I made bold to ask him if he had any cheese in his hut which +he would sell me, but he answered without looking up, and in the same +low and repulsive voice as before, that they did not make any, and went +to milking. It is written, “The stranger who turneth away from a house +with disappointed hopes, leaveth there his own offences, and departeth, +taking with him all the good actions of the owner.” + +Being now fairly in the stream of this week’s commerce, we began to +meet with boats more frequently, and hailed them from time to time with +the freedom of sailors. The boatmen appeared to lead an easy and +contented life, and we thought that we should prefer their employment +ourselves to many professions which are much more sought after. They +suggested how few circumstances are necessary to the well-being and +serenity of man, how indifferent all employments are, and that any may +seem noble and poetic to the eyes of men, if pursued with sufficient +buoyancy and freedom. With liberty and pleasant weather, the simplest +occupation, any unquestioned country mode of life which detains us in +the open air, is alluring. The man who picks peas steadily for a living +is more than respectable, he is even envied by his shop-worn neighbors. +We are as happy as the birds when our Good Genius permits us to pursue +any out-door work, without a sense of dissipation. Our penknife +glitters in the sun; our voice is echoed by yonder wood; if an oar +drops, we are fain to let it drop again. + +The canal-boat is of very simple construction, requiring but little +ship-timber, and, as we were told, costs about two hundred dollars. +They are managed by two men. In ascending the stream they use poles +fourteen or fifteen feet long, pointed with iron, walking about one +third the length of the boat from the forward end. Going down, they +commonly keep in the middle of the stream, using an oar at each end; or +if the wind is favorable they raise their broad sail, and have only to +steer. They commonly carry down wood or bricks,—fifteen or sixteen +cords of wood, and as many thousand bricks, at a time,—and bring back +stores for the country, consuming two or three days each way between +Concord and Charlestown. They sometimes pile the wood so as to leave a +shelter in one part where they may retire from the rain. One can hardly +imagine a more healthful employment, or one more favorable to +contemplation and the observation of nature. Unlike the mariner, they +have the constantly varying panorama of the shore to relieve the +monotony of their labor, and it seemed to us that as they thus glided +noiselessly from town to town, with all their furniture about them, for +their very homestead is a movable, they could comment on the character +of the inhabitants with greater advantage and security to themselves +than the traveller in a coach, who would be unable to indulge in such +broadsides of wit and humor in so small a vessel for fear of the +recoil. They are not subject to great exposure, like the lumberers of +Maine, in any weather, but inhale the healthfullest breezes, being +slightly encumbered with clothing, frequently with the head and feet +bare. When we met them at noon as they were leisurely descending the +stream, their busy commerce did not look like toil, but rather like +some ancient Oriental game still played on a large scale, as the game +of chess, for instance, handed down to this generation. From morning +till night, unless the wind is so fair that his single sail will +suffice without other labor than steering, the boatman walks backwards +and forwards on the side of his boat, now stooping with his shoulder to +the pole, then drawing it back slowly to set it again, meanwhile moving +steadily forward through an endless valley and an everchanging scenery, +now distinguishing his course for a mile or two, and now shut in by a +sudden turn of the river in a small woodland lake. All the phenomena +which surround him are simple and grand, and there is something +impressive, even majestic, in the very motion he causes, which will +naturally be communicated to his own character, and he feels the slow, +irresistible movement under him with pride, as if it were his own +energy. + +The news spread like wildfire among us youths, when formerly, once in a +year or two, one of these boats came up the Concord River, and was seen +stealing mysteriously through the meadows and past the village. It came +and departed as silently as a cloud, without noise or dust, and was +witnessed by few. One summer day this huge traveller might be seen +moored at some meadow’s wharf, and another summer day it was not there. +Where precisely it came from, or who these men were who knew the rocks +and soundings better than we who bathed there, we could never tell. We +knew some river’s bay only, but they took rivers from end to end. They +were a sort of fabulous river-men to us. It was inconceivable by what +sort of mediation any mere landsman could hold communication with them. +Would they heave to, to gratify his wishes? No, it was favor enough to +know faintly of their destination, or the time of their possible +return. I have seen them in the summer when the stream ran low, mowing +the weeds in mid-channel, and with hayers’ jests cutting broad swaths +in three feet of water, that they might make a passage for their scow, +while the grass in long windrows was carried down the stream, undried +by the rarest hay-weather. We admired unweariedly how their vessel +would float, like a huge chip, sustaining so many casks of lime, and +thousands of bricks, and such heaps of iron ore, with wheelbarrows +aboard, and that, when we stepped on it, it did not yield to the +pressure of our feet. It gave us confidence in the prevalence of the +law of buoyancy, and we imagined to what infinite uses it might be put. +The men appeared to lead a kind of life on it, and it was whispered +that they slept aboard. Some affirmed that it carried sail, and that +such winds blew here as filled the sails of vessels on the ocean; which +again others much doubted. They had been seen to sail across our Fair +Haven bay by lucky fishers who were out, but unfortunately others were +not there to see. We might then say that our river was navigable,—why +not? In after-years I read in print, with no little satisfaction, that +it was thought by some that, with a little expense in removing rocks +and deepening the channel, “there might be a profitable inland +navigation.” _I_ then lived some-where to tell of. + +Such is Commerce, which shakes the cocoa-nut and bread-fruit tree in +the remotest isle, and sooner or later dawns on the duskiest and most +simple-minded savage. If we may be pardoned the digression, who can +help being affected at the thought of the very fine and slight, but +positive relation, in which the savage inhabitants of some remote isle +stand to the mysterious white mariner, the child of the sun?—as if _we_ +were to have dealings with an animal higher in the scale of being than +ourselves. It is a barely recognized fact to the natives that he +exists, and has his home far away somewhere, and is glad to buy their +fresh fruits with his superfluous commodities. Under the same catholic +sun glances his white ship over Pacific waves into their smooth bays, +and the poor savage’s paddle gleams in the air. + +Man’s little acts are grand, +Beheld from land to land, +There as they lie in time, +Within their native clime + Ships with the noontide weigh, + And glide before its ray + To some retired bay, + Their haunt, + Whence, under tropic sun, + Again they run, + Bearing gum Senegal and Tragicant. +For this was ocean meant, +For this the sun was sent, +And moon was lent, +And winds in distant caverns pent. + + +Since our voyage the railroad on the bank has been extended, and there +is now but little boating on the Merrimack. All kinds of produce and +stores were formerly conveyed by water, but now nothing is carried up +the stream, and almost wood and bricks alone are carried down, and +these are also carried on the railroad. The locks are fast wearing out, +and will soon be impassable, since the tolls will not pay the expense +of repairing them, and so in a few years there will be an end of +boating on this river. The boating at present is principally between +Merrimack and Lowell, or Hooksett and Manchester. They make two or +three trips in a week, according to wind and weather, from Merrimack to +Lowell and back, about twenty-five miles each way. The boatman comes +singing in to shore late at night, and moors his empty boat, and gets +his supper and lodging in some house near at hand, and again early in +the morning, by starlight perhaps, he pushes away up stream, and, by a +shout, or the fragment of a song, gives notice of his approach to the +lock-man, with whom he is to take his breakfast. If he gets up to his +wood-pile before noon he proceeds to load his boat, with the help of +his single “hand,” and is on his way down again before night. When he +gets to Lowell he unloads his boat, and gets his receipt for his cargo, +and, having heard the news at the public house at Middlesex or +elsewhere, goes back with his empty boat and his receipt in his pocket +to the owner, and to get a new load. We were frequently advertised of +their approach by some faint sound behind us, and looking round saw +them a mile off, creeping stealthily up the side of the stream like +alligators. It was pleasant to hail these sailors of the Merrimack from +time to time, and learn the news which circulated with them. We +imagined that the sun shining on their bare heads had stamped a liberal +and public character on their most private thoughts. + +The open and sunny interval still stretched away from the river +sometimes by two or more terraces, to the distant hill-country, and +when we climbed the bank we commonly found an irregular copse-wood +skirting the river, the primitive having floated down-stream long ago +to——the “King’s navy.” Sometimes we saw the river-road a quarter or +half a mile distant, and the particolored Concord stage, with its cloud +of dust, its van of earnest travelling faces, and its rear of dusty +trunks, reminding us that the country had its places of rendezvous for +restless Yankee men. There dwelt along at considerable distances on +this interval a quiet agricultural and pastoral people, with every +house its well, as we sometimes proved, and every household, though +never so still and remote it appeared in the noontide, its dinner about +these times. There they lived on, those New England people, farmer +lives, father and grandfather and great-grandfather, on and on without +noise, keeping up tradition, and expecting, beside fair weather and +abundant harvests, we did not learn what. They were contented to live, +since it was so contrived for them, and where their lines had fallen. + +Our uninquiring corpses lie more low +Than our life’s curiosity doth go. + + +Yet these men had no need to travel to be as wise as Solomon in all his +glory, so similar are the lives of men in all countries, and fraught +with the same homely experiences. One half the world _knows_ how the +other half lives. + +About noon we passed a small village in Merrimack at Thornton’s Ferry, +and tasted of the waters of Naticook Brook on the same side, where +French and his companions, whose grave we saw in Dunstable, were +ambuscaded by the Indians. The humble village of Litchfield, with its +steepleless meeting-house, stood on the opposite or east bank, near +where a dense grove of willows backed by maples skirted the shore. +There also we noticed some shagbark-trees, which, as they do not grow +in Concord, were as strange a sight to us as the palm would be, whose +fruit only we have seen. Our course now curved gracefully to the north, +leaving a low, flat shore on the Merrimack side, which forms a sort of +harbor for canal-boats. We observed some fair elms and particularly +large and handsome white-maples standing conspicuously on this +interval; and the opposite shore, a quarter of a mile below, was +covered with young elms and maples six inches high, which had probably +sprung from the seeds which had been washed across. + +Some carpenters were at work here mending a scow on the green and +sloping bank. The strokes of their mallets echoed from shore to shore, +and up and down the river, and their tools gleamed in the sun a quarter +of a mile from us, and we realized that boat-building was as ancient +and honorable an art as agriculture, and that there might be a naval as +well as a pastoral life. The whole history of commerce was made +manifest in that scow turned bottom upward on the shore. Thus did men +begin to go down upon the sea in ships; _quæque diu steterant in +montibus altis, Fluctibus ignotis insultavêre carinæ;_ “and keels which +had long stood on high mountains careered insultingly (_insultavêre_) +over unknown waves.” (Ovid, Met. I. 133.) We thought that it would be +well for the traveller to build his boat on the bank of a stream, +instead of finding a ferry or a bridge. In the Adventures of Henry the +fur-trader, it is pleasant to read that when with his Indians he +reached the shore of Ontario, they consumed two days in making two +canoes of the bark of the elm-tree, in which to transport themselves to +Fort Niagara. It is a worthy incident in a journey, a delay as good as +much rapid travelling. A good share of our interest in Xenophon’s story +of his retreat is in the manœuvres to get the army safely over the +rivers, whether on rafts of logs or fagots, or sheep-skins blown up. +And where could they better afford to tarry meanwhile than on the banks +of a river? + +As we glided past at a distance, these out-door workmen appeared to +have added some dignity to their labor by its very publicness. It was a +part of the industry of nature, like the work of hornets and mud-wasps. + +The waves slowly beat, +Just to keep the noon sweet, +And no sound is floated o’er, +Save the mallet on shore, +Which echoing on high +Seems a-calking the sky. + + +The haze, the sun’s dust of travel, had a Lethean influence on the land +and its inhabitants, and all creatures resigned themselves to float +upon the inappreciable tides of nature. + +Woof of the sun, ethereal gauze, +Woven of Nature’s richest stuffs, +Visible heat, air-water, and dry sea, +Last conquest of the eye; +Toil of the day displayed sun-dust, +Aerial surf upon the shores of earth. +Ethereal estuary, frith of light, +Breakers of air, billows of heat +Fine summer spray on inland seas; +Bird of the sun, transparent-winged +Owlet of noon, soft-pinioned, +From heath or stubble rising without song; +Establish thy serenity o’er the fields + + +The routine which is in the sunshine and the finest days, as that which +has conquered and prevailed, commends itself to us by its very +antiquity and apparent solidity and necessity. Our weakness needs it, +and our strength uses it. We cannot draw on our boots without bracing +ourselves against it. If there were but one erect and solid standing +tree in the woods, all creatures would go to rub against it and make +sure of their footing. During the many hours which we spend in this +waking sleep, the hand stands still on the face of the clock, and we +grow like corn in the night. Men are as busy as the brooks or bees, and +postpone everything to their business; as carpenters discuss politics +between the strokes of the hammer while they are shingling a roof. + +This noontide was a fit occasion to make some pleasant harbor, and +there read the journal of some voyageur like ourselves, not too moral +nor inquisitive, and which would not disturb the noon; or else some old +classic, the very flower of all reading, which we had postponed to such +a season + +“Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure.” + + +But, alas, our chest, like the cabin of a coaster, contained only its +well-thumbed “Navigator” for all literature, and we were obliged to +draw on our memory for these things. + +We naturally remembered Alexander Henry’s Adventures here, as a sort of +classic among books of American travel. It contains scenery and rough +sketching of men and incidents enough to inspire poets for many years, +and to my fancy is as full of sounding names as any page of +history,—Lake Winnipeg, Hudson Bay, Ottaway, and portages innumerable; +Chipeways, Gens de Terres, Les Pilleurs, The Weepers; with +reminiscences of Hearne’s journey, and the like; an immense and shaggy +but sincere country, summer and winter, adorned with chains of lakes +and rivers, covered with snows, with hemlocks, and fir-trees. There is +a naturalness, an unpretending and cold life in this traveller, as in a +Canadian winter, what life was preserved through low temperatures and +frontier dangers by furs within a stout heart. He has truth and +moderation worthy of the father of history, which belong only to an +intimate experience, and he does not defer too much to literature. The +unlearned traveller may quote his single line from the poets with as +good right as the scholar. He too may speak of the stars, for he sees +them shoot perhaps when the astronomer does not. The good sense of this +author is very conspicuous. He is a traveller who does not exaggerate, +but writes for the information of his readers, for science, and for +history. His story is told with as much good faith and directness as if +it were a report to his brother traders, or the Directors of the Hudson +Bay Company, and is fitly dedicated to Sir Joseph Banks. It reads like +the argument to a great poem on the primitive state of the country and +its inhabitants, and the reader imagines what in each case, with the +invocation of the Muse, might be sung, and leaves off with suspended +interest, as if the full account were to follow. In what school was +this fur-trader educated? He seems to travel the immense snowy country +with such purpose only as the reader who accompanies him, and to the +latter’s imagination, it is, as it were, momentarily created to be the +scene of his adventures. What is most interesting and valuable in it, +however, is not the materials for the history of Pontiac, or Braddock, +or the Northwest, which it furnishes; not the _annals_ of the country, +but the natural facts, or _perennials_, which are ever without date. +When out of history the truth shall be extracted, it will have shed its +dates like withered leaves. + +The Souhegan, or _Crooked_ River, as some translate it, comes in from +the west about a mile and a half above Thornton’s Ferry. Babboosuck +Brook empties into it near its mouth. There are said to be some of the +finest water privileges in the country still unimproved on the former +stream, at a short distance from the Merrimack. One spring morning, +March 22, in the year 1677, an incident occurred on the banks of the +river here, which is interesting to us as a slight memorial of an +interview between two ancient tribes of men, one of which is now +extinct, while the other, though it is still represented by a miserable +remnant, has long since disappeared from its ancient hunting-grounds. A +Mr. James Parker, at “Mr. Hinchmanne’s farme ner Meremack,” wrote thus +“to the Honred Governer and Council at Bostown, _Hast, Post Hast”:_— + +“Sagamore Wanalancet come this morning to informe me, and then went to +Mr. Tyng’s to informe him, that his son being on ye other sid of +Meremack river over against Souhegan upon the 22 day of this instant, +about tene of the clock in the morning, he discovered 15 Indians on +this sid the river, which he soposed to be Mohokes by ther spech. He +called to them; they answered, but he could not understand ther spech; +and he having a conow ther in the river, he went to breck his conow +that they might not have ani ues of it. In the mean time they shot +about thirty guns at him, and he being much frighted fled, and come +home forthwith to Nahamcock [Pawtucket Falls or Lowell], wher ther +wigowames now stand.” + +Penacooks and Mohawks! _ubique gentium sunt?_ In the year 1670, a +Mohawk warrior scalped a Naamkeak or else a Wamesit Indian maiden near +where Lowell now stands. She, however, recovered. Even as late as 1685, +John Hogkins, a Penacook Indian, who describes his grandfather as +having lived “at place called Malamake rever, other name chef Natukkog +and Panukkog, that one rever great many names,” wrote thus to the +governor:— + +“May 15th, 1685. + + +“Honor governor my friend,— + +“You my friend I desire your worship and your power, because I hope you +can do som great matters this one. I am poor and naked and I have no +men at my place because I afraid allwayes Mohogs he will kill me every +day and night. If your worship when please pray help me you no let +Mohogs kill me at my place at Malamake river called Pannukkog and +Natukkog, I will submit your worship and your power. And now I want +pouder and such alminishon shatt and guns, because I have forth at my +hom and I plant theare. + +“This all Indian hand, but pray you do consider your humble servant, + +JOHN HOGKINS.” + + +Signed also by Simon Detogkom, King Hary, Sam Linis, Mr. Jorge +Rodunnonukgus, John Owamosimmin, and nine other Indians, with their +marks against their names. + +But now, one hundred and fifty-four years having elapsed since the date +of this letter, we went unalarmed on our way without “brecking” our +“conow,” reading the New England Gazetteer, and seeing no traces of +“Mohogs” on the banks. + +The Souhegan, though a rapid river, seemed to-day to have borrowed its +character from the noon. + +Where gleaming fields of haze +Meet the voyageur’s gaze, +And above, the heated air +Seems to make a river there, +The pines stand up with pride +By the Souhegan’s side, +And the hemlock and the larch +With their triumphal arch +Are waving o’er its march + To the sea. +No wind stirs its waves, +But the spirits of the braves + Hov’ring o’er, +Whose antiquated graves +Its still water laves + On the shore. +With an Indian’s stealthy tread +It goes sleeping in its bed, +Without joy or grief, +Or the rustle of a leaf, +Without a ripple or a billow, +Or the sigh of a willow, +From the Lyndeboro’ hills +To the Merrimack mills. +With a louder din +Did its current begin, +When melted the snow +On the far mountain’s brow, +And the drops came together +In that rainy weather. +Experienced river, +Hast thou flowed forever? +Souhegan soundeth old, +But the half is not told, +What names hast thou borne, +In the ages far gone, +When the Xanthus and Meander +Commenced to wander, +Ere the black bear haunted + Thy red forest-floor, +Or Nature had planted + The pines by thy shore? + + +During the heat of the day, we rested on a large island a mile above +the mouth of this river, pastured by a herd of cattle, with steep banks +and scattered elms and oaks, and a sufficient channel for canal-boats +on each side. When we made a fire to boil some rice for our dinner, the +flames spreading amid the dry grass, and the smoke curling silently +upward and casting grotesque shadows on the ground, seemed phenomena of +the noon, and we fancied that we progressed up the stream without +effort, and as naturally as the wind and tide went down, not outraging +the calm days by unworthy bustle or impatience. The woods on the +neighboring shore were alive with pigeons, which were moving south, +looking for mast, but now, like ourselves, spending their noon in the +shade. We could hear the slight, wiry, winnowing sound of their wings +as they changed their roosts from time to time, and their gentle and +tremulous cooing. They sojourned with us during the noontide, greater +travellers far than we. You may frequently discover a single pair +sitting upon the lower branches of the white-pine in the depths of the +wood, at this hour of the day, so silent and solitary, and with such a +hermit-like appearance, as if they had never strayed beyond its skirts, +while the acorn which was gathered in the forests of Maine is still +undigested in their crops. We obtained one of these handsome birds, +which lingered too long upon its perch, and plucked and broiled it here +with some other game, to be carried along for our supper; for, beside +the provisions which we carried with us, we depended mainly on the +river and forest for our supply. It is true, it did not seem to be +putting this bird to its right use to pluck off its feathers, and +extract its entrails, and broil its carcass on the coals; but we +heroically persevered, nevertheless, waiting for further information. +The same regard for Nature which excited our sympathy for her creatures +nerved our hands to carry through what we had begun. For we would be +honorable to the party we deserted; we would fulfil fate, and so at +length, perhaps, detect the secret innocence of these incessant +tragedies which Heaven allows. + +“Too quick resolves do resolution wrong, +What, part so soon to be divorced so long? +Things to be done are long to be debated; +Heaven is not day’d, Repentance is not dated.” + + +We are double-edged blades, and every time we whet our virtue the +return stroke straps our vice. Where is the skilful swordsman who can +give clean wounds, and not rip up his work with the other edge? + +Nature herself has not provided the most graceful end for her +creatures. What becomes of all these birds that people the air and +forest for our solacement? The sparrows seem always _chipper_, never +infirm. We do not see their bodies lie about. Yet there is a tragedy at +the end of each one of their lives. They must perish miserably; not one +of them is translated. True, “not a sparrow falleth to the ground +without our Heavenly Father’s knowledge,” but they do fall, +nevertheless. + +The carcasses of some poor squirrels, however, the same that frisked so +merrily in the morning, which we had skinned and embowelled for our +dinner, we abandoned in disgust, with tardy humanity, as too wretched a +resource for any but starving men. It was to perpetuate the practice of +a barbarous era. If they had been larger, our crime had been less. +Their small red bodies, little bundles of red tissue, mere gobbets of +venison, would not have “fattened fire.” With a sudden impulse we threw +them away, and washed our hands, and boiled some rice for our dinner. +“Behold the difference between the one who eateth flesh, and him to +whom it belonged! The first hath a momentary enjoyment, whilst the +latter is deprived of existence!” “Who would commit so great a crime +against a poor animal, who is fed only by the herbs which grow wild in +the woods, and whose belly is burnt up with hunger?” We remembered a +picture of mankind in the hunter age, chasing hares down the mountains; +O me miserable! Yet sheep and oxen are but larger squirrels, whose +hides are saved and meat is salted, whose souls perchance are not so +large in proportion to their bodies. + +There should always be some flowering and maturing of the fruits of +nature in the cooking process. Some simple dishes recommend themselves +to our imaginations as well as palates. In parched corn, for instance, +there is a manifest sympathy between the bursting seed and the more +perfect developments of vegetable life. It is a perfect flower with its +petals, like the houstonia or anemone. On my warm hearth these +cerealian blossoms expanded; here is the bank whereon they grew. +Perhaps some such visible blessing would always attend the simple and +wholesome repast. + +Here was that “pleasant harbor” which we had sighed for, where the +weary voyageur could read the journal of some other sailor, whose bark +had ploughed, perchance, more famous and classic seas. At the tables of +the gods, after feasting follow music and song; we will recline now +under these island trees, and for our minstrel call on + +ANACREON. + + +“Nor has he ceased his charming song, for still that lyre, +Though he is dead, sleeps not in Hades.” + + +_Simonides’ Epigram on Anacreon._ + + +I lately met with an old volume from a London bookshop, containing the +Greek Minor Poets, and it was a pleasure to read once more only the +words, Orpheus, Linus, Musæus,—those faint poetic sounds and echoes of +a name, dying away on the ears of us modern men; and those hardly more +substantial sounds, Mimnermus, Ibycus, Alcaeus, Stesichorus, Menander. +They lived not in vain. We can converse with these bodiless fames +without reserve or personality. + +I know of no studies so composing as those of the classical scholar. +When we have sat down to them, life seems as still and serene as if it +were very far off, and I believe it is not habitually seen from any +common platform so truly and unexaggerated as in the light of +literature. In serene hours we contemplate the tour of the Greek and +Latin authors with more pleasure than the traveller does the fairest +scenery of Greece or Italy. Where shall we find a more refined society? +That highway down from Homer and Hesiod to Horace and Juvenal is more +attractive than the Appian. Reading the classics, or conversing with +those old Greeks and Latins in their surviving works, is like walking +amid the stars and constellations, a high and by way serene to travel. +Indeed, the true scholar will be not a little of an astronomer in his +habits. Distracting cares will not be allowed to obstruct the field of +his vision, for the higher regions of literature, like astronomy, are +above storm and darkness. + +But passing by these rumors of bards, let us pause for a moment at the +Teian poet. + +There is something strangely modern about him. He is very easily turned +into English. Is it that our lyric poets have resounded but that lyre, +which would sound only light subjects, and which Simonides tells us +does not sleep in Hades? His odes are like gems of pure ivory. They +possess an ethereal and evanescent beauty like summer evenings, ὅ χρή +σε νοεῖν νόου ἄνθει,—_which you must perceive with the flower of the +mind_,—and show how slight a beauty could be expressed. You have to +consider them, as the stars of lesser magnitude, with the side of the +eye, and look aside from them to behold them. They charm us by their +serenity and freedom from exaggeration and passion, and by a certain +flower-like beauty, which does not propose itself, but must be +approached and studied like a natural object. But perhaps their chief +merit consists in the lightness and yet security of their tread; + +“The young and tender stalk +Ne’er bends when _they_ do walk.” + + +True, our nerves are never strung by them; it is too constantly the +sound of the lyre, and never the note of the trumpet; but they are not +gross, as has been presumed, but always elevated above the sensual. + +These are some of the best that have come down to us. + +ON HIS LYRE. + + +I wish to sing the Atridæ, +And Cadmus I wish to sing; +But my lyre sounds +Only love with its chords. +Lately I changed the strings +And all the lyre; +And I began to sing the labors +Of Hercules; but my lyre +Resounded loves. +Farewell, henceforth, for me, +Heroes! for my lyre +Sings only loves. + +TO A SWALLOW. + + +Thou indeed, dear swallow, +Yearly going and coming, +In summer weavest thy nest, +And in winter go’st disappearing +Either to Nile or to Memphis. +But Love always weaveth +His nest in my heart…. + +ON A SILVER CUP. + + +Turning the silver, +Vulcan, make for me, +Not indeed a panoply, +For what are battles to me? +But a hollow cup, +As deep as thou canst +And make for me in it +Neither stars, nor wagons, +Nor sad Orion; +What are the Pleiades to me? +What the shining Bootes? +Make vines for me, +And clusters of grapes in it, +And of gold Love and Bathyllus +Treading the grapes +With the fair Lyæus + +ON HIMSELF. + + +Thou sing’st the affairs of Thebes, +And he the battles of Troy, +But I of my own defeats. +No horse have wasted me, +Nor foot, nor ships; +But a new and different host, +From eyes smiting me. + +TO A DOVE. + + +Lovely dove, +Whence, whence dost thou fly? +Whence, running on air, +Dost thou waft and diffuse +So many sweet ointments? +Who art? What thy errand?— +Anacreon sent me +To a boy, to Bathyllus, +Who lately is ruler and tyrant of all. +Cythere has sold me +For one little song, +And I’m doing this service +For Anacreon. +And now, as you see, +I bear letters from him. +And he says that directly +He’ll make me free, +But though he release me, +His slave I will tarry with him. +For why should I fly +Over mountains and fields, +And perch upon trees, +Eating some wild thing? +Now indeed I eat bread, +Plucking it from the hands +Of Anacreon himself; +And he gives me to drink +The wine which he tastes, +And drinking, I dance, +And shadow my master’s +Face with my wings; +And, going to rest, +On the lyre itself I sleep. +That is all; get thee gone. +Thou hast made me more talkative, +Man, than a crow. + +ON LOVE. + + +Love walking swiftly, +With hyacinthine staff, +Bade me to take a run with him; +And hastening through swift torrents, +And woody places, and over precipices, +A water-snake stung me. +And my heart leaped up to +My mouth, and I should have fainted; +But Love fanning my brows +With his soft wings, said, +Surely, thou art not able to love. + +ON WOMEN. + + +Nature has given horns +To bulls, and hoofs to horses, +Swiftness to hares, +To lions yawning teeth, +To fishes swimming, +To birds flight, +To men wisdom. +For woman she had nothing beside; +What then does she give? Beauty,— +Instead of all shields, +Instead of all spears; +And she conquers even iron +And fire, who is beautiful. + +ON LOVERS. + + +Horses have the mark +Of fire on their sides, +And some have distinguished +The Parthian men by their crests; +So I, seeing lovers, +Know them at once, +For they have a certain slight +Brand on their hearts. + +TO A SWALLOW. + + +What dost thou wish me to do to thee,— +What, thou loquacious swallow? +Dost thou wish me taking thee +Thy light pinions to clip? +Or rather to pluck out +Thy tongue from within, +As that Tereus did? +Why with thy notes in the dawn +Hast thou plundered Bathyllus +From my beautiful dreams? + +TO A COLT. + + +Thracian colt, why at me +Looking aslant with thy eyes, +Dost thou cruelly flee, +And think that I know nothing wise? +Know I could well +Put the bridle on thee, +And holding the reins, turn +Round the bounds of the course. +But now thou browsest the meads, +And gambolling lightly dost play, +For thou hast no skilful horseman +Mounted upon thy back. + +CUPID WOUNDED. + + +Love once among roses +Saw not +A sleeping bee, but was stung; +And being wounded in the finger +Of his hand, cried for pain. +Running as well as flying +To the beautiful Venus, +I am killed, mother, said he, +I am killed, and I die. +A little serpent has stung me, +Winged, which they call +A bee,—the husbandmen. +And she said, If the sting +Of a bee afflicts you, +How, think you, are they afflicted, +Love, whom you smite? + +————— + + +Late in the afternoon, for we had lingered long on the island, we +raised our sail for the first time, and for a short hour the southwest +wind was our ally; but it did not please Heaven to abet us along. With +one sail raised we swept slowly up the eastern side of the stream, +steering clear of the rocks, while, from the top of a hill which formed +the opposite bank, some lumberers were rolling down timber to be rafted +down the stream. We could see their axes and levers gleaming in the +sun, and the logs came down with a dust and a rumbling sound, which was +reverberated through the woods beyond us on our side, like the roar of +artillery. But Zephyr soon took us out of sight and hearing of this +commerce. Having passed Read’s Ferry, and another island called McGaw’s +Island, we reached some rapids called Moore’s Falls, and entered on +“that section of the river, nine miles in extent, converted, by law, +into the Union Canal, comprehending in that space six distinct falls; +at each of which, and at several intermediate places, work has been +done.” After passing Moore’s Falls by means of locks, we again had +recourse to our oars, and went merrily on our way, driving the small +sandpiper from rock to rock before us, and sometimes rowing near enough +to a cottage on the bank, though they were few and far between, to see +the sunflowers, and the seed vessels of the poppy, like small goblets +filled with the water of Lethe, before the door, but without disturbing +the sluggish household behind. Thus we held on, sailing or dipping our +way along with the paddle up this broad river, smooth and placid, +flowing over concealed rocks, where we could see the pickerel lying low +in the transparent water, eager to double some distant cape, to make +some great bend as in the life of man, and see what new perspective +would open; looking far into a new country, broad and serene, the +cottages of settlers seen afar for the first time, yet with the moss of +a century on their roofs, and the third or fourth generation in their +shadows. Strange was it to consider how the sun and the summer, the +buds of spring and the seared leaves of autumn, were related to these +cabins along the shore; how all the rays which paint the landscape +radiate from them, and the flight of the crow and the gyrations of the +hawk have reference to their roofs. Still the ever rich and fertile +shores accompanied us, fringed with vines and alive with small birds +and frisking squirrels, the edge of some farmer’s field or widow’s +wood-lot, or wilder, perchance, where the muskrat, the little medicine +of the river, drags itself along stealthily over the alder-leaves and +muscle-shells, and man and the memory of man are banished far. + +At length the unwearied, never-sinking shore, still holding on without +break, with its cool copses and serene pasture-grounds, tempted us to +disembark; and we adventurously landed on this remote coast, to survey +it, without the knowledge of any human inhabitant probably to this day. +But we still remember the gnarled and hospitable oaks which grew even +there for our entertainment, and were no strangers to us, the lonely +horse in his pasture, and the patient cows, whose path to the river, so +judiciously chosen to overcome the difficulties of the way, we +followed, and disturbed their ruminations in the shade; and, above all, +the cool, free aspect of the wild apple-trees, generously proffering +their fruit to us, though still green and crude,—the hard, round, +glossy fruit, which, if not ripe, still was not poison, but New-English +too, brought hither its ancestors by ours once. These gentler trees +imparted a half-civilized and twilight aspect to the otherwise +barbarian land. Still farther on we scrambled up the rocky channel of a +brook, which had long served nature for a sluice there, leaping like it +from rock to rock through tangled woods, at the bottom of a ravine, +which grew darker and darker, and more and more hoarse the murmurs of +the stream, until we reached the ruins of a mill, where now the ivy +grew, and the trout glanced through the crumbling flume; and there we +imagined what had been the dreams and speculations of some early +settler. But the waning day compelled us to embark once more, and +redeem this wasted time with long and vigorous sweeps over the rippling +stream. + +It was still wild and solitary, except that at intervals of a mile or +two the roof of a cottage might be seen over the bank. This region, as +we read, was once famous for the manufacture of straw bonnets of the +Leghorn kind, of which it claims the invention in these parts; and +occasionally some industrious damsel tripped down to the water’s edge, +to put her straw a-soak, as it appeared, and stood awhile to watch the +retreating voyageurs, and catch the fragment of a boat-song which we +had made, wafted over the water. + +Thus, perchance, the Indian hunter, + Many a lagging year agone, +Gliding o’er thy rippling waters, + Lowly hummed a natural song. + +Now the sun’s behind the willows, + Now he gleams along the waves, +Faintly o’er the wearied billows + Come the spirits of the braves. + + +Just before sundown we reached some more falls in the town of Bedford, +where some stone-masons were employed repairing the locks in a solitary +part of the river. They were interested in our adventure, especially +one young man of our own age, who inquired at first if we were bound up +to “’Skeag”; and when he had heard our story, and examined our outfit, +asked us other questions, but temperately still, and always turning to +his work again, though as if it were become his duty. It was plain that +he would like to go with us, and, as he looked up the river, many a +distant cape and wooded shore were reflected in his eye, as well as in +his thoughts. When we were ready he left his work, and helped us +through the locks with a sort of quiet enthusiasm, telling us that we +were at Coos Falls, and we could still distinguish the strokes of his +chisel for many sweeps after we had left him. + +We wished to camp this night on a large rock in the middle of the +stream, just above these falls, but the want of fuel, and the +difficulty of fixing our tent firmly, prevented us; so we made our bed +on the main-land opposite, on the west bank, in the town of Bedford, in +a retired place, as we supposed, there being no house in sight. + + + + +WEDNESDAY + + +_“Man is man’s foe and destiny.”_ + +COTTON. + +Early this morning, as we were rolling up our buffaloes and loading our +boat amid the dew, while our embers were still smoking, the masons who +worked at the locks, and whom we had seen crossing the river in their +boat the evening before while we were examining the rock, came upon us +as they were going to their work, and we found that we had pitched our +tent directly in the path to their boat. This was the only time that we +were observed on our camping-ground. Thus, far from the beaten highways +and the dust and din of travel, we beheld the country privately, yet +freely, and at our leisure. Other roads do some violence to Nature, and +bring the traveller to stare at her, but the river steals into the +scenery it traverses without intrusion, silently creating and adorning +it, and is as free to come and go as the zephyr. + +As we shoved away from this rocky coast, before sunrise, the smaller +bittern, the genius of the shore, was moping along its edge, or stood +probing the mud for its food, with ever an eye on us, though so +demurely at work, or else he ran along over the wet stones like a +wrecker in his storm-coat, looking out for wrecks of snails and +cockles. Now away he goes, with a limping flight, uncertain where he +will alight, until a rod of clear sand amid the alders invites his +feet; and now our steady approach compels him to seek a new retreat. It +is a bird of the oldest Thalesian school, and no doubt believes in the +priority of water to the other elements; the relic of a twilight +antediluvian age which yet inhabits these bright American rivers with +us Yankees. There is something venerable in this melancholy and +contemplative race of birds, which may have trodden the earth while it +was yet in a slimy and imperfect state. Perchance their tracks too are +still visible on the stones. It still lingers into our glaring summers, +bravely supporting its fate without sympathy from man, as if it looked +forward to some second advent of which _he_ has no assurance. One +wonders if, by its patient study by rocks and sandy capes, it has +wrested the whole of her secret from Nature yet. What a rich experience +it must have gained, standing on one leg and looking out from its dull +eye so long on sunshine and rain, moon and stars! What could it tell of +stagnant pools and reeds and dank night-fogs! It would be worth the +while to look closely into the eye which has been open and seeing at +such hours, and in such solitudes, its dull, yellowish, greenish eye. +Methinks my own soul must be a bright invisible green. I have seen +these birds stand by the half-dozen together in the shallower water +along the shore, with their bills thrust into the mud at the bottom, +probing for food, the whole head being concealed, while the neck and +body formed an arch above the water. + +Cohass Brook, the outlet of Massabesic Pond,—which last is five or six +miles distant, and contains fifteen hundred acres, being the largest +body of fresh water in Rockingham County,—comes in near here from the +east. Rowing between Manchester and Bedford, we passed, at an early +hour, a ferry and some falls, called Goff’s Falls, the Indian Cohasset, +where there is a small village, and a handsome green islet in the +middle of the stream. From Bedford and Merrimack have been boated the +bricks of which Lowell is made. About twenty years before, as they told +us, one Moore, of Bedford, having clay on his farm, contracted to +furnish eight millions of bricks to the founders of that city within +two years. He fulfilled his contract in one year, and since then bricks +have been the principal export from these towns. The farmers found thus +a market for their wood, and when they had brought a load to the kilns, +they could cart a load of bricks to the shore, and so make a profitable +day’s work of it. Thus all parties were benefited. It was worth the +while to see the place where Lowell was “dug out.” So likewise +Manchester is being built of bricks made still higher up the river at +Hooksett. + +There might be seen here on the bank of the Merrimack, near Goff’s +Falls, in what is now the town of Bedford, famous “for hops and for its +fine domestic manufactures,” some graves of the aborigines. The land +still bears this scar here, and time is slowly crumbling the bones of a +race. Yet, without fail, every spring, since they first fished and +hunted here, the brown thrasher has heralded the morning from a birch +or alder spray, and the undying race of reed-birds still rustles +through the withering grass. But these bones rustle not. These +mouldering elements are slowly preparing for another metamorphosis, to +serve new masters, and what was the Indian’s will erelong be the white +man’s sinew. + +We learned that Bedford was not so famous for hops as formerly, since +the price is fluctuating, and poles are now scarce. Yet if the +traveller goes back a few miles from the river, the hop-kilns will +still excite his curiosity. + +There were few incidents in our voyage this forenoon, though the river +was now more rocky and the falls more frequent than before. It was a +pleasant change, after rowing incessantly for many hours, to lock +ourselves through in some retired place,—for commonly there was no +lock-man at hand,—one sitting in the boat, while the other, sometimes +with no little labor and heave-yo-ing, opened and shut the gates, +waiting patiently to see the locks fill. We did not once use the wheels +which we had provided. Taking advantage of the eddy, we were sometimes +floated up to the locks almost in the face of the falls; and, by the +same cause, any floating timber was carried round in a circle and +repeatedly drawn into the rapids before it finally went down the +stream. These old gray structures, with their quiet arms stretched over +the river in the sun, appeared like natural objects in the scenery, and +the kingfisher and sandpiper alighted on them as readily as on stakes +or rocks. + +We rowed leisurely up the stream for several hours, until the sun had +got high in the sky, our thoughts monotonously beating time to our +oars. For outward variety there was only the river and the receding +shores, a vista continually opening behind and closing before us, as we +sat with our backs up-stream; and, for inward, such thoughts as the +muses grudgingly lent us. We were always passing some low, inviting +shore, or some overhanging bank, on which, however, we never landed. + +Such near aspects had we +Of our life’s scenery. + + +It might be seen by what tenure men held the earth. The smallest stream +is _mediterranean_ sea, a smaller ocean creek within the land, where +men may steer by their farm-bounds and cottage-lights. For my own part, +but for the geographers, I should hardly have known how large a portion +of our globe is water, my life has chiefly passed within so deep a +cove. Yet I have sometimes ventured as far as to the mouth of my Snug +Harbor. From an old ruined fort on Staten Island, I have loved to watch +all day some vessel whose name I had read in the morning through the +telegraph-glass, when she first came upon the coast, and her hull +heaved up and glistened in the sun, from the moment when the pilot and +most adventurous news-boats met her, past the Hook, and up the narrow +channel of the wide outer bay, till she was boarded by the +health-officer, and took her station at Quarantine, or held on her +unquestioned course to the wharves of New York. It was interesting, +too, to watch the less adventurous newsman, who made his assault as the +vessel swept through the Narrows, defying plague and quarantine law, +and, fastening his little cockboat to her huge side, clambered up and +disappeared in the cabin. And then I could imagine what momentous news +was being imparted by the captain, which no American ear had ever +heard, that Asia, Africa, Europe—were all sunk; for which at length he +pays the price, and is seen descending the ship’s side with his bundle +of newspapers, but not where he first got up, for these arrivers do not +stand still to gossip; and he hastes away with steady sweeps to dispose +of his wares to the highest bidder, and we shall erelong read something +startling,—“By the latest arrival,”—“by the good ship——.” On Sunday I +beheld, from some interior hill, the long procession of vessels getting +to sea, reaching from the city wharves through the Narrows, and past +the Hook, quite to the ocean stream, far as the eye could reach, with +stately march and silken sails, all counting on lucky voyages, but each +time some of the number, no doubt, destined to go to Davy’s locker, and +never come on this coast again. And, again, in the evening of a +pleasant day, it was my amusement to count the sails in sight. But as +the setting sun continually brought more and more to light, still +farther in the horizon, the last count always had the advantage, till, +by the time the last rays streamed over the sea, I had doubled and +trebled my first number; though I could no longer class them all under +the several heads of ships, barks, brigs, schooners, and sloops, but +most were faint generic _vessels_ only. And then the temperate twilight +light, perchance, revealed the floating home of some sailor whose +thoughts were already alienated from this American coast, and directed +towards the Europe of our dreams. I have stood upon the same hill-top +when a thunder-shower, rolling down from the Catskills and Highlands, +passed over the island, deluging the land; and, when it had suddenly +left us in sunshine, have seen it overtake successively, with its huge +shadow and dark, descending wall of rain, the vessels in the bay. Their +bright sails were suddenly drooping and dark, like the sides of barns, +and they seemed to shrink before the storm; while still far beyond them +on the sea, through this dark veil, gleamed the sunny sails of those +vessels which the storm had not yet reached. And at midnight, when all +around and overhead was darkness, I have seen a field of trembling, +silvery light far out on the sea, the reflection of the moonlight from +the ocean, as if beyond the precincts of our night, where the moon +traversed a cloudless heaven,—and sometimes a dark speck in its midst, +where some fortunate vessel was pursuing its happy voyage by night. + +But to us river sailors the sun never rose out of ocean waves, but from +some green coppice, and went down behind some dark mountain line. We, +too, were but dwellers on the shore, like the bittern of the morning; +and our pursuit, the wrecks of snails and cockles. Nevertheless, we +were contented to know the better one fair particular shore. + +My life is like a stroll upon the beach, + As near the ocean’s edge as I can go, +My tardy steps its waves sometimes o’erreach, + Sometimes I stay to let them overflow. + +My sole employment ’t is, and scrupulous care, + To place my gains beyond the reach of tides, +Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare, + Which ocean kindly to my hand confides. + +I have but few companions on the shore, + They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea, +Yet oft I think the ocean they’ve sailed o’er + Is deeper known upon the strand to me. + +The middle sea contains no crimson dulse, + Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view, +Along the shore my hand is on its pulse, + And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew. + + +The small houses which were scattered along the river at intervals of a +mile or more were commonly out of sight to us, but sometimes, when we +rowed near the shore, we heard the peevish note of a hen, or some +slight domestic sound, which betrayed them. The lock-men’s houses were +particularly well placed, retired, and high, always at falls or rapids, +and commanding the pleasantest reaches of the river,—for it is +generally wider and more lake-like just above a fall,—and there they +wait for boats. These humble dwellings, homely and sincere, in which a +hearth was still the essential part, were more pleasing to our eyes +than palaces or castles would have been. In the noon of these days, as +we have said, we occasionally climbed the banks and approached these +houses, to get a glass of water and make acquaintance with their +inhabitants. High in the leafy bank, surrounded commonly by a small +patch of corn and beans, squashes and melons, with sometimes a graceful +hop-yard on one side, and some running vine over the windows, they +appeared like beehives set to gather honey for a summer. I have not +read of any Arcadian life which surpasses the actual luxury and +serenity of these New England dwellings. For the outward gilding, at +least, the age is golden enough. As you approach the sunny doorway, +awakening the echoes by your steps, still no sound from these barracks +of repose, and you fear that the gentlest knock may seem rude to the +Oriental dreamers. The door is opened, perchance, by some Yankee-Hindoo +woman, whose small-voiced but sincere hospitality, out of the +bottomless depths of a quiet nature, has travelled quite round to the +opposite side, and fears only to obtrude its kindness. You step over +the white-scoured floor to the bright “dresser” lightly, as if afraid +to disturb the devotions of the household,—for Oriental dynasties +appear to have passed away since the dinner-table was last spread +here,—and thence to the frequented curb, where you see your +long-forgotten, unshaven face at the bottom, in juxtaposition with +new-made butter and the trout in the well. “Perhaps you would like some +molasses and ginger,” suggests the faint noon voice. Sometimes there +sits the brother who follows the sea, their representative man; who +knows only how far it is to the nearest port, no more distances, all +the rest is sea and distant capes,—patting the dog, or dandling the +kitten in arms that were stretched by the cable and the oar, pulling +against Boreas or the trade-winds. He looks up at the stranger, half +pleased, half astonished, with a mariner’s eye, as if he were a dolphin +within cast. If men will believe it, _sua si bona nôrint_, there are no +more quiet Tempes, nor more poetic and Arcadian lives, than may be +lived in these New England dwellings. We thought that the employment of +their inhabitants by day would be to tend the flowers and herds, and at +night, like the shepherds of old, to cluster and give names to the +stars from the river banks. + +We passed a large and densely wooded island this forenoon, between +Short’s and Griffith’s Falls, the fairest which we had met with, with a +handsome grove of elms at its head. If it had been evening we should +have been glad to camp there. Not long after, one or two more were +passed. The boatmen told us that the current had recently made +important changes here. An island always pleases my imagination, even +the smallest, as a small continent and integral portion of the globe. I +have a fancy for building my hut on one. Even a bare, grassy isle, +which I can see entirely over at a glance, has some undefined and +mysterious charm for me. There is commonly such a one at the junction +of two rivers, whose currents bring down and deposit their respective +sands in the eddy at their confluence, as it were the womb of a +continent. By what a delicate and far-stretched contribution every +island is made! What an enterprise of Nature thus to lay the +foundations of and to build up the future continent, of golden and +silver sands and the ruins of forests, with ant-like industry! Pindar +gives the following account of the origin of Thera, whence, in after +times, Libyan Cyrene was settled by Battus. Triton, in the form of +Eurypylus, presents a clod to Euphemus, one of the Argonauts, as they +are about to return home. + + “He knew of our haste, +And immediately seizing a clod +With his right hand, strove to give it +As a chance stranger’s gift. +Nor did the hero disregard him, but leaping on the shore, +Stretching hand to hand, +Received the mystic clod. +But I hear it sinking from the deck, +Go with the sea brine +At evening, accompanying the watery sea. +Often indeed I urged the careless +Menials to guard it, but their minds forgot. +And now in this island the imperishable seed of spacious Libya +Is spilled before its hour.” + + +It is a beautiful fable, also related by Pindar, how Helius, or the +Sun, looked down into the sea one day,—when perchance his rays were +first reflected from some increasing glittering sandbar,—and saw the +fair and fruitful island of Rhodes + + “springing up from the bottom, +Capable of feeding many men, and suitable for flocks; + + +and at the nod of Zeus, + + “The island sprang from the watery +Sea; and the genial Father of penetrating beams, +Ruler of fire-breathing horses, has it.” + + +The shifting islands! who would not be willing that his house should be +undermined by such a foe! The inhabitant of an island can tell what +currents formed the land which he cultivates; and his earth is still +being created or destroyed. There before his door, perchance, still +empties the stream which brought down the material of his farm ages +before, and is still bringing it down or washing it away,—the graceful, +gentle robber! + +Not long after this we saw the Piscataquoag, or Sparkling Water, +emptying in on our left, and heard the Falls of Amoskeag above. Large +quantities of lumber, as we read in the Gazetteer, were still annually +floated down the Piscataquoag to the Merrimack, and there are many fine +mill privileges on it. Just above the mouth of this river we passed the +artificial falls where the canals of the Manchester Manufacturing +Company discharge themselves into the Merrimack. They are striking +enough to have a name, and, with the scenery of a Bashpish, would be +visited from far and near. The water falls thirty or forty feet over +seven or eight steep and narrow terraces of stone, probably to break +its force, and is converted into one mass of foam. This canal-water did +not seem to be the worse for the wear, but foamed and fumed as purely, +and boomed as savagely and impressively, as a mountain torrent, and, +though it came from under a factory, we saw a rainbow here. These are +now the Amoskeag Falls, removed a mile down-stream. But we did not +tarry to examine them minutely, making haste to get past the village +here collected, and out of hearing of the hammer which was laying the +foundation of another Lowell on the banks. At the time of our voyage +Manchester was a village of about two thousand inhabitants, where we +landed for a moment to get some cool water, and where an inhabitant +told us that he was accustomed to go across the river into Goffstown +for his water. But now, as I have been told, and indeed have witnessed, +it contains fourteen thousand inhabitants. From a hill on the road +between Goffstown and Hooksett, four miles distant, I have seen a +thunder-shower pass over, and the sun break out and shine on a city +there, where I had landed nine years before in the fields; and there +was waving the flag of its Museum, where “the only perfect skeleton of +a Greenland or river whale in the United States” was to be seen, and I +also read in its directory of a “Manchester Athenæum and Gallery of the +Fine Arts.” + +According to the Gazetteer, the descent of Amoskeag Falls, which are +the most considerable in the Merrimack, is fifty-four feet in half a +mile. We locked ourselves through here with much ado, surmounting the +successive watery steps of this river’s staircase in the midst of a +crowd of villagers, jumping into the canal to their amusement, to save +our boat from upsetting, and consuming much river-water in our service. +Amoskeag, or Namaskeak, is said to mean “great fishing-place.” It was +hereabouts that the Sachem Wannalancet resided. Tradition says that his +tribe, when at war with the Mohawks, concealed their provisions in the +cavities of the rocks in the upper part of these falls. The Indians, +who hid their provisions in these holes, and affirmed “that God had cut +them out for that purpose,” understood their origin and use better than +the Royal Society, who in their Transactions, in the last century, +speaking of these very holes, declare that “they seem plainly to be +artificial.” Similar “pot-holes” may be seen at the Stone Flume on this +river, on the Ottaway, at Bellows’ Falls on the Connecticut, and in the +limestone rock at Shelburne Falls on Deerfield River in Massachusetts, +and more or less generally about all falls. Perhaps the most remarkable +curiosity of this kind in New England is the well-known Basin on the +Pemigewasset, one of the head-waters of this river, twenty by thirty +feet in extent and proportionably deep, with a smooth and rounded brim, +and filled with a cold, pellucid, and greenish water. At Amoskeag the +river is divided into many separate torrents and trickling rills by the +rocks, and its volume is so much reduced by the drain of the canals +that it does not fill its bed. There are many pot-holes here on a rocky +island which the river washes over in high freshets. As at Shelburne +Falls, where I first observed them, they are from one foot to four or +five in diameter, and as many in depth, perfectly round and regular, +with smooth and gracefully curved brims, like goblets. Their origin is +apparent to the most careless observer. A stone which the current has +washed down, meeting with obstacles, revolves as on a pivot where it +lies, gradually sinking in the course of centuries deeper and deeper +into the rock, and in new freshets receiving the aid of fresh stones, +which are drawn into this trap and doomed to revolve there for an +indefinite period, doing Sisyphus-like penance for stony sins, until +they either wear out, or wear through the bottom of their prison, or +else are released by some revolution of nature. There lie the stones of +various sizes, from a pebble to a foot or two in diameter, some of +which have rested from their labor only since the spring, and some +higher up which have lain still and dry for ages,—we noticed some here +at least sixteen feet above the present level of the water,—while +others are still revolving, and enjoy no respite at any season. In one +instance, at Shelburne Falls, they have worn quite through the rock, so +that a portion of the river leaks through in anticipation of the fall. +Some of these pot-holes at Amoskeag, in a very hard brown-stone, had an +oblong, cylindrical stone of the same material loosely fitting them. +One, as much as fifteen feet deep and seven or eight in diameter, which +was worn quite through to the water, had a huge rock of the same +material, smooth but of irregular form, lodged in it. Everywhere there +were the rudiments or the wrecks of a dimple in the rock; the rocky +shells of whirlpools. As if by force of example and sympathy after so +many lessons, the rocks, the hardest material, had been endeavoring to +whirl or flow into the forms of the most fluid. The finest workers in +stone are not copper or steel tools, but the gentle touches of air and +water working at their leisure with a liberal allowance of time. + +Not only have some of these basins been forming for countless ages, but +others exist which must have been completed in a former geological +period. In deepening the Pawtucket Canal, in 1822, the workmen came to +ledges with pot-holes in them, where probably was once the bed of the +river, and there are some, we are told, in the town of Canaan in this +State, with the stones still in them, on the height of land between the +Merrimack and Connecticut, and nearly a thousand feet above these +rivers, proving that the mountains and the rivers have changed places. +There lie the stones which completed their revolutions perhaps before +thoughts began to revolve in the brain of man. The periods of Hindoo +and Chinese history, though they reach back to the time when the race +of mortals is confounded with the race of gods, are as nothing compared +with the periods which these stones have inscribed. That which +commenced a rock when time was young, shall conclude a pebble in the +unequal contest. With such expense of time and natural forces are our +very paving-stones produced. They teach us lessons, these dumb workers; +verily there are “sermons in stones, and books in the running streams.” +In these very holes the Indians hid their provisions; but now there is +no bread, but only its old neighbor stones at the bottom. Who knows how +many races they have served thus? By as simple a law, some accidental +by-law, perchance, our system itself was made ready for its +inhabitants. + +These, and such as these, must be our antiquities, for lack of human +vestiges. The monuments of heroes and the temples of the gods which may +once have stood on the banks of this river are now, at any rate, +returned to dust and primitive soil. The murmur of unchronicled nations +has died away along these shores, and once more Lowell and Manchester +are on the trail of the Indian. + +The fact that Romans once inhabited her reflects no little dignity on +Nature herself; that from some particular hill the Roman once looked +out on the sea. She need not be ashamed of the vestiges of her +children. How gladly the antiquary informs us that their vessels +penetrated into this frith, or up that river of some remote isle! Their +military monuments still remain on the hills and under the sod of the +valleys. The oft-repeated Roman story is written in still legible +characters in every quarter of the Old World, and but to-day, +perchance, a new coin is dug up whose inscription repeats and confirms +their fame. Some “_Judæa Capta_” with a woman mourning under a +palm-tree, with silent argument and demonstration confirms the pages of +history. + +“Rome living was the world’s sole ornament; +And dead is now the world’s sole monument. + * * * * * +With her own weight down pressed now she lies, +And by her heaps her hugeness testifies.” + + +If one doubts whether Grecian valor and patriotism are not a fiction of +the poets, he may go to Athens and see still upon the walls of the +temple of Minerva the circular marks made by the shields taken from the +enemy in the Persian war, which were suspended there. We have not far +to seek for living and unquestionable evidence. The very dust takes +shape and confirms some story which we had read. As Fuller said, +commenting on the zeal of Camden, “A broken urn is a whole evidence; or +an old gate still surviving out of which the city is run out.” When +Solon endeavored to prove that Salamis had formerly belonged to the +Athenians, and not to the Megareans, he caused the tombs to be opened, +and showed that the inhabitants of Salamis turned the faces of their +dead to the same side with the Athenians, but the Megareans to the +opposite side. There they were to be interrogated. + +Some minds are as little logical or argumentative as nature; they can +offer no reason or “guess,” but they exhibit the solemn and +incontrovertible fact. If a historical question arises, they cause the +tombs to be opened. Their silent and practical logic convinces the +reason and the understanding at the same time. Of such sort is always +the only pertinent question and the only satisfactory reply. + +Our own country furnishes antiquities as ancient and durable, and as +useful, as any; rocks at least as well covered with lichens, and a soil +which, if it is virgin, is but virgin mould, the very dust of nature. +What if we cannot read Rome, or Greece, Etruria, or Carthage, or Egypt, +or Babylon, on these; are our cliffs bare? The lichen on the rocks is a +rude and simple shield which beginning and imperfect Nature suspended +there. Still hangs her wrinkled trophy. And here too the poet’s eye may +still detect the brazen nails which fastened Time’s inscriptions, and +if he has the gift, decipher them by this clew. The walls that fence +our fields, as well as modern Rome, and not less the Parthenon itself, +are all built of _ruins_. Here may be heard the din of rivers, and +ancient winds which have long since lost their names sough through our +woods;—the first faint sounds of spring, older than the summer of +Athenian glory, the titmouse lisping in the wood, the jay’s scream, and +blue-bird’s warble, and the hum of + + “bees that fly +About the laughing blossoms of sallowy.” + + +Here is the gray dawn for antiquity, and our to-morrow’s future should +be at least paulo-post to theirs which we have put behind us. There are +the red-maple and birchen leaves, old runes which are not yet +deciphered; catkins, pine-cones, vines, oak-leaves, and acorns; the +very things themselves, and not their forms in stone,—so much the more +ancient and venerable. And even to the current summer there has come +down tradition of a hoary-headed master of all art, who once filled +every field and grove with statues and god-like architecture, of every +design which Greece has lately copied; whose ruins are now mingled with +the dust, and not one block remains upon another. The century sun and +unwearied rain have wasted them, till not one fragment from that quarry +now exists; and poets perchance will feign that gods sent down the +material from heaven. + +What though the traveller tell us of the ruins of Egypt, are we so sick +or idle, that we must sacrifice our America and to-day to some man’s +ill-remembered and indolent story? Carnac and Luxor are but names, or +if their skeletons remain, still more desert sand, and at length a wave +of the Mediterranean Sea are needed to wash away the filth that +attaches to their grandeur. Carnac! Carnac! here is Carnac for me. I +behold the columns of a larger and purer temple. + +This is my Carnac, whose unmeasured dome +Shelters the measuring art and measurer’s home. +Behold these flowers, let us be up with time, +Not dreaming of three thousand years ago, +Erect ourselves and let those columns lie, +Not stoop to raise a foil against the sky. +Where is the spirit of that time but in +This present day, perchance the present line? +Three thousand years ago are not agone, +They are still lingering in this summer morn, +And Memnon’s Mother sprightly greets us now, +Wearing her youthful radiance on her brow. +If Carnac’s columns still stand on the plain, +To enjoy our opportunities they remain. + + +In these parts dwelt the famous Sachem Pasaconaway, who was seen by +Gookin “at Pawtucket, when he was about one hundred and twenty years +old.” He was reputed a wise man and a powwow, and restrained his people +from going to war with the English. They believed “that he could make +water burn, rocks move, and trees dance, and metamorphose himself into +a flaming man; that in winter he could raise a green leaf out of the +ashes of a dry one, and produce a living snake from the skin of a dead +one, and many similar miracles.” In 1660, according to Gookin, at a +great feast and dance, he made his farewell speech to his people, in +which he said, that as he was not likely to see them met together +again, he would leave them this word of advice, to take heed how they +quarrelled with their English neighbors, for though they might do them +much mischief at first, it would prove the means of their own +destruction. He himself, he said, had been as much an enemy to the +English at their first coming as any, and had used all his arts to +destroy them, or at least to prevent their settlement, but could by no +means effect it. Gookin thought that he “possibly might have such a +kind of spirit upon him as was upon Balaam, who in xxiii. Numbers, 23, +said ‘Surely, there is no enchantment against Jacob, neither is there +any divination against Israel.’” His son Wannalancet carefully followed +his advice, and when Philip’s War broke out, he withdrew his followers +to Penacook, now Concord in New Hampshire, from the scene of the war. +On his return afterwards, he visited the minister of Chelmsford, and, +as is stated in the history of that town, “wished to know whether +Chelmsford had suffered much during the war; and being informed that it +had not, and that God should be thanked for it, Wannalancet replied, +‘Me next.’” + +Manchester was the residence of John Stark, a hero of two wars, and +survivor of a third, and at his death the last but one of the American +generals of the Revolution. He was born in the adjoining town of +Londonderry, then Nutfield, in 1728. As early as 1752, he was taken +prisoner by the Indians while hunting in the wilderness near Baker’s +River; he performed notable service as a captain of rangers in the +French war; commanded a regiment of the New Hampshire militia at the +battle of Bunker Hill; and fought and won the battle of Bennington in +1777. He was past service in the last war, and died here in 1822, at +the age of 94. His monument stands upon the second bank of the river, +about a mile and a half above the falls, and commands a prospect +several miles up and down the Merrimack. It suggested how much more +impressive in the landscape is the tomb of a hero than the dwellings of +the inglorious living. Who is most dead,—a hero by whose monument you +stand, or his descendants of whom you have never heard? + +The graves of Pasaconaway and Wannalancet are marked by no monument on +the bank of their native river. + +Every town which we passed, if we may believe the Gazetteer, had been +the residence of some great man. But though we knocked at many doors, +and even made particular inquiries, we could not find that there were +any now living. Under the head of Litchfield we read:— + +“The Hon. Wyseman Clagett closed his life in this town.” According to +another, “He was a classical scholar, a good lawyer, a wit, and a +poet.” We saw his old gray house just below Great Nesenkeag +Brook.—Under the head of Merrimack: “Hon. Mathew Thornton, one of the +signers of the Declaration of American Independence, resided many years +in this town.” His house too we saw from the river.—“Dr. Jonathan Gove, +a man distinguished for his urbanity, his talents and professional +skill, resided in this town [Goffstown]. He was one of the oldest +practitioners of medicine in the county. He was many years an active +member of the legislature.”—“Hon. Robert Means, who died Jan. 24, 1823, +at the age of 80, was for a long period a resident in Amherst. He was a +native of Ireland. In 1764 he came to this country, where, by his +industry and application to business, he acquired a large property, and +great respect.”—“William Stinson [one of the first settlers of +Dunbarton], born in Ireland, came to Londonderry with his father. He +was much respected and was a useful man. James Rogers was from Ireland, +and father to Major Robert Rogers. He was shot in the woods, being +mistaken for a bear.”—“Rev. Matthew Clark, second minister of +Londonderry, was a native of Ireland, who had in early life been an +officer in the army, and distinguished himself in the defence of the +city of Londonderry, when besieged by the army of King James II. A. D. +1688-9. He afterwards relinquished a military life for the clerical +profession. He possessed a strong mind, marked by a considerable degree +of eccentricity. He died Jan. 25, 1735, and was borne to the grave, at +his particular request, by his former companions in arms, of whom there +were a considerable number among the early settlers of this town; +several of them had been made free from taxes throughout the British +dominions by King William, for their bravery in that memorable +siege.”—Col. George Reid and Capt. David M’Clary, also citizens of +Londonderry, were “distinguished and brave” officers.—“Major Andrew +M’Clary, a native of this town [Epsom], fell at the battle of Breed’s +Hill.”—Many of these heroes, like the illustrious Roman, were ploughing +when the news of the massacre at Lexington arrived, and straightway +left their ploughs in the furrow, and repaired to the scene of action. +Some miles from where we now were, there once stood a guide-post on +which were the words, “3 miles to Squire MacGaw’s.” + +But generally speaking, the land is now, at any rate, very barren of +men, and we doubt if there are as many hundreds as we read of. It may +be that we stood too near. + +Uncannunuc Mountain in Goffstown was visible from Amoskeag, five or six +miles westward. It is the north-easternmost in the horizon, which we +see from our native town, but seen from there is too ethereally blue to +be the same which the like of us have ever climbed. Its name is said to +mean “The Two Breasts,” there being two eminences some distance apart. +The highest, which is about fourteen hundred feet above the sea, +probably affords a more extensive view of the Merrimack valley and the +adjacent country than any other hill, though it is somewhat obstructed +by woods. Only a few short reaches of the river are visible, but you +can trace its course far down stream by the sandy tracts on its banks. + +A little south of Uncannunuc, about sixty years ago, as the story goes, +an old woman who went out to gather pennyroyal, tript her foot in the +bail of a small brass kettle in the dead grass and bushes. Some say +that flints and charcoal and some traces of a camp were also found. +This kettle, holding about four quarts, is still preserved and used to +dye thread in. It is supposed to have belonged to some old French or +Indian hunter, who was killed in one of his hunting or scouting +excursions, and so never returned to look after his kettle. + +But we were most interested to hear of the pennyroyal, it is soothing +to be reminded that wild nature produces anything ready for the use of +man. Men know that _something_ is good. One says that it is +yellow-dock, another that it is bitter-sweet, another that it is +slippery-elm bark, burdock, catnip, calamint, elicampane, thoroughwort, +or pennyroyal. A man may esteem himself happy when that which is his +food is also his medicine. There is no kind of herb, but somebody or +other says that it is good. I am very glad to hear it. It reminds me of +the first chapter of Genesis. But how should they know that it is good? +That is the mystery to me. I am always agreeably disappointed; it is +incredible that they should have found it out. Since all things are +good, men fail at last to distinguish which is the bane, and which the +antidote. There are sure to be two prescriptions diametrically +opposite. Stuff a cold and starve a cold are but two ways. They are the +two practices both always in full blast. Yet you must take advice of +the one school as if there was no other. In respect to religion and the +healing art, all nations are still in a state of barbarism. In the most +civilized countries the priest is still but a Powwow, and the physician +a Great Medicine. Consider the deference which is everywhere paid to a +doctor’s opinion. Nothing more strikingly betrays the credulity of +mankind than medicine. Quackery is a thing universal, and universally +successful. In this case it becomes literally true that no imposition +is too great for the credulity of men. Priests and physicians should +never look one another in the face. They have no common ground, nor is +there any to mediate between them. When the one comes, the other goes. +They could not come together without laughter, or a significant +silence, for the one’s profession is a satire on the other’s, and +either’s success would be the other’s failure. It is wonderful that the +physician should ever die, and that the priest should ever live. Why is +it that the priest is never called to consult with the physician? Is it +because men believe practically that matter is independent of spirit. +But what is quackery? It is commonly an attempt to cure the diseases of +a man by addressing his body alone. There is need of a physician who +shall minister to both soul and body at once, that is, to man. Now he +falls between two souls. + +After passing through the locks, we had poled ourselves through the +canal here, about half a mile in length, to the boatable part of the +river. Above Amoskeag the river spreads out into a lake reaching a mile +or two without a bend. There were many canal-boats here bound up to +Hooksett, about eight miles, and as they were going up empty with a +fair wind, one boatman offered to take us in tow if we would wait. But +when we came alongside, we found that they meant to take us on board, +since otherwise we should clog their motions too much; but as our boat +was too heavy to be lifted aboard, we pursued our way up the stream, as +before, while the boatmen were at their dinner, and came to anchor at +length under some alders on the opposite shore, where we could take our +lunch. Though far on one side, every sound was wafted over to us from +the opposite bank, and from the harbor of the canal, and we could see +everything that passed. By and by came several canal-boats, at +intervals of a quarter of a mile, standing up to Hooksett with a light +breeze, and one by one disappeared round a point above. With their +broad sails set, they moved slowly up the stream in the sluggish and +fitful breeze, like one-winged antediluvian birds, and as if impelled +by some mysterious counter-current. It was a grand motion, so slow and +stately, this “standing out,” as the phrase is, expressing the gradual +and steady progress of a vessel, as if it were by mere rectitude and +disposition, without shuffling. Their sails, which stood so still, were +like chips cast into the current of the air to show which way it set. +At length the boat which we had spoken came along, keeping the middle +of the stream, and when within speaking distance the steersman called +out ironically to say, that if we would come alongside now he would +take us in tow; but not heeding his taunt, we still loitered in the +shade till we had finished our lunch, and when the last boat had +disappeared round the point with flapping sail, for the breeze had now +sunk to a zephyr, with our own sails set, and plying our oars, we shot +rapidly up the stream in pursuit, and as we glided close alongside, +while they were vainly invoking Æolus to their aid, we returned their +compliment by proposing, if they would throw us a rope, to “take them +in tow,” to which these Merrimack sailors had no suitable answer ready. +Thus we gradually overtook and passed each boat in succession until we +had the river to ourselves again. + +Our course this afternoon was between Manchester and Goffstown. + +—————— + +While we float here, far from that tributary stream on whose banks our +Friends and kindred dwell, our thoughts, like the stars, come out of +their horizon still; for there circulates a finer blood than Lavoisier +has discovered the laws of,—the blood, not of kindred merely, but of +kindness, whose pulse still beats at any distance and forever. + +True kindness is a pure divine affinity, +Not founded upon human consanguinity. +It is a spirit, not a blood relation, +Superior to family and station. + + +After years of vain familiarity, some distant gesture or unconscious +behavior, which we remember, speaks to us with more emphasis than the +wisest or kindest words. We are sometimes made aware of a kindness long +passed, and realize that there have been times when our Friends’ +thoughts of us were of so pure and lofty a character that they passed +over us like the winds of heaven unnoticed; when they treated us not as +what we were, but as what we aspired to be. There has just reached us, +it may be, the nobleness of some such silent behavior, not to be +forgotten, not to be remembered, and we shudder to think how it fell on +us cold, though in some true but tardy hour we endeavor to wipe off +these scores. + +In my experience, persons, when they are made the subject of +conversation, though with a Friend, are commonly the most prosaic and +trivial of facts. The universe seems bankrupt as soon as we begin to +discuss the character of individuals. Our discourse all runs to +slander, and our limits grow narrower as we advance. How is it that we +are impelled to treat our old Friends so ill when we obtain new ones? +The housekeeper says, I never had any new crockery in my life but I +began to break the old. I say, let us speak of mushrooms and forest +trees rather. Yet we can sometimes afford to remember them in private. + +Lately, alas, I knew a gentle boy, + Whose features all were cast in Virtue’s mould, +As one she had designed for Beauty’s toy, + But after manned him for her own strong-hold. + +On every side he open was as day, + That you might see no lack of strength within, +For walls and ports do only serve alway + For a pretence to feebleness and sin. + +Say not that Cæsar was victorious, + With toil and strife who stormed the House of Fame, +In other sense this youth was glorious, + Himself a kingdom wheresoe’er he came. + +No strength went out to get him victory, + When all was income of its own accord; +For where he went none other was to see, + But all were parcel of their noble lord. + +He forayed like the subtile haze of summer, + That stilly shows fresh landscapes to our eyes, +And revolutions works without a murmur, + Or rustling of a leaf beneath the skies. + +So was I taken unawares by this, + I quite forgot my homage to confess; +Yet now am forced to know, though hard it is, + I might have loved him had I loved him less. + +Each moment as we nearer drew to each, + A stern respect withheld us farther yet, +So that we seemed beyond each other’s reach, + And less acquainted than when first we met. + +We two were one while we did sympathize, + So could we not the simplest bargain drive; +And what avails it now that we are wise, + If absence doth this doubleness contrive? + +Eternity may not the chance repeat, + But I must tread my single way alone, +In sad remembrance that we once did meet, + And know that bliss irrevocably gone. + +The spheres henceforth my elegy shall sing, + For elegy has other subject none; +Each strain of music in my ears shall ring + Knell of departure from that other one. + +Make haste and celebrate my tragedy; + With fitting strain resound ye woods and fields; +Sorrow is dearer in such case to me + Than all the joys other occasion yields. + +————— + +Is’t then too late the damage to repair? + Distance, forsooth, from my weak grasp hath reft +The empty husk, and clutched the useless tare, + But in my hands the wheat and kernel left. + +If I but love that virtue which he is, + Though it be scented in the morning air, +Still shall we be truest acquaintances, + Nor mortals know a sympathy more rare. + + +Friendship is evanescent in every man’s experience, and remembered like +heat lightning in past summers. Fair and flitting like a summer +cloud;—there is always some vapor in the air, no matter how long the +drought; there are even April showers. Surely from time to time, for +its vestiges never depart, it floats through our atmosphere. It takes +place, like vegetation in so many materials, because there is such a +law, but always without permanent form, though ancient and familiar as +the sun and moon, and as sure to come again. The heart is forever +inexperienced. They silently gather as by magic, these never failing, +never quite deceiving visions, like the bright and fleecy clouds in the +calmest and clearest days. The Friend is some fair floating isle of +palms eluding the mariner in Pacific seas. Many are the dangers to be +encountered, equinoctial gales and coral reefs, ere he may sail before +the constant trades. But who would not sail through mutiny and storm, +even over Atlantic waves, to reach the fabulous retreating shores of +some continent man? The imagination still clings to the faintest +tradition of + +THE ATLANTIDES. + + +The smothered streams of love, which flow +More bright than Phlegethon, more low, +Island us ever, like the sea, +In an Atlantic mystery. +Our fabled shores none ever reach, +No mariner has found our beach, +Scarcely our mirage now is seen, +And neighboring waves with floating green, +Yet still the oldest charts contain +Some dotted outline of our main; +In ancient times midsummer days +Unto the western islands’ gaze, +To Teneriffe and the Azores, +Have shown our faint and cloud-like shores. + +But sink not yet, ye desolate isles, +Anon your coast with commerce smiles, +And richer freights ye’ll furnish far +Than Africa or Malabar. +Be fair, be fertile evermore, +Ye rumored but untrodden shore, +Princes and monarchs will contend +Who first unto your land shall send, +And pawn the jewels of the crown +To call your distant soil their own. + + +Columbus has sailed westward of these isles by the mariner’s compass, +but neither he nor his successors have found them. We are no nearer +than Plato was. The earnest seeker and hopeful discoverer of this New +World always haunts the outskirts of his time, and walks through the +densest crowd uninterrupted, and as it were in a straight line. + +Sea and land are but his neighbors, +And companions in his labors, +Who on the ocean’s verge and firm land’s end +Doth long and truly seek his Friend. +Many men dwell far inland, +But he alone sits on the strand. +Whether he ponders men or books, +Always still he seaward looks, +Marine news he ever reads, +And the slightest glances heeds, +Feels the sea breeze on his cheek, +At each word the landsmen speak, +In every companion’s eye +A sailing vessel doth descry; +In the ocean’s sullen roar +From some distant port he hears, +Of wrecks upon a distant shore, +And the ventures of past years. + + +Who does not walk on the plain as amid the columns of Tadmore of the +desert? There is on the earth no institution which Friendship has +established; it is not taught by any religion; no scripture contains +its maxims. It has no temple, nor even a solitary column. There goes a +rumor that the earth is inhabited, but the shipwrecked mariner has not +seen a footprint on the shore. The hunter has found only fragments of +pottery and the monuments of inhabitants. + +However, our fates at least are social. Our courses do not diverge; but +as the web of destiny is woven it is fulled, and we are cast more and +more into the centre. Men naturally, though feebly, seek this alliance, +and their actions faintly foretell it. We are inclined to lay the chief +stress on likeness and not on difference, and in foreign bodies we +admit that there are many degrees of warmth below blood heat, but none +of cold above it. + +Mencius says: “If one loses a fowl or a dog, he knows well how to seek +them again; if one loses the sentiments of his heart, he does not know +how to seek them again. . . . The duties of practical philosophy +consist only in seeking after those sentiments of the heart which we +have lost; that is all.” + +One or two persons come to my house from time to time, there being +proposed to them the faint possibility of intercourse. They are as full +as they are silent, and wait for my plectrum to stir the strings of +their lyre. If they could ever come to the length of a sentence, or +hear one, on that ground they are dreaming of! They speak faintly, and +do not obtrude themselves. They have heard some news, which none, not +even they themselves, can impart. It is a wealth they can bear about +them which can be expended in various ways. What came they out to seek? + +No word is oftener on the lips of men than Friendship, and indeed no +thought is more familiar to their aspirations. All men are dreaming of +it, and its drama, which is always a tragedy, is enacted daily. It is +the secret of the universe. You may thread the town, you may wander the +country, and none shall ever speak of it, yet thought is everywhere +busy about it, and the idea of what is possible in this respect affects +our behavior toward all new men and women, and a great many old ones. +Nevertheless, I can remember only two or three essays on this subject +in all literature. No wonder that the Mythology, and Arabian Nights, +and Shakespeare, and Scott’s novels entertain us,—we are poets and +fablers and dramatists and novelists ourselves. We are continually +acting a part in a more interesting drama than any written. We are +dreaming that our Friends are our _Friends_, and that we are our +Friends’ _Friends_. Our actual Friends are but distant relations of +those to whom we are pledged. We never exchange more than three words +with a Friend in our lives on that level to which our thoughts and +feelings almost habitually rise. One goes forth prepared to say, “Sweet +Friends!” and the salutation is, “Damn your eyes!” But never mind; +faint heart never won true Friend. O my Friend, may it come to pass +once, that when you are my Friend I may be yours. + +Of what use the friendliest dispositions even, if there are no hours +given to Friendship, if it is forever postponed to unimportant duties +and relations? Friendship is first, Friendship last. But it is equally +impossible to forget our Friends, and to make them answer to our ideal. +When they say farewell, then indeed we begin to keep them company. How +often we find ourselves turning our backs on our actual Friends, that +we may go and meet their ideal cousins. I would that I were worthy to +be any man’s Friend. + +What is commonly honored with the name of Friendship is no very +profound or powerful instinct. Men do not, after all, _love_ their +Friends greatly. I do not often see the farmers made seers and wise to +the verge of insanity by their Friendship for one another. They are not +often transfigured and translated by love in each other’s presence. I +do not observe them purified, refined, and elevated by the love of a +man. If one abates a little the price of his wood, or gives a neighbor +his vote at town-meeting, or a barrel of apples, or lends him his wagon +frequently, it is esteemed a rare instance of Friendship. Nor do the +farmers’ wives lead lives consecrated to Friendship. I do not see the +pair of farmer Friends of either sex prepared to stand against the +world. There are only two or three couples in history. To say that a +man is your Friend, means commonly no more than this, that he is not +your enemy. Most contemplate only what would be the accidental and +trifling advantages of Friendship, as that the Friend can assist in +time of need, by his substance, or his influence, or his counsel; but +he who foresees such advantages in this relation proves himself blind +to its real advantage, or indeed wholly inexperienced in the relation +itself. Such services are particular and menial, compared with the +perpetual and all-embracing service which it is. Even the utmost +good-will and harmony and practical kindness are not sufficient for +Friendship, for Friends do not live in harmony merely, as some say, but +in melody. We do not wish for Friends to feed and clothe our +bodies,—neighbors are kind enough for that,—but to do the like office +to our spirits. For this few are rich enough, however well disposed +they may be. For the most part we stupidly confound one man with +another. The dull distinguish only races or nations, or at most +classes, but the wise man, individuals. To his Friend a man’s peculiar +character appears in every feature and in every action, and it is thus +drawn out and improved by him. + +Think of the importance of Friendship in the education of men. + +“He that hath love and judgment too, +Sees more than any other doe.” + + +It will make a man honest; it will make him a hero; it will make him a +saint. It is the state of the just dealing with the just, the +magnanimous with the magnanimous, the sincere with the sincere, man +with man. + +And it is well said by another poet, + +“Why love among the virtues is not known, +Is that love is them all contract in one.” + + +All the abuses which are the object of reform with the philanthropist, +the statesman, and the housekeeper are unconsciously amended in the +intercourse of Friends. A Friend is one who incessantly pays us the +compliment of expecting from us all the virtues, and who can appreciate +them in us. It takes two to speak the truth,—one to speak, and another +to hear. How can one treat with magnanimity mere wood and stone? If we +dealt only with the false and dishonest, we should at last forget how +to speak truth. Only lovers know the value and magnanimity of truth, +while traders prize a cheap honesty, and neighbors and acquaintance a +cheap civility. In our daily intercourse with men, our nobler faculties +are dormant and suffered to rust. None will pay us the compliment to +expect nobleness from us. Though we have gold to give, they demand only +copper. We ask our neighbor to suffer himself to be dealt with truly, +sincerely, nobly; but he answers no by his deafness. He does not even +hear this prayer. He says practically, I will be content if you treat +me as “no better than I should be,” as deceitful, mean, dishonest, and +selfish. For the most part, we are contented so to deal and to be dealt +with, and we do not think that for the mass of men there is any truer +and nobler relation possible. A man may have _good_ neighbors, so +called, and acquaintances, and even companions, wife, parents, +brothers, sisters, children, who meet himself and one another on this +ground only. The State does not demand justice of its members, but +thinks that it succeeds very well with the least degree of it, hardly +more than rogues practise; and so do the neighborhood and the family. +What is commonly called Friendship even is only a little more honor +among rogues. + +But sometimes we are said to _love_ another, that is, to stand in a +true relation to him, so that we give the best to, and receive the best +from, him. Between whom there is hearty truth, there is love; and in +proportion to our truthfulness and confidence in one another, our lives +are divine and miraculous, and answer to our ideal. There are passages +of affection in our intercourse with mortal men and women, such as no +prophecy had taught us to expect, which transcend our earthly life, and +anticipate Heaven for us. What is this Love that may come right into +the middle of a prosaic Goffstown day, equal to any of the gods? that +discovers a new world, fair and fresh and eternal, occupying the place +of the old one, when to the common eye a dust has settled on the +universe? which world cannot else be reached, and does not exist. What +other words, we may almost ask, are memorable and worthy to be repeated +than those which love has inspired? It is wonderful that they were ever +uttered. They are few and rare, indeed, but, like a strain of music, +they are incessantly repeated and modulated by the memory. All other +words crumble off with the stucco which overlies the heart. We should +not dare to repeat these now aloud. We are not competent to hear them +at all times. + +The books for young people say a great deal about the _selection_ of +Friends; it is because they really have nothing to say about _Friends_. +They mean associates and confidants merely. “Know that the contrariety +of foe and Friend proceeds from God.” Friendship takes place between +those who have an affinity for one another, and is a perfectly natural +and inevitable result. No professions nor advances will avail. Even +speech, at first, necessarily has nothing to do with it; but it follows +after silence, as the buds in the graft do not put forth into leaves +till long after the graft has taken. It is a drama in which the parties +have no part to act. We are all Mussulmen and fatalists in this +respect. Impatient and uncertain lovers think that they must say or do +something kind whenever they meet; they must never be cold. But they +who are Friends do not do what they _think_ they must, but what they +_must_. Even their Friendship is to some extent but a sublime +phenomenon to them. + +The true and not despairing Friend will address his Friend in some such +terms as these. + +“I never asked thy leave to let me love thee,—I have a right. I love +thee not as something private and personal, which is _your own_, but as +something universal and worthy of love, _which I have found_. O, how I +think of you! You are purely good, —you are infinitely good. I can +trust you forever. I did not think that humanity was so rich. Give me +an opportunity to live.” + +“You are the fact in a fiction,—you are the truth more strange and +admirable than fiction. Consent only to be what you are. I alone will +never stand in your way.” + +“This is what I would like,—to be as intimate with you as our spirits +are intimate,—respecting you as I respect my ideal. Never to profane +one another by word or action, even by a thought. Between us, if +necessary, let there be no acquaintance.” + +“I have discovered you; how can you be concealed from me?” + +The Friend asks no return but that his Friend will religiously accept +and wear and not disgrace his apotheosis of him. They cherish each +other’s hopes. They are kind to each other’s dreams. + +Though the poet says, “’Tis the pre-eminence of Friendship to impute +excellence,” yet we can never praise our Friend, nor esteem him +praiseworthy, nor let him think that he can please us by any +_behavior_, or ever _treat_ us well enough. That kindness which has so +good a reputation elsewhere can least of all consist with this +relation, and no such affront can be offered to a Friend, as a +conscious good-will, a friendliness which is not a necessity of the +Friend’s nature. + +The sexes are naturally most strongly attracted to one another, by +constant constitutional differences, and are most commonly and surely +the complements of each other. How natural and easy it is for man to +secure the attention of woman to what interests himself. Men and women +of equal culture, thrown together, are sure to be of a certain value to +one another, more than men to men. There exists already a natural +disinterestedness and liberality in such society, and I think that any +man will more confidently carry his favorite books to read to some +circle of intelligent women, than to one of his own sex. The visit of +man to man is wont to be an interruption, but the sexes naturally +expect one another. Yet Friendship is no respecter of sex; and perhaps +it is more rare between the sexes than between two of the same sex. + +Friendship is, at any rate, a relation of perfect equality. It cannot +well spare any outward sign of equal obligation and advantage. The +nobleman can never have a Friend among his retainers, nor the king +among his subjects. Not that the parties to it are in all respects +equal, but they are equal in all that respects or affects their +Friendship. The one’s love is exactly balanced and represented by the +other’s. Persons are only the vessels which contain the nectar, and the +hydrostatic paradox is the symbol of love’s law. It finds its level and +rises to its fountain-head in all breasts, and its slenderest column +balances the ocean. + +“And love as well the shepherd can +As can the mighty nobleman.” + + +The one sex is not, in this respect, more tender than the other. +A hero’s love is as delicate as a maiden’s. + +Confucius said, “Never contract Friendship with a man who is not better +than thyself.” It is the merit and preservation of Friendship, that it +takes place on a level higher than the actual characters of the parties +would seem to warrant. The rays of light come to us in such a curve +that every man whom we meet appears to be taller than he actually is. +Such foundation has civility. My Friend is that one whom I can +associate with my choicest thought. I always assign to him a nobler +employment in my absence than I ever find him engaged in; and I imagine +that the hours which he devotes to me were snatched from a higher +society. The sorest insult which I ever received from a Friend was, +when he behaved with the license which only long and cheap acquaintance +allows to one’s faults, in my presence, without shame, and still +addressed me in friendly accents. Beware, lest thy Friend learn at last +to tolerate one frailty of thine, and so an obstacle be raised to the +progress of thy love. There are times when we have had enough even of +our Friends, when we begin inevitably to profane one another, and must +withdraw religiously into solitude and silence, the better to prepare +ourselves for a loftier intimacy. Silence is the ambrosial night in the +intercourse of Friends, in which their sincerity is recruited and takes +deeper root. + +Friendship is never established as an understood relation. Do you +demand that I be less your Friend that you may know it? Yet what right +have I to think that another cherishes so rare a sentiment for me? It +is a miracle which requires constant proofs. It is an exercise of the +purest imagination and the rarest faith. It says by a silent but +eloquent behavior,—“I will be so related to thee as thou canst imagine; +even so thou mayest believe. I will spend truth,—all my wealth on +thee,”—and the Friend responds silently through his nature and life, +and treats his Friend with the same divine courtesy. He knows us +literally through thick and thin. He never asks for a sign of love, but +can distinguish it by the features which it naturally wears. We never +need to stand upon ceremony with him with regard to his visits. Wait +not till I invite thee, but observe that I am glad to see thee when +thou comest. It would be paying too dear for thy visit to ask for it. +Where my Friend lives there are all riches and every attraction, and no +slight obstacle can keep me from him. Let me never have to tell thee +what I have not to tell. Let our intercourse be wholly above ourselves, +and draw us up to it. + +The language of Friendship is not words, but meanings. It is an +intelligence above language. One imagines endless conversations with +his Friend, in which the tongue shall be loosed, and thoughts be spoken +without hesitancy or end; but the experience is commonly far otherwise. +Acquaintances may come and go, and have a word ready for every +occasion; but what puny word shall he utter whose very breath is +thought and meaning? Suppose you go to bid farewell to your Friend who +is setting out on a journey; what other outward sign do you know than +to shake his hand? Have you any palaver ready for him then? any box of +salve to commit to his pocket? any particular message to send by him? +any statement which you had forgotten to make?—as if you could forget +anything.—No, it is much that you take his hand and say Farewell; that +you could easily omit; so far custom has prevailed. It is even painful, +if he is to go, that he should linger so long. If he must go, let him +go quickly. Have you any _last_ words? Alas, it is only the word of +words, which you have so long sought and found not; _you_ have not a +_first_ word yet. There are few even whom I should venture to call +earnestly by their most proper names. A name pronounced is the +recognition of the individual to whom it belongs. He who can pronounce +my name aright, he can call me, and is entitled to my love and service. +Yet reserve is the freedom and abandonment of lovers. It is the reserve +of what is hostile or indifferent in their natures, to give place to +what is kindred and harmonious. + +The violence of love is as much to be dreaded as that of hate. When it +is durable it is serene and equable. Even its famous pains begin only +with the ebb of love, for few are indeed lovers, though all would fain +be. It is one proof of a man’s fitness for Friendship that he is able +to do without that which is cheap and passionate. A true Friendship is +as wise as it is tender. The parties to it yield implicitly to the +guidance of their love, and know no other law nor kindness. It is not +extravagant and insane, but what it says is something established +henceforth, and will bear to be stereotyped. It is a truer truth, it is +better and fairer news, and no time will ever shame it, or prove it +false. This is a plant which thrives best in a temperate zone, where +summer and winter alternate with one another. The Friend is a +_necessarius_, and meets his Friend on homely ground; not on carpets +and cushions, but on the ground and on rocks they will sit, obeying the +natural and primitive laws. They will meet without any outcry, and part +without loud sorrow. Their relation implies such qualities as the +warrior prizes; for it takes a valor to open the hearts of men as well +as the gates of castles. It is not an idle sympathy and mutual +consolation merely, but a heroic sympathy of aspiration and endeavor. + +“When manhood shall be matched so + That fear can take no place, +Then weary _works_ make warriors + Each other to embrace.” + + +The Friendship which Wawatam testified for Henry the fur-trader, as +described in the latter’s “Adventures,” so almost bare and leafless, +yet not blossomless nor fruitless, is remembered with satisfaction and +security. The stern, imperturbable warrior, after fasting, solitude, +and mortification of body, comes to the white man’s lodge, and affirms +that he is the white brother whom he saw in his dream, and adopts him +henceforth. He buries the hatchet as it regards his friend, and they +hunt and feast and make maple-sugar together. “Metals unite from +fluxility; birds and beasts from motives of convenience; fools from +fear and stupidity; and just men at sight.” If Wawatam would taste the +“white man’s milk” with his tribe, or take his bowl of human broth made +of the trader’s fellow-countrymen, he first finds a place of safety for +his Friend, whom he has rescued from a similar fate. At length, after a +long winter of undisturbed and happy intercourse in the family of the +chieftain in the wilderness, hunting and fishing, they return in the +spring to Michilimackinac to dispose of their furs; and it becomes +necessary for Wawatam to take leave of his Friend at the Isle aux +Outardes, when the latter, to avoid his enemies, proceeded to the Sault +de Sainte Marie, supposing that they were to be separated for a short +time only. “We now exchanged farewells,” says Henry, “with an emotion +entirely reciprocal. I did not quit the lodge without the most grateful +sense of the many acts of goodness which I had experienced in it, nor +without the sincerest respect for the virtues which I had witnessed +among its members. All the family accompanied me to the beach; and the +canoe had no sooner put off than Wawatam commenced an address to the +Kichi Manito, beseeching him to take care of me, his brother, till we +should next meet. We had proceeded to too great a distance to allow of +our hearing his voice, before Wawatam had ceased to offer up his +prayers.” We never hear of him again. + +Friendship is not so kind as is imagined; it has not much human blood +in it, but consists with a certain disregard for men and their +erections, the Christian duties and humanities, while it purifies the +air like electricity. There may be the sternest tragedy in the relation +of two more than usually innocent and true to their highest instincts. +We may call it an essentially heathenish intercourse, free and +irresponsible in its nature, and practising all the virtues +gratuitously. It is not the highest sympathy merely, but a pure and +lofty society, a fragmentary and godlike intercourse of ancient date, +still kept up at intervals, which, remembering itself, does not +hesitate to disregard the humbler rights and duties of humanity. It +requires immaculate and godlike qualities full-grown, and exists at all +only by condescension and anticipation of the remotest future. We love +nothing which is merely good and not fair, if such a thing is possible. +Nature puts some kind of blossom before every fruit, not simply a calyx +behind it. When the Friend comes out of his heathenism and +superstition, and breaks his idols, being converted by the precepts of +a newer testament; when he forgets his mythology, and treats his Friend +like a Christian, or as he can afford; then Friendship ceases to be +Friendship, and becomes charity; that principle which established the +almshouse is now beginning with its charity at home, and establishing +an almshouse and pauper relations there. + +As for the number which this society admits, it is at any rate to be +begun with one, the noblest and greatest that we know, and whether the +world will ever carry it further, whether, as Chaucer affirms, + +“There be mo sterres in the skie than a pair,” + + +remains to be proved; + +“And certaine he is well begone +Among a thousand that findeth one.” + + +We shall not surrender ourselves heartily to any while we are conscious +that another is more deserving of our love. Yet Friendship does not +stand for numbers; the Friend does not count his Friends on his +fingers; they are not numerable. The more there are included by this +bond, if they are indeed included, the rarer and diviner the quality of +the love that binds them. I am ready to believe that as private and +intimate a relation may exist by which three are embraced, as between +two. Indeed, we cannot have too many friends; the virtue which we +appreciate we to some extent appropriate, so that thus we are made at +last more fit for every relation of life. A base Friendship is of a +narrowing and exclusive tendency, but a noble one is not exclusive; its +very superfluity and dispersed love is the humanity which sweetens +society, and sympathizes with foreign nations; for though its +foundations are private, it is, in effect, a public affair and a public +advantage, and the Friend, more than the father of a family, deserves +well of the state. + +The only danger in Friendship is that it will end. It is a delicate +plant, though a native. The least unworthiness, even if it be unknown +to one’s self, vitiates it. Let the Friend know that those faults which +he observes in his Friend his own faults attract. There is no rule more +invariable than that we are paid for our suspicions by finding what we +suspected. By our narrowness and prejudices we say, I will have so much +and such of you, my Friend, no more. Perhaps there are none charitable, +none disinterested, none wise, noble, and heroic enough, for a true and +lasting Friendship. + +I sometimes hear my Friends complain finely that I do not appreciate +their fineness. I shall not tell them whether I do or not. As if they +expected a vote of thanks for every fine thing which they uttered or +did. Who knows but it was finely appreciated. It may be that your +silence was the finest thing of the two. There are some things which a +man never speaks of, which are much finer kept silent about. To the +highest communications we only lend a silent ear. Our finest relations +are not simply kept silent about, but buried under a positive depth of +silence never to be revealed. It may be that we are not even yet +acquainted. In human intercourse the tragedy begins, not when there is +misunderstanding about words, but when silence is not understood. Then +there can never be an explanation. What avails it that another loves +you, if he does not understand you? Such love is a curse. What sort of +companions are they who are presuming always that their silence is more +expressive than yours? How foolish, and inconsiderate, and unjust, to +conduct as if you were the only party aggrieved! Has not your Friend +always equal ground of complaint? No doubt my Friends sometimes speak +to me in vain, but they do not know what things I hear which they are +not aware that they have spoken. I know that I have frequently +disappointed them by not giving them words when they expected them, or +such as they expected. Whenever I see my Friend I speak to him; but the +expecter, the man with the ears, is not he. They will complain too that +you are hard. O ye that would have the cocoa-nut wrong side outwards, +when next I weep I will let you know. They ask for words and deeds, +when a true relation is word and deed. If they know not of these +things, how can they be informed? We often forbear to confess our +feelings, not from pride, but for fear that we could not continue to +love the one who required us to give such proof of our affection. + +I know a woman who possesses a restless and intelligent mind, +interested in her own culture, and earnest to enjoy the highest +possible advantages, and I meet her with pleasure as a natural person +who not a little provokes me, and I suppose is stimulated in turn by +myself. Yet our acquaintance plainly does not attain to that degree of +confidence and sentiment which women, which all, in fact, covet. I am +glad to help her, as I am helped by her; I like very well to know her +with a sort of stranger’s privilege, and hesitate to visit her often, +like her other Friends. My nature pauses here, I do not well know why. +Perhaps she does not make the highest demand on me, a religious demand. +Some, with whose prejudices or peculiar bias I have no sympathy, yet +inspire me with confidence, and I trust that they confide in me also as +a religious heathen at least,—a good Greek. I, too, have principles as +well founded as their own. If this person could conceive that, without +wilfulness, I associate with her as far as our destinies are +coincident, as far as our Good Geniuses permit, and still value such +intercourse, it would be a grateful assurance to me. I feel as if I +appeared careless, indifferent, and without principle to her, not +expecting more, and yet not content with less. If she could know that I +make an infinite demand on myself, as well as on all others, she would +see that this true though incomplete intercourse, is infinitely better +than a more unreserved but falsely grounded one, without the principle +of growth in it. For a companion, I require one who will make an equal +demand on me with my own genius. Such a one will always be rightly +tolerant. It is suicide, and corrupts good manners to welcome any less +than this. I value and trust those who love and praise my aspiration +rather than my performance. If you would not stop to look at me, but +look whither I am looking, and farther, then my education could not +dispense with your company. + +My love must be as free + As is the eagle’s wing, +Hovering o’er land and sea + And everything. + +I must not dim my eye + In thy saloon, +I must not leave my sky + And nightly moon. + +Be not the fowler’s net + Which stays my flight, +And craftily is set + T’allure the sight. + +But be the favoring gale + That bears me on, +And still doth fill my sail + When thou art gone. + +I cannot leave my sky + For thy caprice, +True love would soar as high + As heaven is. + +The eagle would not brook + Her mate thus won, +Who trained his eye to look + Beneath the sun. + + +Few things are more difficult than to help a Friend in matters which do +not require the aid of Friendship, but only a cheap and trivial +service, if your Friendship wants the basis of a thorough practical +acquaintance. I stand in the friendliest relation, on social and +spiritual grounds, to one who does not perceive what practical skill I +have, but when he seeks my assistance in such matters, is wholly +ignorant of that one with whom he deals; does not use my skill, which +in such matters is much greater than his, but only my hands. I know +another, who, on the contrary, is remarkable for his discrimination in +this respect; who knows how to make use of the talents of others when +he does not possess the same; knows when not to look after or oversee, +and stops short at his man. It is a rare pleasure to serve him, which +all laborers know. I am not a little pained by the other kind of +treatment. It is as if, after the friendliest and most ennobling +intercourse, your Friend should use you as a hammer, and drive a nail +with your head, all in good faith; notwithstanding that you are a +tolerable carpenter, as well as his good Friend, and would use a hammer +cheerfully in his service. This want of perception is a defect which +all the virtues of the heart cannot supply:— + +The Good how can we trust? +Only the Wise are just. +The Good we use, +The Wise we cannot choose. +These there are none above; +The Good they know and love, +But are not known again +By those of lesser ken. +They do not charm us with their eyes, +But they transfix with their advice; +No partial sympathy they feel, +With private woe or private weal, +But with the universe joy and sigh, +Whose knowledge is their sympathy. + + +Confucius said: “To contract ties of Friendship with any one, is to +contract Friendship with his virtue. There ought not to be any other +motive in Friendship.” But men wish us to contract Friendship with +their vice also. I have a Friend who wishes me to see that to be right +which I know to be wrong. But if Friendship is to rob me of my eyes, if +it is to darken the day, I will have none of it. It should be expansive +and inconceivably liberalizing in its effects. True Friendship can +afford true knowledge. It does not depend on darkness and ignorance. A +want of discernment cannot be an ingredient in it. If I can see my +Friend’s virtues more distinctly than another’s, his faults too are +made more conspicuous by contrast. We have not so good a right to hate +any as our Friend. Faults are not the less faults because they are +invariably balanced by corresponding virtues, and for a fault there is +no excuse, though it may appear greater than it is in many ways. I have +never known one who could bear criticism, who could not be flattered, +who would not bribe his judge, or was content that the truth should be +loved always better than himself. + +If two travellers would go their way harmoniously together, the one +must take as true and just a view of things as the other, else their +path will not be strewn with roses. Yet you can travel profitably and +pleasantly even with a blind man, if he practises common courtesy, and +when you converse about the scenery will remember that he is blind but +that you can see; and you will not forget that his sense of hearing is +probably quickened by his want of sight. Otherwise you will not long +keep company. A blind man, and a man in whose eyes there was no defect, +were walking together, when they came to the edge of a precipice. “Take +care! my friend,” said the latter, “here is a steep precipice; go no +farther this way.”—“I know better,” said the other, and stepped off. + +It is impossible to say all that we think, even to our truest Friend. +We may bid him farewell forever sooner than complain, for our complaint +is too well grounded to be uttered. There is not so good an +understanding between any two, but the exposure by the one of a serious +fault in the other will produce a misunderstanding in proportion to its +heinousness. The constitutional differences which always exist, and are +obstacles to a perfect Friendship, are forever a forbidden theme to the +lips of Friends. They advise by their whole behavior. Nothing can +reconcile them but love. They are fatally late when they undertake to +explain and treat with one another like foes. Who will take an apology +for a Friend? They must apologize like dew and frost, which are off +again with the sun, and which all men know in their hearts to be +beneficent. The necessity itself for explanation,—what explanation will +atone for that? + +True love does not quarrel for slight reasons, such mistakes as mutual +acquaintances can explain away, but, alas, however slight the apparent +cause, only for adequate and fatal and everlasting reasons, which can +never be set aside. Its quarrel, if there is any, is ever recurring, +notwithstanding the beams of affection which invariably come to gild +its tears; as the rainbow, however beautiful and unerring a sign, does +not promise fair weather forever, but only for a season. I have known +two or three persons pretty well, and yet I have never known advice to +be of use but in trivial and transient matters. One may know what +another does not, but the utmost kindness cannot impart what is +requisite to make the advice useful. We must accept or refuse one +another as we are. I could tame a hyena more easily than my Friend. He +is a material which no tool of mine will work. A naked savage will fell +an oak with a firebrand, and wear a hatchet out of a rock by friction, +but I cannot hew the smallest chip out of the character of my Friend, +either to beautify or deform it. + +The lover learns at last that there is no person quite transparent and +trustworthy, but every one has a devil in him that is capable of any +crime in the long run. Yet, as an Oriental philosopher has said, +“Although Friendship between good men is interrupted, their principles +remain unaltered. The stalk of the lotus may be broken, and the fibres +remain connected.” + +Ignorance and bungling with love are better than wisdom and skill +without. There may be courtesy, there may be even temper, and wit, and +talent, and sparkling conversation, there may be good-will even,—and +yet the humanest and divinest faculties pine for exercise. Our life +without love is like coke and ashes. Men may be pure as alabaster and +Parian marble, elegant as a Tuscan villa, sublime as Niagara, and yet +if there is no milk mingled with the wine at their entertainments, +better is the hospitality of Goths and Vandals. + +My Friend is not of some other race or family of men, but flesh of my +flesh, bone of my bone. He is my real brother. I see his nature groping +yonder so like mine. We do not live far apart. Have not the fates +associated us in many ways? It says, in the Vishnu Purana: “Seven paces +together is sufficient for the friendship of the virtuous, but thou and +I have dwelt together.” Is it of no significance that we have so long +partaken of the same loaf, drank at the same fountain, breathed the +same air summer and winter, felt the same heat and cold; that the same +fruits have been pleased to refresh us both, and we have never had a +thought of different fibre the one from the other! + +Nature doth have her dawn each day, + But mine are far between; +Content, I cry, for sooth to say, + Mine brightest are I ween. + +For when my sun doth deign to rise, + Though it be her noontide, +Her fairest field in shadow lies, + Nor can my light abide. + +Sometimes I bask me in her day, + Conversing with my mate, +But if we interchange one ray, + Forthwith her heats abate. + +Through his discourse I climb and see, + As from some eastern hill, +A brighter morrow rise to me + Than lieth in her skill. + +As ’t were two summer days in one, + Two Sundays come together, +Our rays united make one sun, + With fairest summer weather. + + +As surely as the sunset in my latest November shall translate me to the +ethereal world, and remind me of the ruddy morning of youth; as surely +as the last strain of music which falls on my decaying ear shall make +age to be forgotten, or, in short, the manifold influences of nature +survive during the term of our natural life, so surely my Friend shall +forever be my Friend, and reflect a ray of God to me, and time shall +foster and adorn and consecrate our Friendship, no less than the ruins +of temples. As I love nature, as I love singing birds, and gleaming +stubble, and flowing rivers, and morning and evening, and summer and +winter, I love thee, my Friend. + +But all that can be said of Friendship, is like botany to flowers. How +can the understanding take account of its friendliness? + +Even the death of Friends will inspire us as much as their lives. They +will leave consolation to the mourners, as the rich leave money to +defray the expenses of their funerals, and their memories will be +incrusted over with sublime and pleasing thoughts, as monuments of +other men are overgrown with moss; for our Friends have no place in the +graveyard. + +This to our cis-Alpine and cis-Atlantic Friends. + +Also this other word of entreaty and advice to the large and +respectable nation of Acquaintances, beyond the mountains;—Greeting. + +My most serene and irresponsible neighbors, let us see that we have the +whole advantage of each other; we will be useful, at least, if not +admirable, to one another. I know that the mountains which separate us +are high, and covered with perpetual snow, but despair not. Improve the +serene winter weather to scale them. If need be, soften the rocks with +vinegar. For here lie the verdant plains of Italy ready to receive you. +Nor shall I be slow on my side to penetrate to your Provence. Strike +then boldly at head or heart or any vital part. Depend upon it, the +timber is well seasoned and tough, and will bear rough usage; and if it +should crack, there is plenty more where it came from. I am no piece of +crockery that cannot be jostled against my neighbor without danger of +being broken by the collision, and must needs ring false and jarringly +to the end of my days, when once I am cracked; but rather one of the +old-fashioned wooden trenchers, which one while stands at the head of +the table, and at another is a milking-stool, and at another a seat for +children, and finally goes down to its grave not unadorned with +honorable scars, and does not die till it is worn out. Nothing can +shock a brave man but dulness. Think how many rebuffs every man has +experienced in his day; perhaps has fallen into a horse-pond, eaten +fresh-water clams, or worn one shirt for a week without washing. +Indeed, you cannot receive a shock unless you have an electric affinity +for that which shocks you. Use me, then, for I am useful in my way, and +stand as one of many petitioners, from toadstool and henbane up to +dahlia and violet, supplicating to be put to my use, if by any means ye +may find me serviceable; whether for a medicated drink or bath, as balm +and lavender; or for fragrance, as verbena and geranium; or for sight, +as cactus; or for thoughts, as pansy. These humbler, at least, if not +those higher uses. + +Ah, my dear Strangers and Enemies, I would not forget you. I can well +afford to welcome you. Let me subscribe myself Yours ever and +truly,—your much obliged servant. We have nothing to fear from our +foes; God keeps a standing army for that service; but we have no ally +against our Friends, those ruthless Vandals. + +Once more to one and all, + +“Friends, Romans, Countrymen, and Lovers.” + +Let such pure hate still underprop +Our love, that we may be +Each other’s conscience. +And have our sympathy +Mainly from thence. + +We’ll one another treat like gods, +And all the faith we have +In virtue and in truth, bestow +On either, and suspicion leave +To gods below. + +Two solitary stars,— +Unmeasured systems far +Between us roll, +But by our conscious light we are +Determined to one pole. + +What need confound the sphere,— +Love can afford to wait, +For it no hour’s too late +That witnesseth one duty’s end, +Or to another doth beginning lend. + +It will subserve no use, +More than the tints of flowers, +Only the independent guest +Frequents its bowers, +Inherits its bequest. + +No speech though kind has it, +But kinder silence doles +Unto its mates, +By night consoles, +By day congratulates. + +What saith the tongue to tongue? +What heareth ear of ear? +By the decrees of fate +From year to year, +Does it communicate. + +Pathless the gulf of feeling yawns,— +No trivial bridge of words, +Or arch of boldest span, +Can leap the moat that girds +The sincere man. + +No show of bolts and bars +Can keep the foeman out, +Or ’scape his secret mine +Who entered with the doubt +That drew the line. + +No warder at the gate +Can let the friendly in, +But, like the sun, o’er all +He will the castle win, +And shine along the wall. + +There’s nothing in the world I know +That can escape from love, +For every depth it goes below, +And every height above. + +It waits as waits the sky, +Until the clouds go by, +Yet shines serenely on +With an eternal day, +Alike when they are gone, +And when they stay. + +Implacable is Love,— +Foes may be bought or teased +From their hostile intent, +But he goes unappeased +Who is on kindness bent. + + +Having rowed five or six miles above Amoskeag before sunset, and +reached a pleasant part of the river, one of us landed to look for a +farm-house, where we might replenish our stores, while the other +remained cruising about the stream, and exploring the opposite shores +to find a suitable harbor for the night. In the mean while the +canal-boats began to come round a point in our rear, poling their way +along close to the shore, the breeze having quite died away. This time +there was no offer of assistance, but one of the boatmen only called +out to say, as the truest revenge for having been the losers in the +race, that he had seen a wood-duck, which we had scared up, sitting on +a tall white-pine, half a mile down stream; and he repeated the +assertion several times, and seemed really chagrined at the apparent +suspicion with which this information was received. But there sat the +summer duck still, undisturbed by us. + +By and by the other voyageur returned from his inland expedition, +bringing one of the natives with him, a little flaxen-headed boy, with +some tradition, or small edition, of Robinson Crusoe in his head, who +had been charmed by the account of our adventures, and asked his +father’s leave to join us. He examined, at first from the top of the +bank, our boat and furniture, with sparkling eyes, and wished himself +already his own man. He was a lively and interesting boy, and we should +have been glad to ship him; but Nathan was still his father’s boy, and +had not come to years of discretion. + +We had got a loaf of home-made bread, and musk and water melons for +dessert. For this farmer, a clever and well-disposed man, cultivated a +large patch of melons for the Hooksett and Concord markets. He +hospitably entertained us the next day, exhibiting his hop-fields and +kiln and melon-patch, warning us to step over the tight rope which +surrounded the latter at a foot from the ground, while he pointed to a +little bower at one corner, where it connected with the lock of a gun +ranging with the line, and where, as he informed us, he sometimes sat +in pleasant nights to defend his premises against thieves. We stepped +high over the line, and sympathized with our host’s on the whole quite +human, if not humane, interest in the success of his experiment. That +night especially thieves were to be expected, from rumors in the +atmosphere, and the priming was not wet. He was a Methodist man, who +had his dwelling between the river and Uncannunuc Mountain; who there +belonged, and stayed at home there, and by the encouragement of distant +political organizations, and by his own tenacity, held a property in +his melons, and continued to plant. We suggested melon-seeds of new +varieties and fruit of foreign flavor to be added to his stock. We had +come away up here among the hills to learn the impartial and unbribable +beneficence of Nature. Strawberries and melons grow as well in one +man’s garden as another’s, and the sun lodges as kindly under his +hillside,—when we had imagined that she inclined rather to some few +earnest and faithful souls whom we know. + +We found a convenient harbor for our boat on the opposite or east +shore, still in Hooksett, at the mouth of a small brook which emptied +into the Merrimack, where it would be out of the way of any passing +boat in the night,—for they commonly hug the shore if bound up stream, +either to avoid the current, or touch the bottom with their poles,—and +where it would be accessible without stepping on the clayey shore. We +set one of our largest melons to cool in the still water among the +alders at the mouth of this creek, but when our tent was pitched and +ready, and we went to get it, it had floated out into the stream, and +was nowhere to be seen. So taking the boat in the twilight, we went in +pursuit of this property, and at length, after long straining of the +eyes, its green disk was discovered far down the river, gently floating +seaward with many twigs and leaves from the mountains that evening, and +so perfectly balanced that it had not keeled at all, and no water had +run in at the tap which had been taken out to hasten its cooling. + +As we sat on the bank eating our supper, the clear light of the western +sky fell on the eastern trees, and was reflected in the water, and we +enjoyed so serene an evening as left nothing to describe. For the most +part we think that there are few degrees of sublimity, and that the +highest is but little higher than that which we now behold; but we are +always deceived. Sublimer visions appear, and the former pale and fade +away. We are grateful when we are reminded by interior evidence of the +permanence of universal laws; for our faith is but faintly remembered, +indeed, is not a remembered assurance, but a use and enjoyment of +knowledge. It is when we do not have to believe, but come into actual +contact with Truth, and are related to her in the most direct and +intimate way. Waves of serener life pass over us from time to time, +like flakes of sunlight over the fields in cloudy weather. In some +happier moment, when more sap flows in the withered stalk of our life, +Syria and India stretch away from our present as they do in history. +All the events which make the annals of the nations are but the shadows +of our private experiences. Suddenly and silently the eras which we +call history awake and glimmer in us, and _there_ is room for Alexander +and Hannibal to march and conquer. In short, the history which we read +is only a fainter memory of events which have happened in our own +experience. Tradition is a more interrupted and feebler memory. + +This world is but canvas to our imaginations. I see men with infinite +pains endeavoring to realize to their bodies, what I, with at least +equal pains, would realize to my imagination,—its capacities; for +certainly there is a life of the mind above the wants of the body, and +independent of it. Often the body is warmed, but the imagination is +torpid; the body is fat, but the imagination is lean and shrunk. But +what avails all other wealth if this is wanting? “Imagination is the +air of mind,” in which it lives and breathes. All things are as I am. +Where is the House of Change? The past is only so heroic as we see it. +It is the canvas on which our idea of heroism is painted, and so, in +one sense, the dim prospectus of our future field. Our circumstances +answer to our expectations and the demand of our natures. I have +noticed that if a man thinks that he needs a thousand dollars, and +cannot be convinced that he does not, he will commonly be found to have +them; if he lives and thinks a thousand dollars will be forthcoming, +though it be to buy shoe-strings with. A thousand mills will be just as +slow to come to one who finds it equally hard to convince himself that +he needs _them_. + +Men are by birth equal in this, that given +Themselves and their condition, they are even. + + +I am astonished at the singular pertinacity and endurance of our lives. +The miracle is, that what is _is_, when it is so difficult, if not +impossible, for anything else to be; that we walk on in our particular +paths so far, before we fall on death and fate, merely because we must +walk in some path; that every man can get a living, and so few can do +anything more. So much only can I accomplish ere health and strength +are gone, and yet this suffices. The bird now sits just out of gunshot. +I am never rich in money, and I am never meanly poor. If debts are +incurred, why, debts are in the course of events cancelled, as it were +by the same law by which they were incurred. I heard that an engagement +was entered into between a certain youth and a maiden, and then I heard +that it was broken off, but I did not know the reason in either case. +We are hedged about, we think, by accident and circumstance, now we +creep as in a dream, and now again we run, as if there were a fate in +it, and all things thwarted or assisted. I cannot change my clothes but +when I do, and yet I do change them, and soil the new ones. It is +wonderful that this gets done, when some admirable deeds which I could +mention do not get done. Our particular lives seem of such fortune and +confident strength and durability as piers of solid rock thrown forward +into the tide of circumstance. When every other path would fail, with +singular and unerring confidence we advance on our particular course. +What risks we run! famine and fire and pestilence, and the thousand +forms of a cruel fate,—and yet every man lives till he—dies. How did he +manage that? Is there no immediate danger? We wonder superfluously when +we hear of a somnambulist walking a plank securely,—we have walked a +plank all our lives up to this particular string-piece where we are. My +life will wait for nobody, but is being matured still without delay, +while I go about the streets, and chaffer with this man and that to +secure it a living. It is as indifferent and easy meanwhile as a poor +man’s dog, and making acquaintance with its kind. It will cut its own +channel like a mountain stream, and by the longest ridge is not kept +from the sea at last. I have found all things thus far, persons and +inanimate matter, elements and seasons, strangely adapted to my +resources. No matter what imprudent haste in my career; I am permitted +to be rash. Gulfs are bridged in a twinkling, as if some unseen +baggage-train carried pontoons for my convenience, and while from the +heights I scan the tempting but unexplored Pacific Ocean of Futurity, +the ship is being carried over the mountains piecemeal on the backs of +mules and lamas, whose keel shall plough its waves, and bear me to the +Indies. Day would not dawn if it were not for + +THE INWARD MORNING + + +Packed in my mind lie all the clothes + Which outward nature wears, +And in its fashion’s hourly change + It all things else repairs. + +In vain I look for change abroad, + And can no difference find, +Till some new ray of peace uncalled + Illumes my inmost mind. + +What is it gilds the trees and clouds, + And paints the heavens so gay, +But yonder fast-abiding light + With its unchanging ray? + +Lo, when the sun streams through the wood, + Upon a winter’s morn, +Where’er his silent beams intrude, + The murky night is gone. + +How could the patient pine have known + The morning breeze would come, +Or humble flowers anticipate + The insect’s noonday hum,— + +Till the new light with morning cheer + From far streamed through the aisles, +And nimbly told the forest trees + For many stretching miles? + +I’ve heard within my inmost soul + Such cheerful morning news, +In the horizon of my mind + Have seen such orient hues, + +As in the twilight of the dawn, + When the first birds awake, +Are heard within some silent wood, + Where they the small twigs break, + +Or in the eastern skies are seen, + Before the sun appears, +The harbingers of summer heats + Which from afar he bears. + + +Whole weeks and months of my summer life slide away in thin volumes +like mist and smoke, till at length, some warm morning, perchance, I +see a sheet of mist blown down the brook to the swamp, and I float as +high above the fields with it. I can recall to mind the stillest summer +hours, in which the grasshopper sings over the mulleins, and there is a +valor in that time the bare memory of which is armor that can laugh at +any blow of fortune. For our lifetime the strains of a harp are heard +to swell and die alternately, and death is but “the pause when the +blast is recollecting itself.” + +We lay awake a long while, listening to the murmurs of the brook, in +the angle formed by whose bank with the river our tent was pitched, and +there was a sort of human interest in its story, which ceases not in +freshet or in drought the livelong summer, and the profounder lapse of +the river was quite drowned by its din. But the rill, whose + +“Silver sands and pebbles sing +Eternal ditties with the spring,” + + +is silenced by the first frosts of winter, while mightier streams, on +whose bottom the sun never shines, clogged with sunken rocks and the +ruins of forests, from whose surface comes up no murmur, are strangers +to the icy fetters which bind fast a thousand contributary rills. + +I dreamed this night of an event which had occurred long before. It was +a difference with a Friend, which had not ceased to give me pain, +though I had no cause to blame myself. But in my dream ideal justice +was at length done me for his suspicions, and I received that +compensation which I had never obtained in my waking hours. I was +unspeakably soothed and rejoiced, even after I awoke, because in dreams +we never deceive ourselves, nor are deceived, and this seemed to have +the authority of a final judgment. + +We bless and curse ourselves. Some dreams are divine, as well as some +waking thoughts. Donne sings of one + +“Who dreamt devoutlier than most use to pray.” + + +Dreams are the touchstones of our characters. We are scarcely less +afflicted when we remember some unworthiness in our conduct in a dream, +than if it had been actual, and the intensity of our grief, which is +our atonement, measures the degree by which this is separated from an +actual unworthiness. For in dreams we but act a part which must have +been learned and rehearsed in our waking hours, and no doubt could +discover some waking consent thereto. If this meanness had not its +foundation in us, why are we grieved at it? In dreams we see ourselves +naked and acting out our real characters, even more clearly than we see +others awake. But an unwavering and commanding virtue would compel even +its most fantastic and faintest dreams to respect its ever-wakeful +authority; as we are accustomed to say carelessly, we should never have +_dreamed_ of such a thing. Our truest life is when we are in dreams +awake. + +“And, more to lulle him in his slumber soft, +A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe, +And ever-drizzling raine upon the loft, +Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne +Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swowne. +No other noyse, nor people’s troublous cryes, +As still are wont t’ annoy the walled towne, +Might there be heard; but careless Quiet lyes +Wrapt in eternall silence farre from enemyes.” + + + + +THURSDAY + + +“He trode the unplanted forest floor, whereon +The all-seeing sun for ages hath not shone, +Where feeds the moose, and walks the surly bear, +And up the tall mast runs the woodpecker. + * * * * * +Where darkness found him he lay glad at night; +There the red morning touched him with its light. + * * * * * +Go where he will, the wise man is at home, +His hearth the earth,—his hall the azure dome; +Where his clear spirit leads him, there’s his road, +By God’s own light illumined and foreshowed.” + +EMERSON. + +When we awoke this morning, we heard the faint, deliberate, and ominous +sound of rain-drops on our cotton roof. The rain had pattered all +night, and now the whole country wept, the drops falling in the river, +and on the alders, and in the pastures, and instead of any bow in the +heavens, there was the trill of the hair-bird all the morning. The +cheery faith of this little bird atoned for the silence of the whole +woodland choir beside. When we first stepped abroad, a flock of sheep, +led by their rams, came rushing down a ravine in our rear, with +heedless haste and unreserved frisking, as if unobserved by man, from +some higher pasture where they had spent the night, to taste the +herbage by the river-side; but when their leaders caught sight of our +white tent through the mist, struck with sudden astonishment, with +their fore-feet braced, they sustained the rushing torrent in their +rear, and the whole flock stood stock-still, endeavoring to solve the +mystery in their sheepish brains. At length, concluding that it boded +no mischief to them, they spread themselves out quietly over the field. +We learned afterward that we had pitched our tent on the very spot +which a few summers before had been occupied by a party of Penobscots. +We could see rising before us through the mist a dark conical eminence +called Hooksett Pinnacle, a landmark to boatmen, and also Uncannunuc +Mountain, broad off on the west side of the river. + +This was the limit of our voyage, for a few hours more in the rain +would have taken us to the last of the locks, and our boat was too +heavy to be dragged around the long and numerous rapids which would +occur. On foot, however, we continued up along the bank, feeling our +way with a stick through the showery and foggy day, and climbing over +the slippery logs in our path with as much pleasure and buoyancy as in +brightest sunshine; scenting the fragrance of the pines and the wet +clay under our feet, and cheered by the tones of invisible waterfalls; +with visions of toadstools, and wandering frogs, and festoons of moss +hanging from the spruce-trees, and thrushes flitting silent under the +leaves; our road still holding together through that wettest of +weather, like faith, while we confidently followed its lead. We managed +to keep our thoughts dry, however, and only our clothes were wet. It +was altogether a cloudy and drizzling day, with occasional brightenings +in the mist, when the trill of the tree-sparrow seemed to be ushering +in sunny hours. + +“Nothing that naturally happens to man can _hurt_ him, earthquakes and +thunder-storms not excepted,” said a man of genius, who at this time +lived a few miles farther on our road. When compelled by a shower to +take shelter under a tree, we may improve that opportunity for a more +minute inspection of some of Nature’s works. I have stood under a tree +in the woods half a day at a time, during a heavy rain in the summer, +and yet employed myself happily and profitably there prying with +microscopic eye into the crevices of the bark or the leaves or the +fungi at my feet. “Riches are the attendants of the miser; and the +heavens rain plenteously upon the mountains.” I can fancy that it would +be a luxury to stand up to one’s chin in some retired swamp a whole +summer day, scenting the wild honeysuckle and bilberry blows, and +lulled by the minstrelsy of gnats and mosquitoes! A day passed in the +society of those Greek sages, such as described in the Banquet of +Xenophon, would not be comparable with the dry wit of decayed cranberry +vines, and the fresh Attic salt of the moss-beds. Say twelve hours of +genial and familiar converse with the leopard frog; the sun to rise +behind alder and dogwood, and climb buoyantly to his meridian of two +hands’ breadth, and finally sink to rest behind some bold western +hummock. To hear the evening chant of the mosquito from a thousand +green chapels, and the bittern begin to boom from some concealed fort +like a sunset gun!—Surely one may as profitably be soaked in the juices +of a swamp for one day as pick his way dry-shod over sand. Cold and +damp,—are they not as rich experience as warmth and dryness? + +At present, the drops come trickling down the stubble while we lie +drenched on a bed of withered wild oats, by the side of a bushy hill, +and the gathering in of the clouds, with the last rush and dying breath +of the wind, and then the regular dripping of twigs and leaves the +country over, enhance the sense of inward comfort and sociableness. The +birds draw closer and are more familiar under the thick foliage, +seemingly composing new strains upon their roosts against the sunshine. +What were the amusements of the drawing-room and the library in +comparison, if we had them here? We should still sing as of old,— + +My books I’d fain cast off, I cannot read, +’Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large +Down in the meadow, where is richer feed, +And will not mind to hit their proper targe. + +Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too, +Our Shakespeare’s life were rich to live again, +What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true, +Nor Shakespeare’s books, unless his books were men. + +Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough, +What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town, +If juster battles are enacted now +Between the ants upon this hummock’s crown? + +Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn, +If red or black the gods will favor most, +Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn, +Struggling to heave some rock against the host. + +Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour, +For now I’ve business with this drop of dew, +And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower,— +I’ll meet him shortly when the sky is blue. + +This bed of herd’s-grass and wild oats was spread +Last year with nicer skill than monarchs use, +A clover tuft is pillow for my head, +And violets quite overtop my shoes. + +And now the cordial clouds have shut all in +And gently swells the wind to say all’s well +The scattered drops are falling fast and thin, +Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell. + +I am well drenched upon my bed of oats; +But see that globe come rolling down its stem +Now like a lonely planet there it floats, +And now it sinks into my garment’s hem. + +Drip drip the trees for all the country round, +And richness rare distils from every bough, +The wind alone it is makes every sound, +Shaking down crystals on the leaves below. + +For shame the sun will never show himself, +Who could not with his beams e’er melt me so, +My dripping locks,—they would become an elf, +Who in a beaded coat does gayly go. + + +The Pinnacle is a small wooded hill which rises very abruptly to the +height of about two hundred feet, near the shore at Hooksett Falls. As +Uncannunuc Mountain is perhaps the best point from which to view the +valley of the Merrimack, so this hill affords the best view of the +river itself. I have sat upon its summit, a precipitous rock only a few +rods long, in fairer weather, when the sun was setting and filling the +river valley with a flood of light. You can see up and down the +Merrimack several miles each way. The broad and straight river, full of +light and life, with its sparkling and foaming falls, the islet which +divides the stream, the village of Hooksett on the shore almost +directly under your feet, so near that you can converse with its +inhabitants or throw a stone into its yards, the woodland lake at its +western base, and the mountains in the north and northeast, make a +scene of rare beauty and completeness, which the traveller should take +pains to behold. + +We were hospitably entertained in Concord, New Hampshire, which we +persisted in calling _New_ Concord, as we had been wont, to distinguish +it from our native town, from which we had been told that it was named +and in part originally settled. This would have been the proper place +to conclude our voyage, uniting Concord with Concord by these +meandering rivers, but our boat was moored some miles below its port. + +The richness of the intervals at Penacook, now Concord, New Hampshire, +had been observed by explorers, and, according to the historian of +Haverhill, in the + +“year 1726, considerable progress was made in the settlement, and a +road was cut through the wilderness from Haverhill to Penacook. In the +fall of 1727, the first family, that of Captain Ebenezer Eastman, moved +into the place. His team was driven by Jacob Shute, who was by birth a +Frenchman, and he is said to have been the first person who drove a +team through the wilderness. Soon after, says tradition, one Ayer, a +lad of 18, drove a team consisting of ten yoke of oxen to Penacook, +swam the river, and ploughed a portion of the interval. He is supposed +to have been the first person who ploughed land in that place. After he +had completed his work, he started on his return at sunrise, drowned a +yoke of oxen while recrossing the river, and arrived at Haverhill about +midnight. The crank of the first saw-mill was manufactured in +Haverhill, and carried to Penacook on a horse.” + +But we found that the frontiers were not this way any longer. This +generation has come into the world fatally late for some enterprises. +Go where we will on the _surface_ of things, men have been there before +us. We cannot now have the pleasure of erecting the _last_ house; that +was long ago set up in the suburbs of Astoria City, and our boundaries +have literally been run to the South Sea, according to the old patents. +But the lives of men, though more extended laterally in their range, +are still as shallow as ever. Undoubtedly, as a Western orator said, +“Men generally live over about the same surface; some live long and +narrow, and others live broad and short”; but it is all superficial +living. A worm is as good a traveller as a grasshopper or a cricket, +and a much wiser settler. With all their activity these do not hop away +from drought nor forward to summer. We do not avoid evil by fleeing +before it, but by rising above or diving below its plane; as the worm +escapes drought and frost by boring a few inches deeper. The frontiers +are not east or west, north or south, but wherever a man _fronts_ a +fact, though that fact be his neighbor, there is an unsettled +wilderness between him and Canada, between him and the setting sun, or, +farther still, between him and _it_. Let him build himself a log-house +with the bark on where he is, _fronting_ IT, and wage there an Old +French war for seven or seventy years, with Indians and Rangers, or +whatever else may come between him and the reality, and save his scalp +if he can. + +We now no longer sailed or floated on the river, but trod the +unyielding land like pilgrims. Sadi tells who may travel; among others, +“A common mechanic, who can earn a subsistence by the industry of his +hand, and shall not have to stake his reputation for every morsel of +bread, as philosophers have said.” He may travel who can subsist on the +wild fruits and game of the most cultivated country. A man may travel +fast enough and earn his living on the road. I have at times been +applied to to do work when on a journey; to do tinkering and repair +clocks, when I had a knapsack on my back. A man once applied to me to +go into a factory, stating conditions and wages, observing that I +succeeded in shutting the window of a railroad car in which we were +travelling, when the other passengers had failed. “Hast thou not heard +of a Sufi, who was hammering some nails into the sole of his sandal; an +officer of cavalry took him by the sleeve, saying, Come along and shoe +my horse.” Farmers have asked me to assist them in haying, when I was +passing their fields. A man once applied to me to mend his umbrella, +taking me for an umbrella-mender, because, being on a journey, I +carried an umbrella in my hand while the sun shone. Another wished to +buy a tin cup of me, observing that I had one strapped to my belt, and +a sauce-pan on my back. The cheapest way to travel, and the way to +travel the farthest in the shortest distance, is to go afoot, carrying +a dipper, a spoon, and a fish-line, some Indian meal, some salt, and +some sugar. When you come to a brook or pond, you can catch fish and +cook them; or you can boil a hasty-pudding; or you can buy a loaf of +bread at a farmer’s house for fourpence, moisten it in the next brook +that crosses the road, and dip into it your sugar,—this alone will last +you a whole day;—or, if you are accustomed to heartier living, you can +buy a quart of milk for two cents, crumb your bread or cold pudding +into it, and eat it with your own spoon out of your own dish. Any one +of these things I mean, not all together. I have travelled thus some +hundreds of miles without taking any meal in a house, sleeping on the +ground when convenient, and found it cheaper, and in many respects more +profitable, than staying at home. So that some have inquired why it +would not be best to travel always. But I never thought of travelling +simply as a means of getting a livelihood. A simple woman down in +Tyngsborough, at whose house I once stopped to get a draught of water, +when I said, recognizing the bucket, that I had stopped there nine +years before for the same purpose, asked if I was not a traveller, +supposing that I had been travelling ever since, and had now come round +again; that travelling was one of the professions, more or less +productive, which her husband did not follow. But continued travelling +is far from productive. It begins with wearing away the soles of the +shoes, and making the feet sore, and erelong it will wear a man clean +up, after making his heart sore into the bargain. I have observed that +the after-life of those who have travelled much is very pathetic. True +and sincere travelling is no pastime, but it is as serious as the +grave, or any part of the human journey, and it requires a long +probation to be broken into it. I do not speak of those that travel +sitting, the sedentary travellers whose legs hang dangling the while, +mere idle symbols of the fact, any more than when we speak of sitting +hens we mean those that sit standing, but I mean those to whom +travelling is life for the legs, and death too, at last. The traveller +must be born again on the road, and earn a passport from the elements, +the principal powers that be for him. He shall experience at last that +old threat of his mother fulfilled, that he shall be skinned alive. His +sores shall gradually deepen themselves that they may heal inwardly, +while he gives no rest to the sole of his foot, and at night weariness +must be his pillow, that so he may acquire experience against his rainy +days.—So was it with us. + +Sometimes we lodged at an inn in the woods, where trout-fishers from +distant cities had arrived before us, and where, to our astonishment, +the settlers dropped in at nightfall to have a chat and hear the news, +though there was but one road, and no other house was visible,—as if +they had come out of the earth. There we sometimes read old newspapers, +who never before read new ones, and in the rustle of their leaves heard +the dashing of the surf along the Atlantic shore, instead of the sough +of the wind among the pines. But then walking had given us an appetite +even for the least palatable and nutritious food. + +Some hard and dry book in a dead language, which you have found it +impossible to read at home, but for which you have still a lingering +regard, is the best to carry with you on a journey. At a country inn, +in the barren society of ostlers and travellers, I could undertake the +writers of the silver or the brazen age with confidence. Almost the +last regular service which I performed in the cause of literature was +to read the works of + +AULUS PERSIUS FLACCUS. + + +If you have imagined what a divine work is spread out for the poet, and +approach this author too, in the hope of finding the field at length +fairly entered on, you will hardly dissent from the words of the +prologue, + + “Ipse semipaganus +Ad sacra Vatum carmen affero nostrum.” + + I half pagan +Bring my verses to the shrine of the poets. + + +Here is none of the interior dignity of Virgil, nor the elegance and +vivacity of Horace, nor will any sibyl be needed to remind you, that +from those older Greek poets there is a sad descent to Persius. You can +scarcely distinguish one harmonious sound amid this unmusical bickering +with the follies of men. + +One sees that music has its place in thought, but hardly as yet in +language. When the Muse arrives, we wait for her to remould language, +and impart to it her own rhythm. Hitherto the verse groans and labors +with its load, and goes not forward blithely, singing by the way. The +best ode may be parodied, indeed is itself a parody, and has a poor and +trivial sound, like a man stepping on the rounds of a ladder. Homer and +Shakespeare and Milton and Marvell and Wordsworth are but the rustling +of leaves and crackling of twigs in the forest, and there is not yet +the sound of any bird. The Muse has never lifted up her voice to sing. +Most of all, satire will not be sung. A Juvenal or Persius do not marry +music to their verse, but are measured fault-finders at best; stand but +just outside the faults they condemn, and so are concerned rather about +the monster which they have escaped, than the fair prospect before +them. Let them live on an age, and they will have travelled out of his +shadow and reach, and found other objects to ponder. + +As long as there is satire, the poet is, as it were, _particeps +criminis_. One sees not but he had best let bad take care of itself, +and have to do only with what is beyond suspicion. If you light on the +least vestige of truth, and it is the weight of the whole body still +which stamps the faintest trace, an eternity will not suffice to extol +it, while no evil is so huge, but you grudge to bestow on it a moment +of hate. Truth never turns to rebuke falsehood; her own +straightforwardness is the severest correction. Horace would not have +written satire so well if he had not been inspired by it, as by a +passion, and fondly cherished his vein. In his odes, the love always +exceeds the hate, so that the severest satire still sings itself, and +the poet is satisfied, though the folly be not corrected. + +A sort of necessary order in the development of Genius is, first, +Complaint; second, Plaint; third, Love. Complaint, which is the +condition of Persius, lies not in the province of poetry. Erelong the +enjoyment of a superior good would have changed his disgust into +regret. We can never have much sympathy with the complainer; for after +searching nature through, we conclude that he must be both plaintiff +and defendant too, and so had best come to a settlement without a +hearing. He who receives an injury is to some extent an accomplice of +the wrong-doer. + +Perhaps it would be truer to say, that the highest strain of the muse +is essentially plaintive. The saint’s are still _tears_ of joy. Who has +ever heard the _Innocent_ sing? + +But the divinest poem, or the life of a great man, is the severest +satire; as impersonal as Nature herself, and like the sighs of her +winds in the woods, which convey ever a slight reproof to the hearer. +The greater the genius, the keener the edge of the satire. + +Hence we have to do only with the rare and fragmentary traits, which +least belong to Persius, or shall we say, are the properest utterances +of his muse; since that which he says best at any time is what he can +best say at all times. The Spectators and Ramblers have not failed to +cull some quotable sentences from this garden too, so pleasant is it to +meet even the most familiar truth in a new dress, when, if our neighbor +had said it, we should have passed it by as hackneyed. Out of these six +satires, you may perhaps select some twenty lines, which fit so well as +many thoughts, that they will recur to the scholar almost as readily as +a natural image; though when translated into familiar language, they +lose that insular emphasis, which fitted them for quotation. Such lines +as the following, translation cannot render commonplace. Contrasting +the man of true religion with those who, with jealous privacy, would +fain carry on a secret commerce with the gods, he says:— + +“Haud cuivis promptum est, murmurque humilesque susurros +Tollere de templis; et aperto vivere voto.” + +It is not easy for every one to take murmurs and low +Whispers out of the temples, and live with open vow. + + +To the virtuous man, the universe is the only _sanctum sanctorum_, and +the penetralia of the temple are the broad noon of his existence. Why +should he betake himself to a subterranean crypt, as if it were the +only holy ground in all the world which he had left unprofaned? The +obedient soul would only the more discover and familiarize things, and +escape more and more into light and air, as having henceforth done with +secrecy, so that the universe shall not seem open enough for it. At +length, it is neglectful even of that silence which is consistent with +true modesty, but by its independence of all confidence in its +disclosures, makes that which it imparts so private to the hearer, that +it becomes the care of the whole world that modesty be not infringed. + +To the man who cherishes a secret in his breast, there is a still +greater secret unexplored. Our most indifferent acts may be matter for +secrecy, but whatever we do with the utmost truthfulness and integrity, +by virtue of its pureness, must be transparent as light. + +In the third satire, he asks:— + +“Est aliquid quò tendis, et in quod dirigis arcum? +An passim sequeris corvos, testâve, lutove, +Securus quò pes ferat, atque ex tempore vivis?” + +Is there anything to which thou tendest, and against which thou +directest thy bow? +Or dost thou pursue crows, at random, with pottery or clay, +Careless whither thy feet bear thee, and live _ex tempore_? + + +The bad sense is always a secondary one. Language does not appear to +have justice done it, but is obviously cramped and narrowed in its +significance, when any meanness is described. The truest construction +is not put upon it. What may readily be fashioned into a rule of +wisdom, is here thrown in the teeth of the sluggard, and constitutes +the front of his offence. Universally, the innocent man will come forth +from the sharpest inquisition and lecturing, the combined din of +reproof and commendation, with a faint sound of eulogy in his ears. Our +vices always lie in the direction of our virtues, and in their best +estate are but plausible imitations of the latter. Falsehood never +attains to the dignity of entire falseness, but is only an inferior +sort of truth; if it were more thoroughly false, it would incur danger +of becoming true. + +“Securus quo pes ferat, atque ex tempore _vivit_,” + + +is then the motto of a wise man. For first, as the subtle discernment +of the language would have taught us, with all his negligence he is +still secure; but the sluggard, notwithstanding his heedlessness, is +insecure. + +The life of a wise man is most of all extemporaneous, for he lives out +of an eternity which includes all time. The cunning mind travels +further back than Zoroaster each instant, and comes quite down to the +present with its revelation. The utmost thrift and industry of thinking +give no man any stock in life; his credit with the inner world is no +better, his capital no larger. He must try his fortune again to-day as +yesterday. All questions rely on the present for their solution. Time +measures nothing but itself. The word that is written may be postponed, +but not that on the lip. If this is what the occasion says, let the +occasion say it. All the world is forward to prompt him who gets up to +live without his creed in his pocket. + +In the fifth satire, which is the best, I find,— + +“Stat contrà ratio, et secretam garrit in aurem, +Ne liceat facere id, quod quis vitiabit agendo.” + +Reason opposes, and whispers in the secret ear, +That it is not lawful to do that which one will spoil by doing. + + +Only they who do not see how anything might be better done are forward +to try their hand on it. Even the master workman must be encouraged by +the reflection, that his awkwardness will be incompetent to do that +thing harm, to which his skill may fail to do justice. Here is no +apology for neglecting to do many things from a sense of our +incapacity,—for what deed does not fall maimed and imperfect from our +hands?—but only a warning to bungle less. + +The satires of Persius are the furthest possible from inspired; +evidently a chosen, not imposed subject. Perhaps I have given him +credit for more earnestness than is apparent; but it is certain, that +that which alone we can call Persius, which is forever independent and +consistent, _was_ in earnest, and so sanctions the sober consideration +of all. The artist and his work are not to be separated. The most +wilfully foolish man cannot stand aloof from his folly, but the deed +and the doer together make ever one sober fact. There is but one stage +for the peasant and the actor. The buffoon cannot bribe you to laugh +always at his grimaces; they shall sculpture themselves in Egyptian +granite, to stand heavy as the pyramids on the ground of his character. + +Suns rose and set and found us still on the dank forest path which +meanders up the Pemigewasset, now more like an otter’s or a marten’s +trail, or where a beaver had dragged his trap, than where the wheels of +travel raise a dust; where towns begin to serve as gores, only to hold +the earth together. The wild pigeon sat secure above our heads, high on +the dead limbs of naval pines, reduced to a robin’s size. The very +yards of our hostelries inclined upon the skirts of mountains, and, as +we passed, we looked up at a steep angle at the stems of maples waving +in the clouds. + +Far up in the country,—for we would be faithful to our experience,—in +Thornton, perhaps, we met a soldier lad in the woods, going to muster +in full regimentals, and holding the middle of the road; deep in the +forest, with shouldered musket and military step, and thoughts of war +and glory all to himself. It was a sore trial to the youth, tougher +than many a battle, to get by us creditably and with soldierlike +bearing. Poor man! He actually shivered like a reed in his thin +military pants, and by the time we had got up with him, all the +sternness that becomes the soldier had forsaken his face, and he +skulked past as if he were driving his father’s sheep under a +sword-proof helmet. It was too much for him to carry any extra armor +then, who could not easily dispose of his natural arms. And for his +legs, they were like heavy artillery in boggy places; better to cut the +traces and forsake them. His greaves chafed and wrestled one with +another for want of other foes. But he did get by and get off with all +his munitions, and lived to fight another day; and I do not record this +as casting any suspicion on his honor and real bravery in the field. + +Wandering on through notches which the streams had made, by the side +and over the brows of hoar hills and mountains, across the stumpy, +rocky, forested, and bepastured country, we at length crossed on +prostrate trees over the Amonoosuck, and breathed the free air of +Unappropriated Land. Thus, in fair days as well as foul, we had traced +up the river to which our native stream is a tributary, until from +Merrimack it became the Pemigewasset that leaped by our side, and when +we had passed its fountain-head, the Wild Amonoosuck, whose puny +channel was crossed at a stride, guiding us toward its distant source +among the mountains, and at length, without its guidance, we were +enabled to reach the summit of AGIOCOCHOOK. + +“Sweet days, so cool, so calm, so bright, +The bridal of the earth and sky, +Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night, + For thou must die.” + + +HERBERT. + + +When we returned to Hooksett, a week afterward, the melon man, in whose +corn-barn we had hung our tent and buffaloes and other things to dry, +was already picking his hops, with many women and children to help him. +We bought one watermelon, the largest in his patch, to carry with us +for ballast. It was Nathan’s, which he might sell if he wished, having +been conveyed to him in the green state, and owned daily by his eyes. +After due consultation with “Father,” the bargain was concluded,—we to +buy it at a venture on the vine, green or ripe, our risk, and pay “what +the gentlemen pleased.” It proved to be ripe; for we had had honest +experience in selecting this fruit. + +Finding our boat safe in its harbor, under Uncannunuc Mountain, with a +fair wind and the current in our favor, we commenced our return voyage +at noon, sitting at our ease and conversing, or in silence watching for +the last trace of each reach in the river as a bend concealed it from +our view. As the season was further advanced, the wind now blew +steadily from the north, and with our sail set we could occasionally +lie on our oars without loss of time. The lumbermen throwing down wood +from the top of the high bank, thirty or forty feet above the water, +that it might be sent down stream, paused in their work to watch our +retreating sail. By this time, indeed, we were well known to the +boatmen, and were hailed as the Revenue Cutter of the stream. As we +sailed rapidly down the river, shut in between two mounds of earth, the +sounds of this timber rolled down the bank enhanced the silence and +vastness of the noon, and we fancied that only the primeval echoes were +awakened. The vision of a distant scow just heaving in sight round a +headland also increased by contrast the solitude. + +Through the din and desultoriness of noon, even in the most Oriental +city, is seen the fresh and primitive and savage nature, in which +Scythians and Ethiopians and Indians dwell. What is echo, what are +light and shade, day and night, ocean and stars, earthquake and +eclipse, there? The works of man are everywhere swallowed up in the +immensity of Nature. The Ægean Sea is but Lake Huron still to the +Indian. Also there is all the refinement of civilized life in the woods +under a sylvan garb. The wildest scenes have an air of domesticity and +homeliness even to the citizen, and when the flicker’s cackle is heard +in the clearing, he is reminded that civilization has wrought but +little change there. Science is welcome to the deepest recesses of the +forest, for there too nature obeys the same old civil laws. The little +red bug on the stump of a pine,—for it the wind shifts and the sun +breaks through the clouds. In the wildest nature, there is not only the +material of the most cultivated life, and a sort of anticipation of the +last result, but a greater refinement already than is ever attained by +man. There is papyrus by the river-side, and rushes for light, and the +goose only flies overhead, ages before the studious are born or letters +invented, and that literature which the former suggest, and even from +the first have rudely served, it may be man does not yet use them to +express. Nature is prepared to welcome into her scenery the finest work +of human art, for she is herself an art so cunning that the artist +never appears in his work. + +Art is not tame, and Nature is not wild, in the ordinary sense. A +perfect work of man’s art would also be wild or natural in a good +sense. Man tames Nature only that he may at last make her more free +even than he found her, though he may never yet have succeeded. + +With this propitious breeze, and the help of our oars, we soon reached +the Falls of Amoskeag, and the mouth of the Piscataquoag, and +recognized, as we swept rapidly by, many a fair bank and islet on which +our eyes had rested in the upward passage. Our boat was like that which +Chaucer describes in his Dream, in which the knight took his departure +from the island, + +“To journey for his marriage, +And return with such an host, +That wedded might be least and most. . . . . +Which barge was as a man’s thought, +After his pleasure to him brought, +The queene herself accustomed aye +In the same barge to play, +It needed neither mast ne rother, +I have not heard of such another, +No master for the governance, +Hie sayled by thought and pleasaunce, +Without labor east and west, +All was one, calme or tempest.” + + +So we sailed this afternoon, thinking of the saying of Pythagoras, +though we had no peculiar right to remember it, “It is beautiful when +prosperity is present with intellect, and when sailing as it were with +a prosperous wind, actions are performed looking to virtue; just as a +pilot looks to the motions of the stars.” All the world reposes in +beauty to him who preserves equipoise in his life, and moves serenely +on his path without secret violence; as he who sails down a stream, he +has only to steer, keeping his bark in the middle, and carry it round +the falls. The ripples curled away in our wake, like ringlets from the +head of a child, while we steadily held on our course, and under the +bows we watched + + “The swaying soft, +Made by the delicate wave parted in front, +As through the gentle element we move +Like shadows gliding through untroubled dreams.” + + +The forms of beauty fall naturally around the path of him who is in the +performance of his proper work; as the curled shavings drop from the +plane, and borings cluster round the auger. Undulation is the gentlest +and most ideal of motions, produced by one fluid falling on another. +Rippling is a more graceful flight. From a hill-top you may detect in +it the wings of birds endlessly repeated. The two _waving_ lines which +represent the flight of birds appear to have been copied from the +ripple. + +The trees made an admirable fence to the landscape, skirting the +horizon on every side. The single trees and the groves left standing on +the interval appeared naturally disposed, though the farmer had +consulted only his convenience, for he too falls into the scheme of +Nature. Art can never match the luxury and superfluity of Nature. In +the former all is seen; it cannot afford concealed wealth, and is +niggardly in comparison; but Nature, even when she is scant and thin +outwardly, satisfies us still by the assurance of a certain generosity +at the roots. In swamps, where there is only here and there an +ever-green tree amid the quaking moss and cranberry beds, the bareness +does not suggest poverty. The single-spruce, which I had hardly noticed +in gardens, attracts me in such places, and now first I understand why +men try to make them grow about their houses. But though there may be +very perfect specimens in front-yard plots, their beauty is for the +most part ineffectual there, for there is no such assurance of kindred +wealth beneath and around them, to make them show to advantage. As we +have said, Nature is a greater and more perfect art, the art of God; +though, referred to herself, she is genius; and there is a similarity +between her operations and man’s art even in the details and trifles. +When the overhanging pine drops into the water, by the sun and water, +and the wind rubbing it against the shore, its boughs are worn into +fantastic shapes, and white and smooth, as if turned in a lathe. Man’s +art has wisely imitated those forms into which all matter is most +inclined to run, as foliage and fruit. A hammock swung in a grove +assumes the exact form of a canoe, broader or narrower, and higher or +lower at the ends, as more or fewer persons are in it, and it rolls in +the air with the motion of the body, like a canoe in the water. Our art +leaves its shavings and its dust about; her art exhibits itself even in +the shavings and the dust which we make. She has perfected herself by +an eternity of practice. The world is well kept; no rubbish +accumulates; the morning air is clear even at this day, and no dust has +settled on the grass. Behold how the evening now steals over the +fields, the shadows of the trees creeping farther and farther into the +meadow, and erelong the stars will come to bathe in these retired +waters. Her undertakings are secure and never fail. If I were awakened +from a deep sleep, I should know which side of the meridian the sun +might be by the aspect of nature, and by the chirp of the crickets, and +yet no painter can paint this difference. The landscape contains a +thousand dials which indicate the natural divisions of time, the +shadows of a thousand styles point to the hour. + +“Not only o’er the dial’s face, + This silent phantom day by day, +With slow, unseen, unceasing pace + Steals moments, months, and years away; +From hoary rock and aged tree, + From proud Palmyra’s mouldering walls, +From Teneriffe, towering o’er the sea, + From every blade of grass it falls.” + + +It is almost the only game which the trees play at, this tit-for-tat, +now this side in the sun, now that, the drama of the day. In deep +ravines under the eastern sides of cliffs, Night forwardly plants her +foot even at noonday, and as Day retreats she steps into his trenches, +skulking from tree to tree, from fence to fence, until at last she sits +in his citadel and draws out her forces into the plain. It may be that +the forenoon is brighter than the afternoon, not only because of the +greater transparency of its atmosphere, but because we naturally look +most into the west, as forward into the day, and so in the forenoon see +the sunny side of things, but in the afternoon the shadow of every +tree. + +The afternoon is now far advanced, and a fresh and leisurely wind is +blowing over the river, making long reaches of bright ripples. The +river has done its stint, and appears not to flow, but lie at its +length reflecting the light, and the haze over the woods is like the +inaudible panting, or rather the gentle perspiration of resting nature, +rising from a myriad of pores into the attenuated atmosphere. + +On the thirty-first day of March, one hundred and forty-two years +before this, probably about this time in the afternoon, there were +hurriedly paddling down this part of the river, between the pine woods +which then fringed these banks, two white women and a boy, who had left +an island at the mouth of the Contoocook before daybreak. They were +slightly clad for the season, in the English fashion, and handled their +paddles unskilfully, but with nervous energy and determination, and at +the bottom of their canoe lay the still bleeding scalps of ten of the +aborigines. They were Hannah Dustan, and her nurse, Mary Neff, both of +Haverhill, eighteen miles from the mouth of this river, and an English +boy, named Samuel Lennardson, escaping from captivity among the +Indians. On the 15th of March previous, Hannah Dustan had been +compelled to rise from child-bed, and half dressed, with one foot bare, +accompanied by her nurse, commence an uncertain march, in still +inclement weather, through the snow and the wilderness. She had seen +her seven elder children flee with their father, but knew not of their +fate. She had seen her infant’s brains dashed out against an +apple-tree, and had left her own and her neighbors’ dwellings in ashes. +When she reached the wigwam of her captor, situated on an island in the +Merrimack, more than twenty miles above where we now are, she had been +told that she and her nurse were soon to be taken to a distant Indian +settlement, and there made to run the gauntlet naked. The family of +this Indian consisted of two men, three women, and seven children, +beside an English boy, whom she found a prisoner among them. Having +determined to attempt her escape, she instructed the boy to inquire of +one of the men, how he should despatch an enemy in the quickest manner, +and take his scalp. “Strike ’em there,” said he, placing his finger on +his temple, and he also showed him how to take off the scalp. On the +morning of the 31st she arose before daybreak, and awoke her nurse and +the boy, and taking the Indians’ tomahawks, they killed them all in +their sleep, excepting one favorite boy, and one squaw who fled wounded +with him to the woods. The English boy struck the Indian who had given +him the information, on the temple, as he had been directed. They then +collected all the provision they could find, and took their master’s +tomahawk and gun, and scuttling all the canoes but one, commenced their +flight to Haverhill, distant about sixty miles by the river. But after +having proceeded a short distance, fearing that her story would not be +believed if she should escape to tell it, they returned to the silent +wigwam, and taking off the scalps of the dead, put them into a bag as +proofs of what they had done, and then retracing their steps to the +shore in the twilight, recommenced their voyage. + +Early this morning this deed was performed, and now, perchance, these +tired women and this boy, their clothes stained with blood, and their +minds racked with alternate resolution and fear, are making a hasty +meal of parched corn and moose-meat, while their canoe glides under +these pine roots whose stumps are still standing on the bank. They are +thinking of the dead whom they have left behind on that solitary isle +far up the stream, and of the relentless living warriors who are in +pursuit. Every withered leaf which the winter has left seems to know +their story, and in its rustling to repeat it and betray them. An +Indian lurks behind every rock and pine, and their nerves cannot bear +the tapping of a woodpecker. Or they forget their own dangers and their +deeds in conjecturing the fate of their kindred, and whether, if they +escape the Indians, they shall find the former still alive. They do not +stop to cook their meals upon the bank, nor land, except to carry their +canoe about the falls. The stolen birch forgets its master and does +them good service, and the swollen current bears them swiftly along +with little need of the paddle, except to steer and keep them warm by +exercise. For ice is floating in the river; the spring is opening; the +muskrat and the beaver are driven out of their holes by the flood; deer +gaze at them from the bank; a few faint-singing forest birds, +perchance, fly across the river to the northernmost shore; the +fish-hawk sails and screams overhead, and geese fly over with a +startling clangor; but they do not observe these things, or they +speedily forget them. They do not smile or chat all day. Sometimes they +pass an Indian grave surrounded by its paling on the bank, or the frame +of a wigwam, with a few coals left behind, or the withered stalks still +rustling in the Indian’s solitary cornfield on the interval. The birch +stripped of its bark, or the charred stump where a tree has been burned +down to be made into a canoe, these are the only traces of man,—a +fabulous wild man to us. On either side, the primeval forest stretches +away uninterrupted to Canada, or to the “South Sea”; to the white man a +drear and howling wilderness, but to the Indian a home, adapted to his +nature, and cheerful as the smile of the Great Spirit. + +While we loiter here this autumn evening, looking for a spot retired +enough, where we shall quietly rest to-night, they thus, in that chilly +March evening, one hundred and forty-two years before us, with wind and +current favoring, have already glided out of sight, not to camp, as we +shall, at night, but while two sleep one will manage the canoe, and the +swift stream bear them onward to the settlements, it may be, even to +old John Lovewell’s house on Salmon Brook to-night. + +According to the historian, they escaped as by a miracle all roving +bands of Indians, and reached their homes in safety, with their +trophies, for which the General Court paid them fifty pounds. The +family of Hannah Dustan all assembled alive once more, except the +infant whose brains were dashed out against the apple-tree, and there +have been many who in later times have lived to say that they had eaten +of the fruit of that apple-tree. + +This seems a long while ago, and yet it happened since Milton wrote his +Paradise Lost. But its antiquity is not the less great for that, for we +do not regulate our historical time by the English standard, nor did +the English by the Roman, nor the Roman by the Greek. “We must look a +long way back,” says Raleigh, “to find the Romans giving laws to +nations, and their consuls bringing kings and princes bound in chains +to Rome in triumph; to see men go to Greece for wisdom, or Ophir for +gold; when now nothing remains but a poor paper remembrance of their +former condition.” And yet, in one sense, not so far back as to find +the Penacooks and Pawtuckets using bows and arrows and hatchets of +stone, on the banks of the Merrimack. From this September afternoon, +and from between these now cultivated shores, those times seemed more +remote than the dark ages. On beholding an old picture of Concord, as +it appeared but seventy-five years ago, with a fair open prospect and a +light on trees and river, as if it were broad noon, I find that I had +not thought the sun shone in those days, or that men lived in broad +daylight then. Still less do we imagine the sun shining on hill and +valley during Philip’s war, on the war-path of Church or Philip, or +later of Lovewell or Paugus, with serene summer weather, but they must +have lived and fought in a dim twilight or night. + +The age of the world is great enough for our imaginations, even +according to the Mosaic account, without borrowing any years from the +geologist. From Adam and Eve at one leap sheer down to the deluge, and +then through the ancient monarchies, through Babylon and Thebes, Brahma +and Abraham, to Greece and the Argonauts; whence we might start again +with Orpheus and the Trojan war, the Pyramids and the Olympic games, +and Homer and Athens, for our stages; and after a breathing space at +the building of Rome, continue our journey down through Odin and Christ +to—America. It is a wearisome while. And yet the lives of but sixty old +women, such as live under the hill, say of a century each, strung +together, are sufficient to reach over the whole ground. Taking hold of +hands they would span the interval from Eve to my own mother. A +respectable tea-party merely,—whose gossip would be Universal History. +The fourth old woman from myself suckled Columbus,—the ninth was nurse +to the Norman Conqueror,—the nineteenth was the Virgin Mary,—the +twenty-fourth the Cumæan Sibyl,—the thirtieth was at the Trojan war and +Helen her name,—the thirty-eighth was Queen Semiramis,—the sixtieth was +Eve the mother of mankind. So much for the + +“Old woman that lives under the hill, +And if she’s not gone she lives there still.” + + +It will not take a very great-granddaughter of hers to be in at the +death of Time. + +We can never safely exceed the actual facts in our narratives. Of pure +invention, such as some suppose, there is no instance. To write a true +work of fiction even, is only to take leisure and liberty to describe +some things more exactly as they are. A true account of the actual is +the rarest poetry, for common sense always takes a hasty and +superficial view. Though I am not much acquainted with the works of +Goethe, I should say that it was one of his chief excellences as a +writer, that he was satisfied with giving an exact description of +things as they appeared to him, and their effect upon him. Most +travellers have not self-respect enough to do this simply, and make +objects and events stand around them as the centre, but still imagine +more favorable positions and relations than the actual ones, and so we +get no valuable report from them at all. In his Italian Travels Goethe +jogs along at a snail’s pace, but always mindful that the earth is +beneath and the heavens are above him. His Italy is not merely the +fatherland of lazzaroni and virtuosi, and scene of splendid ruins, but +a solid turf-clad soil, daily shined on by the sun, and nightly by the +moon. Even the few showers are faithfully recorded. He speaks as an +unconcerned spectator, whose object is faithfully to describe what he +sees, and that, for the most part, in the order in which he sees it. +Even his reflections do not interfere with his descriptions. In one +place he speaks of himself as giving so glowing and truthful a +description of an old tower to the peasants who had gathered around +him, that they who had been born and brought up in the neighborhood +must needs look over their shoulders, “that,” to use his own words, +“they might behold with their eyes, what I had praised to their +ears,”—“and I added nothing, not even the ivy which for centuries had +decorated the walls.” It would thus be possible for inferior minds to +produce invaluable books, if this very moderation were not the evidence +of superiority; for the wise are not so much wiser than others as +respecters of their own wisdom. Some, poor in spirit, record +plaintively only what has happened to them; but others how they have +happened to the universe, and the judgment which they have awarded to +circumstances. Above all, he possessed a hearty good-will to all men, +and never wrote a cross or even careless word. On one occasion the +post-boy snivelling, “Signor perdonate, quésta è la mia patria,” he +confesses that “to me poor northerner came something tear-like into the +eyes.” + +Goethe’s whole education and life were those of the artist. He lacks +the unconsciousness of the poet. In his autobiography he describes +accurately the life of the author of Wilhelm Meister. For as there is +in that book, mingled with a rare and serene wisdom, a certain +pettiness or exaggeration of trifles, wisdom applied to produce a +constrained and partial and merely well-bred man,—a magnifying of the +theatre till life itself is turned into a stage, for which it is our +duty to study our parts well, and conduct with propriety and +precision,—so in the autobiography, the fault of his education is, so +to speak, its merely artistic completeness. Nature is hindered, though +she prevails at last in making an unusually catholic impression on the +boy. It is the life of a city boy, whose toys are pictures and works of +art, whose wonders are the theatre and kingly processions and +crownings. As the youth studied minutely the order and the degrees in +the imperial procession, and suffered none of its effect to be lost on +him, so the man aimed to secure a rank in society which would satisfy +his notion of fitness and respectability. He was defrauded of much +which the savage boy enjoys. Indeed, he himself has occasion to say in +this very autobiography, when at last he escapes into the woods without +the gates: “Thus much is certain, that only the undefinable, +wide-expanding feelings of youth and of uncultivated nations are +adapted to the sublime, which, whenever it may be excited in us through +external objects, since it is either formless, or else moulded into +forms which are incomprehensible, must surround us with a grandeur +which we find above our reach.” He further says of himself: “I had +lived among painters from my childhood, and had accustomed myself to +look at objects, as they did, with reference to art.” And this was his +practice to the last. He was even too _well-bred_ to be thoroughly +bred. He says that he had had no intercourse with the lowest class of +his towns-boys. The child should have the advantage of ignorance as +well as of knowledge, and is fortunate if he gets his share of neglect +and exposure. + +“The laws of Nature break the rules of Art.” + + +The Man of Genius may at the same time be, indeed is commonly, an +Artist, but the two are not to be confounded. The Man of Genius, +referred to mankind, is an originator, an inspired or demonic man, who +produces a perfect work in obedience to laws yet unexplored. The Artist +is he who detects and applies the law from observation of the works of +Genius, whether of man or nature. The Artisan is he who merely applies +the rules which others have detected. There has been no man of pure +Genius; as there has been none wholly destitute of Genius. + +Poetry is the mysticism of mankind. + +The expressions of the poet cannot be analyzed; his sentence is one +word, whose syllables are words. There are indeed no _words_ quite +worthy to be set to his music. But what matter if we do not hear the +words always, if we hear the music? + +Much verse fails of being poetry because it was not written exactly at +the right crisis, though it may have been inconceivably near to it. It +is only by a miracle that poetry is written at all. It is not +recoverable thought, but a hue caught from a vaster receding thought. + +A poem is one undivided unimpeded expression fallen ripe into +literature, and it is undividedly and unimpededly received by those for +whom it was matured. + +If you can speak what you will never hear, if you can write what you +will never read, you have done rare things. + +The work we choose should be our own, + God lets alone. + + +The unconsciousness of man is the consciousness of God. + +Deep are the foundations of sincerity. Even stone walls have their +foundation below the frost. + +What is produced by a free stroke charms us, like the forms of lichens +and leaves. There is a certain perfection in accident which we never +consciously attain. Draw a blunt quill filled with ink over a sheet of +paper, and fold the paper before the ink is dry, transversely to this +line, and a delicately shaded and regular figure will be produced, in +some respects more pleasing than an elaborate drawing. + +The talent of composition is very dangerous,—the striking out the heart +of life at a blow, as the Indian takes off a scalp. I feel as if my +life had grown more outward when I can express it. + +On his journey from Brenner to Verona, Goethe writes: + +“The Tees flows now more gently, and makes in many places broad sands. +On the land, near to the water, upon the hillsides, everything is so +closely planted one to another, that you think they must choke one +another,—vineyards, maize, mulberry-trees, apples, pears, quinces, and +nuts. The dwarf elder throws itself vigorously over the walls. Ivy +grows with strong stems up the rocks, and spreads itself wide over +them, the lizard glides through the intervals, and everything that +wanders to and fro reminds one of the loveliest pictures of art. The +women’s tufts of hair bound up, the men’s bare breasts and light +jackets, the excellent oxen which they drive home from market, the +little asses with their loads,—everything forms a living, animated +Heinrich Roos. And now that it is evening, in the mild air a few clouds +rest upon the mountains, in the heavens more stand still than move, and +immediately after sunset the chirping of crickets begins to grow more +loud; then one feels for once at home in the world, and not as +concealed or in exile. I am contented as though I had been born and +brought up here, and were now returning from a Greenland or whaling +voyage. Even the dust of my Fatherland, which is often whirled about +the wagon, and which for so long a time I had not seen, is greeted. The +clock-and-bell jingling of the crickets is altogether lovely, +penetrating, and agreeable. It sounds bravely when roguish boys whistle +in emulation of a field of such songstresses. One fancies that they +really enhance one another. Also the evening is perfectly mild as the +day.” + +“If one who dwelt in the south, and came hither from the south, should +hear of my rapture hereupon, he would deem me very childish. Alas! what +I here express I have long known while I suffered under an unpropitious +heaven, and now may I joyful feel this joy as an exception, which we +should enjoy everforth as an eternal necessity of our nature.” + +Thus we “sayled by thought and pleasaunce,” as Chaucer says, and all +things seemed with us to flow; the shore itself, and the distant +cliffs, were dissolved by the undiluted air. The hardest material +seemed to obey the same law with the most fluid, and so indeed in the +long run it does. Trees were but rivers of sap and woody fibre, flowing +from the atmosphere, and emptying into the earth by their trunks, as +their roots flowed upward to the surface. And in the heavens there were +rivers of stars, and milky-ways, already beginning to gleam and ripple +over our heads. There were rivers of rock on the surface of the earth, +and rivers of ore in its bowels, and our thoughts flowed and +circulated, and this portion of time was but the current hour. Let us +wander where we will, the universe is built round about us, and we are +central still. If we look into the heavens they are concave, and if we +were to look into a gulf as bottomless, it would be concave also. The +sky is curved downward to the earth in the horizon, because we stand on +the plain. I draw down its skirts. The stars so low there seem loath to +depart, but by a circuitous path to be remembering me, and returning on +their steps. + +We had already passed by broad daylight the scene of our encampment at +Coos Falls, and at length we pitched our camp on the west bank, in the +northern part of Merrimack, nearly opposite to the large island on +which we had spent the noon in our way up the river. + +There we went to bed that summer evening, on a sloping shelf in the +bank, a couple of rods from our boat, which was drawn up on the sand, +and just behind a thin fringe of oaks which bordered the river; without +having disturbed any inhabitants but the spiders in the grass, which +came out by the light of our lamp, and crawled over our buffaloes. When +we looked out from under the tent, the trees were seen dimly through +the mist, and a cool dew hung upon the grass, which seemed to rejoice +in the night, and with the damp air we inhaled a solid fragrance. +Having eaten our supper of hot cocoa and bread and watermelon, we soon +grew weary of conversing, and writing in our journals, and, putting out +the lantern which hung from the tent-pole, fell asleep. + +Unfortunately, many things have been omitted which should have been +recorded in our journal; for though we made it a rule to set down all +our experiences therein, yet such a resolution is very hard to keep, +for the important experience rarely allows us to remember such +obligations, and so indifferent things get recorded, while that is +frequently neglected. It is not easy to write in a journal what +interests us at any time, because to write it is not what interests us. + +Whenever we awoke in the night, still eking out our dreams with +half-awakened thoughts, it was not till after an interval, when the +wind breathed harder than usual, flapping the curtains of the tent, and +causing its cords to vibrate, that we remembered that we lay on the +bank of the Merrimack, and not in our chamber at home. With our heads +so low in the grass, we heard the river whirling and sucking, and +lapsing downward, kissing the shore as it went, sometimes rippling +louder than usual, and again its mighty current making only a slight +limpid, trickling sound, as if our water-pail had sprung a leak, and +the water were flowing into the grass by our side. The wind, rustling +the oaks and hazels, impressed us like a wakeful and inconsiderate +person up at midnight, moving about, and putting things to rights, +occasionally stirring up whole drawers full of leaves at a puff. There +seemed to be a great haste and preparation throughout Nature, as for a +distinguished visitor; all her aisles had to be swept in the night, by +a thousand hand-maidens, and a thousand pots to be boiled for the next +day’s feasting;—such a whispering bustle, as if ten thousand fairies +made their fingers fly, silently sewing at the new carpet with which +the earth was to be clothed, and the new drapery which was to adorn the +trees. And then the wind would lull and die away, and we like it fell +asleep again. + + + + +FRIDAY + + + “The Boteman strayt +Held on his course with stayed stedfastnesse, +Ne ever shroncke, ne ever sought to bayt +His tryed armes for toylesome wearinesse; +But with his oares did sweepe the watry wildernesse.” + +SPENSER. + + + “Summer’s robe grows +Dusky, and like an oft-dyed garment shows.” + +DONNE. + +As we lay awake long before daybreak, listening to the rippling of the +river, and the rustling of the leaves, in suspense whether the wind +blew up or down the stream, was favorable or unfavorable to our voyage, +we already suspected that there was a change in the weather, from a +freshness as of autumn in these sounds. The wind in the woods sounded +like an incessant waterfall dashing and roaring amid rocks, and we even +felt encouraged by the unusual activity of the elements. He who hears +the rippling of rivers in these degenerate days will not utterly +despair. That night was the turning-point in the season. We had gone to +bed in summer, and we awoke in autumn; for summer passes into autumn in +some unimaginable point of time, like the turning of a leaf. + +We found our boat in the dawn just as we had left it, and as if waiting +for us, there on the shore, in autumn, all cool and dripping with dew, +and our tracks still fresh in the wet sand around it, the fairies all +gone or concealed. Before five o’clock we pushed it into the fog, and, +leaping in, at one shove were out of sight of the shores, and began to +sweep downward with the rushing river, keeping a sharp lookout for +rocks. We could see only the yellow gurgling water, and a solid bank of +fog on every side, forming a small yard around us. We soon passed the +mouth of the Souhegan, and the village of Merrimack, and as the mist +gradually rolled away, and we were relieved from the trouble of +watching for rocks, we saw by the flitting clouds, by the first russet +tinge on the hills, by the rushing river, the cottages on shore, and +the shore itself, so coolly fresh and shining with dew, and later in +the day, by the hue of the grape-vine, the goldfinch on the willow, the +flickers flying in flocks, and when we passed near enough to the shore, +as we fancied, by the faces of men, that the Fall had commenced. The +cottages looked more snug and comfortable, and their inhabitants were +seen only for a moment, and then went quietly in and shut the door, +retreating inward to the haunts of summer. + +“And now the cold autumnal dews are seen + To cobweb ev’ry green; +And by the low-shorn rowens doth appear + The fast-declining year.” + + +We heard the sigh of the first autumnal wind, and even the water had +acquired a grayer hue. The sumach, grape, and maple were already +changed, and the milkweed had turned to a deep rich yellow. In all +woods the leaves were fast ripening for their fall; for their full +veins and lively gloss mark the ripe leaf, and not the sered one of the +poets; and we knew that the maples, stripped of their leaves among the +earliest, would soon stand like a wreath of smoke along the edge of the +meadow. Already the cattle were heard to low wildly in the pastures and +along the highways, restlessly running to and fro, as if in +apprehension of the withering of the grass and of the approach of +winter. Our thoughts, too, began to rustle. + +As I pass along the streets of our village of Concord on the day of our +annual Cattle-Show, when it usually happens that the leaves of the elms +and buttonwoods begin first to strew the ground under the breath of the +October wind, the lively spirits in their sap seem to mount as high as +any plough-boy’s let loose that day; and they lead my thoughts away to +the rustling woods, where the trees are preparing for their winter +campaign. This autumnal festival, when men are gathered in crowds in +the streets as regularly and by as natural a law as the leaves cluster +and rustle by the wayside, is naturally associated in my mind with the +fall of the year. The low of cattle in the streets sounds like a hoarse +symphony or running bass to the rustling of the leaves. The wind goes +hurrying down the country, gleaning every loose straw that is left in +the fields, while every farmer lad too appears to scud before +it,—having donned his best pea-jacket and pepper-and-salt waistcoat, +his unbent trousers, outstanding rigging of duck or kerseymere or +corduroy, and his furry hat withal,—to country fairs and cattle-shows, +to that Rome among the villages where the treasures of the year are +gathered. All the land over they go leaping the fences with their +tough, idle palms, which have never learned to hang by their sides, +amid the low of calves and the bleating of sheep,—Amos, Abner, +Elnathan, Elbridge,— + +“From steep pine-bearing mountains to the plain.” + + +I love these sons of earth every mother’s son of them, with their great +hearty hearts rushing tumultuously in herds from spectacle to +spectacle, as if fearful lest there should not be time between sun and +sun to see them all, and the sun does not wait more than in +haying-time. + +“Wise Nature’s darlings, they live in the world +Perplexing not themselves how it is hurled.” + + +Running hither and thither with appetite for the coarse pastimes of the +day, now with boisterous speed at the heels of the inspired negro from +whose larynx the melodies of all Congo and Guinea Coast have broke +loose into our streets; now to see the procession of a hundred yoke of +oxen, all as august and grave as Osiris, or the droves of neat cattle +and milch cows as unspotted as Isis or Io. Such as had no love for +Nature + + “at all, +Came lovers home from this great festival.” + + +They may bring their fattest cattle and richest fruits to the fair, but +they are all eclipsed by the show of men. These are stirring autumn +days, when men sweep by in crowds, amid the rustle of leaves, like +migrating finches; this is the true harvest of the year, when the air +is but the breath of men, and the rustling of leaves is as the +trampling of the crowd. We read now-a-days of the ancient festivals, +games, and processions of the Greeks and Etruscans, with a little +incredulity, or at least with little sympathy; but how natural and +irrepressible in every people is some hearty and palpable greeting of +Nature. The Corybantes, the Bacchantes, the rude primitive tragedians +with their procession and goat-song, and the whole paraphernalia of the +Panathenæa, which appear so antiquated and peculiar, have their +parallel now. The husbandman is always a better Greek than the scholar +is prepared to appreciate, and the old custom still survives, while +antiquarians and scholars grow gray in commemorating it. The farmers +crowd to the fair to-day in obedience to the same ancient law, which +Solon or Lycurgus did not enact, as naturally as bees swarm and follow +their queen. + +It is worth the while to see the country’s people, how they pour into +the town, the sober farmer folk, now all agog, their very shirt and +coat-collars pointing forward,—collars so broad as if they had put +their shirts on wrong end upward, for the fashions always tend to +superfluity,—and with an unusual springiness in their gait, jabbering +earnestly to one another. The more supple vagabond, too, is sure to +appear on the least rumor of such a gathering, and the next day to +disappear, and go into his hole like the seventeen-year locust, in an +ever-shabby coat, though finer than the farmer’s best, yet never +dressed; come to see the sport, and have a hand in what is going,—to +know “what’s the row,” if there is any; to be where some men are drunk, +some horses race, some cockerels fight; anxious to be shaking props +under a table, and above all to see the “striped pig.” He especially is +the creature of the occasion. He empties both his pockets and his +character into the stream, and swims in such a day. He dearly loves the +social slush. There is no reserve of soberness in him. + +I love to see the herd of men feeding heartily on coarse and succulent +pleasures, as cattle on the husks and stalks of vegetables. Though +there are many crooked and crabbled specimens of humanity among them, +run all to thorn and rind, and crowded out of shape by adverse +circumstances, like the third chestnut in the burr, so that you wonder +to see some heads wear a whole hat, yet fear not that the race will +fail or waver in them; like the crabs which grow in hedges, they +furnish the stocks of sweet and thrifty fruits still. Thus is nature +recruited from age to age, while the fair and palatable varieties die +out, and have their period. This is that mankind. How cheap must be the +material of which so many men are made. + +The wind blew steadily down the stream, so that we kept our sails set, +and lost not a moment of the forenoon by delays, but from early morning +until noon were continually dropping downward. With our hands on the +steering-paddle, which was thrust deep into the river, or bending to +the oar, which indeed we rarely relinquished, we felt each palpitation +in the veins of our steed, and each impulse of the wings which drew us +above. The current of our thoughts made as sudden bends as the river, +which was continually opening new prospects to the east or south, but +we are aware that rivers flow most rapidly and shallowest at these +points. The steadfast shores never once turned aside for us, but still +trended as they were made; why then should we always turn aside for +them? + +A man cannot wheedle nor overawe his Genius. It requires to be +conciliated by nobler conduct than the world demands or can appreciate. +These winged thoughts are like birds, and will not be handled; even +hens will not let you touch them like quadrupeds. Nothing was ever so +unfamiliar and startling to a man as his own thoughts. + +To the rarest genius it is the most expensive to succumb and conform to +the ways of the world. Genius is the worst of lumber, if the poet would +float upon the breeze of popularity. The bird of paradise is obliged +constantly to fly against the wind, lest its gay trappings, pressing +close to its body, impede its free movements. + +He is the best sailor who can steer within the fewest points of the +wind, and extract a motive power out of the greatest obstacles. Most +begin to veer and tack as soon as the wind changes from aft, and as +within the tropics it does not blow from all points of the compass, +there are some harbors which they can never reach. + +The poet is no tender slip of fairy stock, who requires peculiar +institutions and edicts for his defence, but the toughest son of earth +and of Heaven, and by his greater strength and endurance his fainting +companions will recognize the God in him. It is the worshippers of +beauty, after all, who have done the real pioneer work of the world. + +The poet will prevail to be popular in spite of his faults, and in +spite of his beauties too. He will hit the nail on the head, and we +shall not know the shape of his hammer. He makes us free of his hearth +and heart, which is greater than to offer one the freedom of a city. + +Great men, unknown to their generation, have their fame among the great +who have preceded them, and all true worldly fame subsides from their +high estimate beyond the stars. + +Orpheus does not hear the strains which issue from his lyre, but only +those which are breathed into it; for the original strain precedes the +sound, by as much as the echo follows after. The rest is the perquisite +of the rocks and trees and beasts. + +When I stand in a library where is all the recorded wit of the world, +but none of the recording, a mere accumulated, and not truly cumulative +treasure, where immortal works stand side by side with anthologies +which did not survive their month, and cobweb and mildew have already +spread from these to the binding of those; and happily I am reminded of +what poetry is,—I perceive that Shakespeare and Milton did not foresee +into what company they were to fall. Alas! that so soon the work of a +true poet should be swept into such a dust-hole! + +The poet will write for his peers alone. He will remember only that he +saw truth and beauty from his position, and expect the time when a +vision as broad shall overlook the same field as freely. + +We are often prompted to speak our thoughts to our neighbors, or the +single travellers whom we meet on the road, but poetry is a +communication from our home and solitude addressed to all Intelligence. +It never whispers in a private ear. Knowing this, we may understand +those sonnets said to be addressed to particular persons, or “To a +Mistress’s Eyebrow.” Let none feel flattered by them. For poetry write +love, and it will be equally true. + +No doubt it is an important difference between men of genius or poets, +and men not of genius, that the latter are unable to grasp and confront +the thought which visits them. But it is because it is too faint for +expression, or even conscious impression. What merely quickens or +retards the blood in their veins and fills their afternoons with +pleasure they know not whence, conveys a distinct assurance to the +finer organization of the poet. + +We talk of genius as if it were a mere knack, and the poet could only +express what other men conceived. But in comparison with his task, the +poet is the least talented of any; the writer of prose has more skill. +See what talent the smith has. His material is pliant in his hands. +When the poet is most inspired, is stimulated by an _aura_ which never +even colors the afternoons of common men, then his talent is all gone, +and he is no longer a poet. The gods do not grant him any skill more +than another. They never put their gifts into his hands, but they +encompass and sustain him with their breath. + +To say that God has given a man many and great talents, frequently +means that he has brought his heavens down within reach of his hands. + +When the poetic frenzy seizes us, we run and scratch with our pen, +intent only on worms, calling our mates around us, like the cock, and +delighting in the dust we make, but do not detect where the jewel lies, +which, perhaps, we have in the mean time cast to a distance, or quite +covered up again. + +The poet’s body even is not fed like other men’s, but he sometimes +tastes the genuine nectar and ambrosia of the gods, and lives a divine +life. By the healthful and invigorating thrills of inspiration his life +is preserved to a serene old age. + +Some poems are for holidays only. They are polished and sweet, but it +is the sweetness of sugar, and not such as toil gives to sour bread. +The breath with which the poet utters his verse must be that by which +he lives. + +Great prose, of equal elevation, commands our respect more than great +verse, since it implies a more permanent and level height, a life more +pervaded with the grandeur of the thought. The poet often only makes an +irruption, like a Parthian, and is off again, shooting while he +retreats; but the prose writer has conquered like a Roman, and settled +colonies. + +The true poem is not that which the public read. There is always a poem +not printed on paper, coincident with the production of this, +stereotyped in the poet’s life. It is _what he has become through his +work_. Not how is the idea expressed in stone, or on canvas or paper, +is the question, but how far it has obtained form and expression in the +life of the artist. His true work will not stand in any prince’s +gallery. + +My life has been the poem I would have writ, +But I could not both live and utter it. + +THE POET’S DELAY. + + +In vain I see the morning rise, + In vain observe the western blaze, +Who idly look to other skies, + Expecting life by other ways. + +Amidst such boundless wealth without, + I only still am poor within, +The birds have sung their summer out, + But still my spring does not begin. + +Shall I then wait the autumn wind, + Compelled to seek a milder day, +And leave no curious nest behind, + No woods still echoing to my lay? + + +This raw and gusty day, and the creaking of the oaks and pines on +shore, reminded us of more northern climes than Greece, and more wintry +seas than the Ægean. + +The genuine remains of Ossian, or those ancient poems which bear his +name, though of less fame and extent, are, in many respects, of the +same stamp with the Iliad itself. He asserts the dignity of the bard no +less than Homer, and in his era we hear of no other priest than he. It +will not avail to call him a heathen, because he personifies the sun +and addresses it; and what if his heroes did “worship the ghosts of +their fathers,” their thin, airy, and unsubstantial forms? we worship +but the ghosts of our fathers in more substantial forms. We cannot but +respect the vigorous faith of those heathen, who sternly believed +somewhat, and are inclined to say to the critics, who are offended by +their superstitious rites,—Don’t interrupt these men’s prayers. As if +we knew more about human life and a God, than the heathen and ancients. +Does English theology contain the recent discoveries! + +Ossian reminds us of the most refined and rudest eras, of Homer, +Pindar, Isaiah, and the American Indian. In his poetry, as in Homer’s, +only the simplest and most enduring features of humanity are seen, such +essential parts of a man as Stonehenge exhibits of a temple; we see the +circles of stone, and the upright shaft alone. The phenomena of life +acquire almost an unreal and gigantic size seen through his mists. Like +all older and grander poetry, it is distinguished by the few elements +in the lives of its heroes. They stand on the heath, between the stars +and the earth, shrunk to the bones and sinews. The earth is a boundless +plain for their deeds. They lead such a simple, dry, and everlasting +life, as hardly needs depart with the flesh, but is transmitted entire +from age to age. There are but few objects to distract their sight, and +their life is as unencumbered as the course of the stars they gaze at. + +“The wrathful kings, on cairns apart, +Look forward from behind their shields, +And mark the wandering stars, +That brilliant westward move.” + + +It does not cost much for these heroes to live; they do not want much +furniture. They are such forms of men only as can be seen afar through +the mist, and have no costume nor dialect, but for language there is +the tongue itself, and for costume there are always the skins of beasts +and the bark of trees to be had. They live out their years by the vigor +of their constitutions. They survive storms and the spears of their +foes, and perform a few heroic deeds, and then + +“Mounds will answer questions of them, +For many future years.” + + +Blind and infirm, they spend the remnant of their days listening to the +lays of the bards, and feeling the weapons which laid their enemies +low, and when at length they die, by a convulsion of nature, the bard +allows us a short and misty glance into futurity, yet as clear, +perchance, as their lives had been. When Mac-Roine was slain, + +“His soul departed to his warlike sires, +To follow misty forms of boars, +In tempestuous islands bleak.” + + +The hero’s cairn is erected, and the bard sings a brief significant +strain, which will suffice for epitaph and biography. + +“The weak will find his bow in the dwelling, +The feeble will attempt to bend it.” + + +Compared with this simple, fibrous life, our civilized history appears +the chronicle of debility, of fashion, and the arts of luxury. But the +civilized man misses no real refinement in the poetry of the rudest +era. It reminds him that civilization does but dress men. It makes +shoes, but it does not toughen the soles of the feet. It makes cloth of +finer texture, but it does not touch the skin. Inside the civilized man +stand the savage still in the place of honor. We are those blue-eyed, +yellow-haired Saxons, those slender, dark-haired Normans. + +The profession of the bard attracted more respect in those days from +the importance attached to fame. It was his province to record the +deeds of heroes. When Ossian hears the traditions of inferior bards, he +exclaims,— + +“I straightway seize the unfutile tales, +And send them down in faithful verse.” + + +His philosophy of life is expressed in the opening of the third Duan of +Ca-Lodin. + +“Whence have sprung the things that are? +And whither roll the passing years? +Where does Time conceal its two heads, +In dense impenetrable gloom, +Its surface marked with heroes’ deeds alone? +I view the generations gone; +The past appears but dim; +As objects by the moon’s faint beams, +Reflected from a distant lake. +I see, indeed, the thunderbolts of war, +But there the unmighty joyless dwell, +All those who send not down their deeds +To far, succeeding times.” + + +The ignoble warriors die and are forgotten; + +“Strangers come to build a tower, +And throw their ashes overhand; +Some rusted swords appear in dust; +One, bending forward, says, +‘The arms belonged to heroes gone; +We never heard their praise in song.’” + + +The grandeur of the similes is another feature which characterizes +great poetry. Ossian seems to speak a gigantic and universal language. +The images and pictures occupy even much space in the landscape, as if +they could be seen only from the sides of mountains, and plains with a +wide horizon, or across arms of the sea. The machinery is so massive +that it cannot be less than natural. Oivana says to the spirit of her +father, “Gray-haired Torkil of Torne,” seen in the skies, + +“Thou glidest away like receding ships.” + + +So when the hosts of Fingal and Starne approach to battle, + +“With murmurs loud, like rivers far, +The race of Torne hither moved.” + + +And when compelled to retire, + +“dragging his spear behind, +Cudulin sank in the distant wood, +Like a fire upblazing ere it dies.” + + +Nor did Fingal want a proper audience when he spoke; + +“A thousand orators inclined +To hear the lay of Fingal.” + + +The threats too would have deterred a man. Vengeance and terror were +real. Trenmore threatens the young warrior whom he meets on a foreign +strand, + +“Thy mother shall find thee pale on the shore, +While lessening on the waves she spies +The sails of him who slew her son.” + + +If Ossian’s heroes weep, it is from excess of strength, and not from +weakness, a sacrifice or libation of fertile natures, like the +perspiration of stone in summer’s heat. We hardly know that tears have +been shed, and it seems as if weeping were proper only for babes and +heroes. Their joy and their sorrow are made of one stuff, like rain and +snow, the rainbow and the mist. When Fillan was worsted in fight, and +ashamed in the presence of Fingal, + +“He strode away forthwith, +And bent in grief above a stream, +His cheeks bedewed with tears. +From time to time the thistles gray +He lopped with his inverted lance.” + + +Crodar, blind and old, receives Ossian, son of Fingal, who comes to aid +him in war;— + +“‘My eyes have failed,’ says he, ‘Crodar is blind, +Is thy strength like that of thy fathers? +Stretch, Ossian, thine arm to the hoary-haired.’ + I gave my arm to the king. +The aged hero seized my hand; +He heaved a heavy sigh; +Tears flowed incessant down his cheek. +’Strong art thou, son of the mighty, +Though not so dreadful as Morven’s prince. + +Let my feast be spread in the hall, +Let every sweet-voiced minstrel sing; +Great is he who is within my walls, +Sons of wave-echoing Croma.’” + + +Even Ossian himself, the hero-bard, pays tribute to the superior +strength of his father Fingal. + +“How beauteous, mighty man, was thy mind, +Why succeeded Ossian without its strength?” + + +———————— + +While we sailed fleetly before the wind, with the river gurgling under +our stern, the thoughts of autumn coursed as steadily through our +minds, and we observed less what was passing on the shore, than the +dateless associations and impressions which the season awakened, +anticipating in some measure the progress of the year. + +I hearing get, who had but ears, + And sight, who had but eyes before, +I moments live, who lived but years, + And truth discern, who knew but learning’s lore. + + +Sitting with our faces now up stream, we studied the landscape by +degrees, as one unrolls a map, rock, tree, house, hill, and meadow, +assuming new and varying positions as wind and water shifted the scene, +and there was variety enough for our entertainment in the metamorphoses +of the simplest objects. Viewed from this side the scenery appeared new +to us. + +The most familiar sheet of water viewed from a new hill-top, yields a +novel and unexpected pleasure. When we have travelled a few miles, we +do not recognize the profiles even of the hills which overlook our +native village, and perhaps no man is quite familiar with the horizon +as seen from the hill nearest to his house, and can recall its outline +distinctly when in the valley. We do not commonly know, beyond a short +distance, which way the hills range which take in our houses and farms +in their sweep. As if our birth had at first sundered things, and we +had been thrust up through into nature like a wedge, and not till the +wound heals and the scar disappears, do we begin to discover where we +are, and that nature is one and continuous everywhere. It is an +important epoch when a man who has always lived on the east side of a +mountain, and seen it in the west, travels round and sees it in the +east. Yet the universe is a sphere whose centre is wherever there is +intelligence. The sun is not so central as a man. Upon an isolated +hill-top, in an open country, we seem to ourselves to be standing on +the boss of an immense shield, the immediate landscape being apparently +depressed below the more remote, and rising gradually to the horizon, +which is the rim of the shield, villas, steeples, forests, mountains, +one above another, till they are swallowed up in the heavens. The most +distant mountains in the horizon appear to rise directly from the shore +of that lake in the woods by which we chance to be standing, while from +the mountain-top, not only this, but a thousand nearer and larger +lakes, are equally unobserved. + +Seen through this clear atmosphere, the works of the farmer, his +ploughing and reaping, had a beauty to our eyes which he never saw. How +fortunate were we who did not own an acre of these shores, who had not +renounced our title to the whole. One who knew how to appropriate the +true value of this world would be the poorest man in it. The poor rich +man! all he has is what he has bought. What I see is mine. I am a large +owner in the Merrimack intervals. + +Men dig and dive but cannot my wealth spend, + Who yet no partial store appropriate, +Who no armed ship into the Indies send, + To rob me of my orient estate. + + +He is the rich man, and enjoys the fruits of riches, who summer and +winter forever can find delight in his own thoughts. Buy a farm! What +have I to pay for a farm which a farmer will take? + +When I visit again some haunt of my youth, I am glad to find that +nature wears so well. The landscape is indeed something real, and +solid, and sincere, and I have not put my foot through it yet. There is +a pleasant tract on the bank of the Concord, called Conantum, which I +have in my mind;—the old deserted farm-house, the desolate pasture with +its bleak cliff, the open wood, the river-reach, the green meadow in +the midst, and the moss-grown wild-apple orchard,—places where one may +have many thoughts and not decide anything. It is a scene which I can +not only remember, as I might a vision, but when I will can bodily +revisit, and find it even so, unaccountable, yet unpretending in its +pleasant dreariness. When my thoughts are sensible of change, I love to +see and sit on rocks which I _have_ known, and pry into their moss, and +see unchangeableness so established. I not yet gray on rocks forever +gray, I no longer green under the evergreens. There is something even +in the lapse of time by which time recovers itself. + +As we have said, it proved a cool as well as breezy day, and by the +time we reached Penichook Brook we were obliged to sit muffled in our +cloaks, while the wind and current carried us along. We bounded swiftly +over the rippling surface, far by many cultivated lands and the ends of +fences which divided innumerable farms, with hardly a thought for the +various lives which they separated; now by long rows of alders or +groves of pines or oaks, and now by some homestead where the women and +children stood outside to gaze at us, till we had swept out of their +sight, and beyond the limit of their longest Saturday ramble. We glided +past the mouth of the Nashua, and not long after, of Salmon Brook, +without more pause than the wind. + + Salmon Brook, + Penichook, +Ye sweet waters of my brain, + When shall I look, + Or cast the hook, + In your waves again? + + Silver eels, + Wooden creels, +These the baits that still allure, + And dragon-fly + That floated by, + May they still endure? + + +The shadows chased one another swiftly over wood and meadow, and their +alternation harmonized with our mood. We could distinguish the clouds +which cast each one, though never so high in the heavens. When a shadow +flits across the landscape of the soul, where is the substance? +Probably, if we were wise enough, we should see to what virtue we are +indebted for any happier moment we enjoy. No doubt we have earned it at +some time; for the gifts of Heaven are never quite gratuitous. The +constant abrasion and decay of our lives makes the soil of our future +growth. The wood which we now mature, when it becomes virgin mould, +determines the character of our second growth, whether that be oaks or +pines. Every man casts a shadow; not his body only, but his imperfectly +mingled spirit. This is his grief. Let him turn which way he will, it +falls opposite to the sun; short at noon, long at eve. Did you never +see it?—But, referred to the sun, it is widest at its base, which is no +greater than his own opacity. The divine light is diffused almost +entirely around us, and by means of the refraction of light, or else by +a certain self-luminousness, or, as some will have it, transparency, if +we preserve ourselves untarnished, we are able to enlighten our shaded +side. At any rate, our darkest grief has that bronze color of the moon +eclipsed. There is no ill which may not be dissipated, like the dark, +if you let in a stronger light upon it. Shadows, referred to the source +of light, are pyramids whose bases are never greater than those of the +substances which cast them, but light is a spherical congeries of +pyramids, whose very apexes are the sun itself, and hence the system +shines with uninterrupted light. But if the light we use is but a +paltry and narrow taper, most objects will cast a shadow wider than +themselves. + +The places where we had stopped or spent the night in our way up the +river, had already acquired a slight historical interest for us; for +many upward day’s voyaging were unravelled in this rapid downward +passage. When one landed to stretch his limbs by walking, he soon found +himself falling behind his companion, and was obliged to take advantage +of the curves, and ford the brooks and ravines in haste, to recover his +ground. Already the banks and the distant meadows wore a sober and +deepened tinge, for the September air had shorn them of their summer’s +pride. + +“And what’s a life? The flourishing array +Of the proud summer meadow, which to-day +Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay.” + + +The air was really the “fine element” which the poets describe. It had +a finer and sharper grain, seen against the russet pastures and +meadows, than before, as if cleansed of the summer’s impurities. + +Having passed the New Hampshire line and reached the Horseshoe Interval +in Tyngsborough, where there is a high and regular second bank, we +climbed up this in haste to get a nearer sight of the autumnal flowers, +asters, golden-rod, and yarrow, and blue-curls (_Trichostema +dichotoma_), humble roadside blossoms, and, lingering still, the +harebell and the _Rhexia Virginica_. The last, growing in patches of +lively pink flowers on the edge of the meadows, had almost too gay an +appearance for the rest of the landscape, like a pink ribbon on the +bonnet of a Puritan woman. Asters and golden-rods were the livery which +nature wore at present. The latter alone expressed all the ripeness of +the season, and shed their mellow lustre over the fields, as if the now +declining summer’s sun had bequeathed its hues to them. It is the +floral solstice a little after midsummer, when the particles of golden +light, the sun-dust, have, as it were, fallen like seeds on the earth, +and produced these blossoms. On every hillside, and in every valley, +stood countless asters, coreopses, tansies, golden-rods, and the whole +race of yellow flowers, like Brahminical devotees, turning steadily +with their luminary from morning till night. + +“I see the golden-rod shine bright, + As sun-showers at the birth of day, +A golden plume of yellow light, + That robs the Day-god’s splendid ray. + +“The aster’s violet rays divide + The bank with many stars for me, +And yarrow in blanch tints is dyed, + As moonlight floats across the sea. + +“I see the emerald woods prepare + To shed their vestiture once more, +And distant elm-trees spot the air + With yellow pictures softly o’er. + * * * * * +“No more the water-lily’s pride + In milk-white circles swims content, +No more the blue-weed’s clusters ride + And mock the heavens’ element. + * * * * * +“Autumn, thy wreath and mine are blent + With the same colors, for to me +A richer sky than all is lent, + While fades my dream-like company. + +“Our skies glow purple, but the wind + Sobs chill through green trees and bright grass, +To-day shines fair, and lurk behind + The times that into winter pass. + +“So fair we seem, so cold we are, + So fast we hasten to decay, +Yet through our night glows many a star, + That still shall claim its sunny day.” + + +So sang a Concord poet once. + +There is a peculiar interest belonging to the still later flowers, +which abide with us the approach of winter. There is something +witch-like in the appearance of the witch-hazel, which blossoms late in +October and in November, with its irregular and angular spray and +petals like furies’ hair, or small ribbon streamers. Its blossoming, +too, at this irregular period, when other shrubs have lost their +leaves, as well as blossoms, looks like witches’ craft. Certainly it +blooms in no garden of man’s. There is a whole fairy-land on the +hillside where it grows. + +Some have thought that the gales do not at present waft to the voyager +the natural and original fragrance of the land, such as the early +navigators described, and that the loss of many odoriferous native +plants, sweet-scented grasses and medicinal herbs, which formerly +sweetened the atmosphere, and rendered it salubrious,—by the grazing of +cattle and the rooting of swine, is the source of many diseases which +now prevail; the earth, say they, having been long subjected to +extremely artificial and luxurious modes of cultivation, to gratify the +appetite, converted into a stye and hot-bed, where men for profit +increase the ordinary decay of nature. + +According to the record of an old inhabitant of Tyngsborough, now dead, +whose farm we were now gliding past, one of the greatest freshets on +this river took place in October, 1785, and its height was marked by a +nail driven into an apple-tree behind his house. One of his descendants +has shown this to me, and I judged it to be at least seventeen or +eighteen feet above the level of the river at the time. According to +Barber, the river rose twenty-one feet above the common high-water +mark, at Bradford in the year 1818. Before the Lowell and Nashua +railroad was built, the engineer made inquiries of the inhabitants +along the banks as to how high they had known the river to rise. When +he came to this house he was conducted to the apple-tree, and as the +nail was not then visible, the lady of the house placed her hand on the +trunk where she said that she remembered the nail to have been from her +childhood. In the mean while the old man put his arm inside the tree, +which was hollow, and felt the point of the nail sticking through, and +it was exactly opposite to her hand. The spot is now plainly marked by +a notch in the bark. But as no one else remembered the river to have +risen so high as this, the engineer disregarded this statement, and I +learn that there has since been a freshet which rose within nine inches +of the rails at Biscuit Brook, and such a freshet as that of 1785 would +have covered the railroad two feet deep. + +The revolutions of nature tell as fine tales, and make as interesting +revelations, on this river’s banks, as on the Euphrates or the Nile. +This apple-tree, which stands within a few rods of the river, is called +“Elisha’s apple-tree,” from a friendly Indian, who was anciently in the +service of Jonathan Tyng, and, with one other man, was killed here by +his own race in one of the Indian wars,—the particulars of which affair +were told us on the spot. He was buried close by, no one knew exactly +where, but in the flood of 1785, so great a weight of water standing +over the grave, caused the earth to settle where it had once been +disturbed, and when the flood went down, a sunken spot, exactly of the +form and size of the grave, revealed its locality; but this was now +lost again, and no future flood can detect it; yet, no doubt, Nature +will know how to point it out in due time, if it be necessary, by +methods yet more searching and unexpected. Thus there is not only the +crisis when the spirit ceases to inspire and expand the body, marked by +a fresh mound in the churchyard, but there is also a crisis when the +body ceases to take up room as such in nature, marked by a fainter +depression in the earth. + +We sat awhile to rest us here upon the brink of the western bank, +surrounded by the glossy leaves of the red variety of the mountain +laurel, just above the head of Wicasuck Island, where we could observe +some scows which were loading with clay from the opposite shore, and +also overlook the grounds of the farmer, of whom I have spoken, who +once hospitably entertained us for a night. He had on his pleasant +farm, besides an abundance of the beach-plum, or _Prunus littoralis_, +which grew wild, the Canada plum under cultivation, fine Porter apples, +some peaches, and large patches of musk and water melons, which he +cultivated for the Lowell market. Elisha’s apple-tree, too, bore a +native fruit, which was prized by the family. He raised the blood +peach, which, as he showed us with satisfaction, was more like the oak +in the color of its bark and in the setting of its branches, and was +less liable to break down under the weight of the fruit, or the snow, +than other varieties. It was of slower growth, and its branches strong +and tough. There, also, was his nursery of native apple-trees, thickly +set upon the bank, which cost but little care, and which he sold to the +neighboring farmers when they were five or six years old. To see a +single peach upon its stem makes an impression of paradisaical +fertility and luxury. This reminded us even of an old Roman farm, as +described by Varro:—Cæsar Vopiscus Ædilicius, when he pleaded before +the Censors, said that the grounds of Rosea were the garden (_sumen_ +the tid-bit) of Italy, in which a pole being left would not be visible +the day after, on account of the growth of the herbage. This soil may +not have been remarkably fertile, yet at this distance we thought that +this anecdote might be told of the Tyngsborough farm. + +When we passed Wicasuck Island, there was a pleasure-boat containing a +youth and a maiden on the island brook, which we were pleased to see, +since it proved that there were some hereabouts to whom our excursion +would not be wholly strange. Before this, a canal-boatman, of whom we +made some inquiries respecting Wicasuck Island, and who told us that it +was disputed property, suspected that we had a claim upon it, and +though we assured him that all this was news to us, and explained, as +well as we could, why we had come to see it, he believed not a word of +it, and seriously offered us one hundred dollars for our title. The +only other small boats which we met with were used to pick up +driftwood. Some of the poorer class along the stream collect, in this +way, all the fuel which they require. While one of us landed not far +from this island to forage for provisions among the farm-houses whose +roofs we saw, for our supply was now exhausted, the other, sitting in +the boat, which was moored to the shore, was left alone to his +reflections. + +If there is nothing new on the earth, still the traveller always has a +resource in the skies. They are constantly turning a new page to view. +The wind sets the types on this blue ground, and the inquiring may +always read a new truth there. There are things there written with such +fine and subtile tinctures, paler than the juice of limes, that to the +diurnal eye they leave no trace, and only the chemistry of night +reveals them. Every man’s daylight firmament answers in his mind to the +brightness of the vision in his starriest hour. + +These continents and hemispheres are soon run over, but an always +unexplored and infinite region makes off on every side from the mind, +further than to sunset, and we can make no highway or beaten track into +it, but the grass immediately springs up in the path, for we travel +there chiefly with our wings. + +Sometimes we see objects as through a thin haze, in their eternal +relations, and they stand like Palenque and the Pyramids, and we wonder +who set them up, and for what purpose. If we see the reality in things, +of what moment is the superficial and apparent longer? What are the +earth and all its interests beside the deep surmise which pierces and +scatters them? While I sit here listening to the waves which ripple and +break on this shore, I am absolved from all obligation to the past, and +the council of nations may reconsider its votes. The grating of a +pebble annuls them. Still occasionally in my dreams I remember that +rippling water. + +Oft, as I turn me on my pillow o’er, +I hear the lapse of waves upon the shore, +Distinct as if it were at broad noonday, +And I were drifting down from Nashua. + + +With a bending sail we glided rapidly by Tyngsborough and Chelmsford, +each holding in one hand half of a tart country apple-pie which we had +purchased to celebrate our return, and in the other a fragment of the +newspaper in which it was wrapped, devouring these with divided relish, +and learning the news which had transpired since we sailed. The river +here opened into a broad and straight reach of great length, which we +bounded merrily over before a smacking breeze, with a devil-may-care +look in our faces, and our boat a white bone in its mouth, and a speed +which greatly astonished some scow boatmen whom we met. The wind in the +horizon rolled like a flood over valley and plain, and every tree bent +to the blast, and the mountains like school-boys turned their cheeks to +it. They were great and current motions, the flowing sail, the running +stream, the waving tree, the roving wind. The north-wind stepped +readily into the harness which we had provided, and pulled us along +with good will. Sometimes we sailed as gently and steadily as the +clouds overhead, watching the receding shores and the motions of our +sail; the play of its pulse so like our own lives, so thin and yet so +full of life, so noiseless when it labored hardest, so noisy and +impatient when least effective; now bending to some generous impulse of +the breeze, and then fluttering and flapping with a kind of human +suspense. It was the scale on which the varying temperature of distant +atmospheres was graduated, and it was some attraction for us that the +breeze it played with had been out of doors so long. Thus we sailed, +not being able to fly, but as next best, making a long furrow in the +fields of the Merrimack toward our home, with our wings spread, but +never lifting our heel from the watery trench; gracefully ploughing +homeward with our brisk and willing team, wind and stream, pulling +together, the former yet a wild steer, yoked to his more sedate fellow. +It was very near flying, as when the duck rushes through the water with +an impulse of her wings, throwing the spray about her, before she can +rise. How we had stuck fast if drawn up but a few feet on the shore! + +When we reached the great bend just above Middlesex, where the river +runs east thirty-five miles to the sea, we at length lost the aid of +this propitious wind, though we contrived to make one long and +judicious tack carry us nearly to the locks of the canal. We were here +locked through at noon by our old friend, the lover of the higher +mathematics, who seemed glad to see us safe back again through so many +locks; but we did not stop to consider any of his problems, though we +could cheerfully have spent a whole autumn in this way another time, +and never have asked what his religion was. It is so rare to meet with +a man out-doors who cherishes a worthy thought in his mind, which is +independent of the labor of his hands. Behind every man’s busy-ness +there should be a level of undisturbed serenity and industry, as within +the reef encircling a coral isle there is always an expanse of still +water, where the depositions are going on which will finally raise it +above the surface. + +The eye which can appreciate the naked and absolute beauty of a +scientific truth is far more rare than that which is attracted by a +moral one. Few detect the morality in the former, or the science in the +latter. Aristotle defined art to be Λόγος τοῦ ἔργου ἄνευ ὕλης, _The +principle of the work without the wood_; but most men prefer to have +some of the wood along with the principle; they demand that the truth +be clothed in flesh and blood and the warm colors of life. They prefer +the partial statement because it fits and measures them and their +commodities best. But science still exists everywhere as the sealer of +weights and measures at least. + +We have heard much about the poetry of mathematics, but very little of +it has yet been sung. The ancients had a juster notion of their poetic +value than we. The most distinct and beautiful statement of any truth +must take at last the mathematical form. We might so simplify the rules +of moral philosophy, as well as of arithmetic, that one formula would +express them both. All the moral laws are readily translated into +natural philosophy, for often we have only to restore the primitive +meaning of the words by which they are expressed, or to attend to their +literal instead of their metaphorical sense. They are already +_supernatural_ philosophy. The whole body of what is now called moral +or ethical truth existed in the golden age as abstract science. Or, if +we prefer, we may say that the laws of Nature are the purest morality. +The Tree of Knowledge is a Tree of Knowledge of good and evil. He is +not a true man of science who does not bring some sympathy to his +studies, and expect to learn something by behavior as well as by +application. It is childish to rest in the discovery of mere +coincidences, or of partial and extraneous laws. The study of geometry +is a petty and idle exercise of the mind, if it is applied to no larger +system than the starry one. Mathematics should be mixed not only with +physics but with ethics, _that_ is _mixed_ mathematics. The fact which +interests us most is the life of the naturalist. The purest science is +still biographical. Nothing will dignify and elevate science while it +is sundered so wholly from the moral life of its devotee, and he +professes another religion than it teaches, and worships at a foreign +shrine. Anciently the faith of a philosopher was identical with his +system, or, in other words, his view of the universe. + +My friends mistake when they communicate facts to me with so much +pains. Their presence, even their exaggerations and loose statements, +are equally good facts for me. I have no respect for facts even except +when I would use them, and for the most part I am independent of those +which I hear, and can afford to be inaccurate, or, in other words, to +substitute more present and pressing facts in their place. + +The poet uses the results of science and philosophy, and generalizes +their widest deductions. + +The process of discovery is very simple. An unwearied and systematic +application of known laws to nature, causes the unknown to reveal +themselves. Almost any _mode_ of observation will be successful at +last, for what is most wanted is method. Only let something be +determined and fixed around which observation may rally. How many new +relations a foot-rule alone will reveal, and to how many things still +this has not been applied! What wonderful discoveries have been, and +may still be, made, with a plumb-line, a level, a surveyor’s compass, a +thermometer, or a barometer! Where there is an observatory and a +telescope, we expect that any eyes will see new worlds at once. I +should say that the most prominent scientific men of our country, and +perhaps of this age, are either serving the arts and not pure science, +or are performing faithful but quite subordinate labors in particular +departments. They make no steady and systematic approaches to the +central fact. A discovery is made, and at once the attention of all +observers is distracted to that, and it draws many analogous +discoveries in its train; as if their work were not already laid out +for them, but they had been lying on their oars. There is wanting +constant and accurate observation with enough of theory to direct and +discipline it. + +But, above all, there is wanting genius. Our books of science, as they +improve in accuracy, are in danger of losing the freshness and vigor +and readiness to appreciate the real laws of Nature, which is a marked +merit in the ofttimes false theories of the ancients. I am attracted by +the slight pride and satisfaction, the emphatic and even exaggerated +style in which some of the older naturalists speak of the operations of +Nature, though they are better qualified to appreciate than to +discriminate the facts. Their assertions are not without value when +disproved. If they are not facts, they are suggestions for Nature +herself to act upon. “The Greeks,” says Gesner, “had a common proverb +(Λαγος καθευδον) a sleeping hare, for a dissembler or counterfeit; +because the hare sees when she sleeps; for this is an admirable and +rare work of Nature, that all the residue of her bodily parts take +their rest, but the eye standeth continually sentinel.” + +Observation is so wide awake, and facts are being so rapidly added to +the sum of human experience, that it appears as if the theorizer would +always be in arrears, and were doomed forever to arrive at imperfect +conclusions; but the power to perceive a law is equally rare in all +ages of the world, and depends but little on the number of facts +observed. The senses of the savage will furnish him with facts enough +to set him up as a philosopher. The ancients can still speak to us with +authority, even on the themes of geology and chemistry, though these +studies are thought to have had their birth in modern times. Much is +said about the progress of science in these centuries. I should say +that the useful results of science had accumulated, but that there had +been no accumulation of knowledge, strictly speaking, for posterity; +for knowledge is to be acquired only by a corresponding experience. How +can we _know_ what we are _told_ merely? Each man can interpret +another’s experience only by his own. We read that Newton discovered +the law of gravitation, but how many who have heard of his famous +discovery have recognized the same truth that he did? It may be not +one. The revelation which was then made to him has not been superseded +by the revelation made to any successor. + +We see the _planet_ fall, +And that is all. + + +In a review of Sir James Clark Ross’s Antarctic Voyage of Discovery, +there is a passage which shows how far a body of men are commonly +impressed by an object of sublimity, and which is also a good instance +of the step from the sublime to the ridiculous. After describing the +discovery of the Antarctic Continent, at first seen a hundred miles +distant over fields of ice,—stupendous ranges of mountains from seven +and eight to twelve and fourteen thousand feet high, covered with +eternal snow and ice, in solitary and inaccessible grandeur, at one +time the weather being beautifully clear, and the sun shining on the +icy landscape; a continent whose islands only are accessible, and these +exhibited “not the smallest trace of vegetation,” only in a few places +the rocks protruding through their icy covering, to convince the +beholder that land formed the nucleus, and that it was not an +iceberg;—the practical British reviewer proceeds thus, sticking to his +last, “On the 22d of January, afternoon, the Expedition made the +latitude of 74° 20’ and by 7h P.M., having ground (ground! where did +they get ground?) to believe that they were then in a higher southern +latitude than had been attained by that enterprising seaman, the late +Captain James Weddel, and therefore higher than all their predecessors, +an extra allowance of grog was issued to the crews as a reward for +their perseverance.” + +Let not us sailors of late centuries take upon ourselves any airs on +account of our Newtons and our Cuviers; we deserve an extra allowance +of grog only. + +We endeavored in vain to persuade the wind to blow through the long +corridor of the canal, which is here cut straight through the woods, +and were obliged to resort to our old expedient of drawing by a cord. +When we reached the Concord, we were forced to row once more in good +earnest, with neither wind nor current in our favor, but by this time +the rawness of the day had disappeared, and we experienced the warmth +of a summer afternoon. This change in the weather was favorable to our +contemplative mood, and disposed us to dream yet deeper at our oars, +while we floated in imagination farther down the stream of time, as we +had floated down the stream of the Merrimack, to poets of a milder +period than had engaged us in the morning. Chelmsford and Billerica +appeared like old English towns, compared with Merrimack and Nashua, +and many generations of civil poets might have lived and sung here. + +What a contrast between the stern and desolate poetry of Ossian, and +that of Chaucer, and even of Shakespeare and Milton, much more of +Dryden, and Pope, and Gray. Our summer of English poetry like the Greek +and Latin before it, seems well advanced toward its fall, and laden +with the fruit and foliage of the season, with bright autumnal tints, +but soon the winter will scatter its myriad clustering and shading +leaves, and leave only a few desolate and fibrous boughs to sustain the +snow and rime, and creak in the blasts of ages. We cannot escape the +impression that the Muse has stooped a little in her flight, when we +come to the literature of civilized eras. Now first we hear of various +ages and styles of poetry; it is pastoral, and lyric, and narrative, +and didactic; but the poetry of runic monuments is of one style, and +for every age. The bard has in a great measure lost the dignity and +sacredness of his office. Formerly he was called a _seer_, but now it +is thought that one man sees as much as another. He has no longer the +bardic rage, and only conceives the deed, which he formerly stood ready +to perform. Hosts of warriors earnest for battle could not mistake nor +dispense with the ancient bard. His lays were heard in the pauses of +the fight. There was no danger of his being overlooked by his +contemporaries. But now the hero and the bard are of different +professions. When we come to the pleasant English verse, the storms +have all cleared away and it will never thunder and lighten more. The +poet has come within doors, and exchanged the forest and crag for the +fireside, the hut of the Gael, and Stonehenge with its circles of +stones, for the house of the Englishman. No hero stands at the door +prepared to break forth into song or heroic action, but a homely +Englishman, who cultivates the art of poetry. We see the comfortable +fireside, and hear the crackling fagots in all the verse. + +Notwithstanding the broad humanity of Chaucer, and the many social and +domestic comforts which we meet with in his verse, we have to narrow +our vision somewhat to consider him, as if he occupied less space in +the landscape, and did not stretch over hill and valley as Ossian does. +Yet, seen from the side of posterity, as the father of English poetry, +preceded by a long silence or confusion in history, unenlivened by any +strain of pure melody, we easily come to reverence him. Passing over +the earlier continental poets, since we are bound to the pleasant +archipelago of English poetry, Chaucer’s is the first name after that +misty weather in which Ossian lived, which can detain us long. Indeed, +though he represents so different a culture and society, he may be +regarded as in many respects the Homer of the English poets. Perhaps he +is the youthfullest of them all. We return to him as to the purest +well, the fountain farthest removed from the highway of desultory life. +He is so natural and cheerful, compared with later poets, that we might +almost regard him as a personification of spring. To the faithful +reader his muse has even given an aspect to his times, and when he is +fresh from perusing him, they seem related to the golden age. It is +still the poetry of youth and life, rather than of thought; and though +the moral vein is obvious and constant, it has not yet banished the sun +and daylight from his verse. The loftiest strains of the muse are, for +the most part, sublimely plaintive, and not a carol as free as +nature’s. The content which the sun shines to celebrate from morning to +evening, is unsung. The muse solaces herself, and is not ravished but +consoled. There is a catastrophe implied, and a tragic element in all +our verse, and less of the lark and morning dews, than of the +nightingale and evening shades. But in Homer and Chaucer there is more +of the innocence and serenity of youth than in the more modern and +moral poets. The Iliad is not Sabbath but morning reading, and men +cling to this old song, because they still have moments of unbaptized +and uncommitted life, which give them an appetite for more. To the +innocent there are neither cherubim nor angels. At rare intervals we +rise above the necessity of virtue into an unchangeable morning light, +in which we have only to live right on and breathe the ambrosial air. +The Iliad represents no creed nor opinion, and we read it with a rare +sense of freedom and irresponsibility, as if we trod on native ground, +and were autochthones of the soil. + +Chaucer had eminently the habits of a literary man and a scholar. There +were never any times so stirring that there were not to be found some +sedentary still. He was surrounded by the din of arms. The battles of +Hallidon Hill and Neville’s Cross, and the still more memorable battles +of Cressy and Poictiers, were fought in his youth; but these did not +concern our poet much, Wickliffe and his reform much more. He regarded +himself always as one privileged to sit and converse with books. He +helped to establish the literary class. His character as one of the +fathers of the English language would alone make his works important, +even those which have little poetical merit. He was as simple as +Wordsworth in preferring his homely but vigorous Saxon tongue, when it +was neglected by the court, and had not yet attained to the dignity of +a literature, and rendered a similar service to his country to that +which Dante rendered to Italy. If Greek sufficeth for Greek, and Arabic +for Arabian, and Hebrew for Jew, and Latin for Latin, then English +shall suffice for him, for any of these will serve to teach truth +“right as divers pathes leaden divers folke the right waye to Rome.” In +the Testament of Love he writes, “Let then clerkes enditen in Latin, +for they have the propertie of science, and the knowinge in that +facultie, and lette Frenchmen in their Frenche also enditen their +queinte termes, for it is kyndely to their mouthes, and let us shewe +our fantasies in soche wordes as we lerneden of our dames tonge.” + +He will know how to appreciate Chaucer best, who has come down to him +the natural way, through the meagre pastures of Saxon and +ante-Chaucerian poetry; and yet, so human and wise he appears after +such diet, that we are liable to misjudge him still. In the Saxon +poetry extant, in the earliest English, and the contemporary Scottish +poetry, there is less to remind the reader of the rudeness and vigor of +youth, than of the feebleness of a declining age. It is for the most +part translation of imitation merely, with only an occasional and +slight tinge of poetry, oftentimes the falsehood and exaggeration of +fable, without its imagination to redeem it, and we look in vain to +find antiquity restored, humanized, and made blithe again by some +natural sympathy between it and the present. But Chaucer is fresh and +modern still, and no dust settles on his true passages. It lightens +along the line, and we are reminded that flowers have bloomed, and +birds sung, and hearts beaten in England. Before the earnest gaze of +the reader, the rust and moss of time gradually drop off, and the +original green life is revealed. He was a homely and domestic man, and +did breathe quite as modern men do. + +There is no wisdom that can take place of humanity, and we find _that_ +in Chaucer. We can expand at last in his breadth, and we think that we +could have been that man’s acquaintance. He was worthy to be a citizen +of England, while Petrarch and Boccacio lived in Italy, and Tell and +Tamerlane in Switzerland and in Asia, and Bruce in Scotland, and +Wickliffe, and Gower, and Edward the Third, and John of Gaunt, and the +Black Prince, were his own countrymen as well as contemporaries; all +stout and stirring names. The fame of Roger Bacon came down from the +preceding century, and the name of Dante still possessed the influence +of a living presence. On the whole, Chaucer impresses us as greater +than his reputation, and not a little like Homer and Shakespeare, for +he would have held up his head in their company. Among early English +poets he is the landlord and host, and has the authority of such. The +affectionate mention which succeeding early poets make of him, coupling +him with Homer and Virgil, is to be taken into the account in +estimating his character and influence. King James and Dunbar of +Scotland speak of him with more love and reverence than any modern +author of his predecessors of the last century. The same childlike +relation is without a parallel now. For the most part we read him +without criticism, for he does not plead his own cause, but speaks for +his readers, and has that greatness of trust and reliance which compels +popularity. He confides in the reader, and speaks privily with him, +keeping nothing back. And in return the reader has great confidence in +him, that he tells no lies, and reads his story with indulgence, as if +it were the circumlocution of a child, but often discovers afterwards +that he has spoken with more directness and economy of words than a +sage. He is never heartless, + +“For first the thing is thought within the hart, +Er any word out from the mouth astart.” + + +And so new was all his theme in those days, that he did not have to +invent, but only to tell. + +We admire Chaucer for his sturdy English wit. The easy height he speaks +from in his Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, as if he were equal to +any of the company there assembled, is as good as any particular +excellence in it. But though it is full of good sense and humanity, it +is not transcendent poetry. For picturesque description of persons it +is, perhaps, without a parallel in English poetry; yet it is +essentially humorous, as the loftiest genius never is. Humor, however +broad and genial, takes a narrower view than enthusiasm. To his own +finer vein he added all the common wit and wisdom of his time, and +everywhere in his works his remarkable knowledge of the world, and nice +perception of character, his rare common sense and proverbial wisdom, +are apparent. His genius does not soar like Milton’s, but is genial and +familiar. It shows great tenderness and delicacy, but not the heroic +sentiment. It is only a greater portion of humanity with all its +weakness. He is not heroic, as Raleigh, nor pious, as Herbert, nor +philosophical, as Shakespeare, but he is the child of the English muse, +that child which is the father of the man. The charm of his poetry +consists often only in an exceeding naturalness, perfect sincerity, +with the behavior of a child rather than of a man. + +Gentleness and delicacy of character are everywhere apparent in his +verse. The simplest and humblest words come readily to his lips. No one +can read the Prioress’s tale, understanding the spirit in which it was +written, and in which the child sings _O alma redemptoris mater_, or +the account of the departure of Constance with her child upon the sea, +in the Man of Lawe’s tale, without feeling the native innocence and +refinement of the author. Nor can we be mistaken respecting the +essential purity of his character, disregarding the apology of the +manners of the age. A simple pathos and feminine gentleness, which +Wordsworth only occasionally approaches, but does not equal, are +peculiar to him. We are tempted to say that his genius was feminine, +not masculine. It was such a feminineness, however, as is rarest to +find in woman, though not the appreciation of it; perhaps it is not to +be found at all in woman, but is only the feminine in man. + +Such pure and genuine and childlike love of Nature is hardly to be +found in any poet. + +Chaucer’s remarkably trustful and affectionate character appears in his +familiar, yet innocent and reverent, manner of speaking of his God. He +comes into his thought without any false reverence, and with no more +parade than the zephyr to his ear. If Nature is our mother, then God is +our father. There is less love and simple, practical trust in +Shakespeare and Milton. How rarely in our English tongue do we find +expressed any affection for God. Certainly, there is no sentiment so +rare as the love of God. Herbert almost alone expresses it, “Ah, my +dear God!” Our poet uses similar words with propriety; and whenever he +sees a beautiful person, or other object, prides himself on the +“maistry” of his God. He even recommends Dido to be his bride,— + +“if that God that heaven and yearth made, +Would have a love for beauty and goodnesse, +And womanhede, trouth, and semeliness.” + + +But in justification of our praise, we must refer to his works +themselves; to the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, the account of +Gentilesse, the Flower and the Leaf, the stories of Griselda, Virginia, +Ariadne, and Blanche the Dutchesse, and much more of less distinguished +merit. There are many poets of more taste, and better manners, who knew +how to leave out their dulness; but such negative genius cannot detain +us long; we shall return to Chaucer still with love. Some natures, +which are really rude and ill-developed, have yet a higher standard of +perfection than others which are refined and well balanced. Even the +clown has taste, whose dictates, though he disregards them, are higher +and purer than those which the artist obeys. If we have to wander +through many dull and prosaic passages in Chaucer, we have at least the +satisfaction of knowing that it is not an artificial dulness, but too +easily matched by many passages in life. We confess that we feel a +disposition commonly to concentrate sweets, and accumulate pleasures; +but the poet may be presumed always to speak as a traveller, who leads +us through a varied scenery, from one eminence to another, and it is, +perhaps, more pleasing, after all, to meet with a fine thought in its +natural setting. Surely fate has enshrined it in these circumstances +for some end. Nature strews her nuts and flowers broadcast, and never +collects them into heaps. This was the soil it grew in, and this the +hour it bloomed in; if sun, wind, and rain came here to cherish and +expand the flower, shall not we come here to pluck it? + +A true poem is distinguished not so much by a felicitous expression, or +any thought it suggests, as by the atmosphere which surrounds it. Most +have beauty of outline merely, and are striking as the form and bearing +of a stranger; but true verses come toward us indistinctly, as the very +breath of all friendliness, and envelop us in their spirit and +fragrance. Much of our poetry has the very best manners, but no +character. It is only an unusual precision and elasticity of speech, as +if its author had taken, not an intoxicating draught, but an electuary. +It has the distinct outline of sculpture, and chronicles an early hour. +Under the influence of passion all men speak thus distinctly, but wrath +is not always divine. + +There are two classes of men called poets. The one cultivates life, the +other art,—one seeks food for nutriment, the other for flavor; one +satisfies hunger, the other gratifies the palate. There are two kinds +of writing, both great and rare; one that of genius, or the inspired, +the other of intellect and taste, in the intervals of inspiration. The +former is above criticism, always correct, giving the law to criticism. +It vibrates and pulsates with life forever. It is sacred, and to be +read with reverence, as the works of nature are studied. There are few +instances of a sustained style of this kind; perhaps every man has +spoken words, but the speaker is then careless of the record. Such a +style removes us out of personal relations with its author; we do not +take his words on our lips, but his sense into our hearts. It is the +stream of inspiration, which bubbles out, now here, now there, now in +this man, now in that. It matters not through what ice-crystals it is +seen, now a fountain, now the ocean stream running under ground. It is +in Shakespeare, Alpheus, in Burns, Arethuse; but ever the same. The +other is self-possessed and wise. It is reverent of genius, and greedy +of inspiration. It is conscious in the highest and the least degree. It +consists with the most perfect command of the faculties. It dwells in a +repose as of the desert, and objects are as distinct in it as oases or +palms in the horizon of sand. The train of thought moves with subdued +and measured step, like a caravan. But the pen is only an instrument in +its hand, and not instinct with life, like a longer arm. It leaves a +thin varnish or glaze over all its work. The works of Goethe furnish +remarkable instances of the latter. + +There is no just and serene criticism as yet. Nothing is considered +simply as it lies in the lap of eternal beauty, but our thoughts, as +well as our bodies, must be dressed after the latest fashions. Our +taste is too delicate and particular. It says nay to the poet’s work, +but never yea to his hope. It invites him to adorn his deformities, and +not to cast them off by expansion, as the tree its bark. We are a +people who live in a bright light, in houses of pearl and porcelain, +and drink only light wines, whose teeth are easily set on edge by the +least natural sour. If we had been consulted, the backbone of the earth +would have been made, not of granite, but of Bristol spar. A modern +author would have died in infancy in a ruder age. But the poet is +something more than a scald, “a smoother and polisher of language”; he +is a Cincinnatus in literature, and occupies no west end of the world. +Like the sun, he will indifferently select his rhymes, and with a +liberal taste weave into his verse the planet and the stubble. + +In these old books the stucco has long since crumbled away, and we read +what was sculptured in the granite. They are rude and massive in their +proportions, rather than smooth and delicate in their finish. The +workers in stone polish only their chimney ornaments, but their +pyramids are roughly done. There is a soberness in a rough aspect, as +of unhewn granite, which addresses a depth in us, but a polished +surface hits only the ball of the eye. The true finish is the work of +time, and the use to which a thing is put. The elements are still +polishing the pyramids. Art may varnish and gild, but it can do no +more. A work of genius is rough-hewn from the first, because it +anticipates the lapse of time, and has an ingrained polish, which still +appears when fragments are broken off, an essential quality of its +substance. Its beauty is at the same time its strength, and it breaks +with a lustre. + +The great poem must have the stamp of greatness as well as its essence. +The reader easily goes within the shallowest contemporary poetry, and +informs it with all the life and promise of the day, as the pilgrim +goes within the temple, and hears the faintest strains of the +worshippers; but it will have to speak to posterity, traversing these +deserts, through the ruins of its outmost walls, by the grandeur and +beauty of its proportions. + +——————— + +But here on the stream of the Concord, where we have all the while been +bodily, Nature, who is superior to all styles and ages, is now, with +pensive face, composing her poem Autumn, with which no work of man will +bear to be compared. + +In summer we live out of doors, and have only impulses and feelings, +which are all for action, and must wait commonly for the stillness and +longer nights of autumn and winter before any thought will subside; we +are sensible that behind the rustling leaves, and the stacks of grain, +and the bare clusters of the grape, there is the field of a wholly new +life, which no man has lived; that even this earth was made for more +mysterious and nobler inhabitants than men and women. In the hues of +October sunsets, we see the portals to other mansions than those which +we occupy, not far off geographically,— + +“There is a place beyond that flaming hill, + From whence the stars their thin appearance shed, +A place beyond all place, where never ill, + Nor impure thought was ever harbored.” + + +Sometimes a mortal feels in himself Nature, not his Father but his +Mother stirs within him, and he becomes immortal with her immortality. +From time to time she claims kindredship with us, and some globule from +her veins steals up into our own. + +I am the autumnal sun, +With autumn gales my race is run; +When will the hazel put forth its flowers, +Or the grape ripen under my bowers? +When will the harvest or the hunter’s moon, +Turn my midnight into mid-noon? + I am all sere and yellow, + And to my core mellow. +The mast is dropping within my woods, +The winter is lurking within my moods, +And the rustling of the withered leaf +Is the constant music of my grief. + + +To an unskilful rhymer the Muse thus spoke in prose: + +The moon no longer reflects the day, but rises to her absolute rule, +and the husbandman and hunter acknowledge her for their mistress. +Asters and golden-rods reign along the way, and the life-everlasting +withers not. The fields are reaped and shorn of their pride, but an +inward verdure still crowns them. The thistle scatters its down on the +pool, and yellow leaves clothe the vine, and naught disturbs the +serious life of men. But behind the sheaves, and under the sod, there +lurks a ripe fruit, which the reapers have not gathered, the true +harvest of the year, which it bears forever, annually watering and +maturing it, and man never severs the stalk which bears this palatable +fruit. + +Men nowhere, east or west, live yet a _natural_ life, round which the +vine clings, and which the elm willingly shadows. Man would desecrate +it by his touch, and so the beauty of the world remains veiled to him. +He needs not only to be spiritualized, but _naturalized_, on the soil +of earth. Who shall conceive what kind of roof the heavens might extend +over him, what seasons minister to him, and what employment dignify his +life! Only the convalescent raise the veil of nature. An immortality in +his life would confer immortality on his abode. The winds should be his +breath, the seasons his moods, and he should impart of his serenity to +Nature herself. But such as we know him he is ephemeral like the +scenery which surrounds him, and does not aspire to an enduring +existence. When we come down into the distant village, visible from the +mountain-top, the nobler inhabitants with whom we peopled it have +departed, and left only vermin in its desolate streets. It is the +imagination of poets which puts those brave speeches into the mouths of +their heroes. They may feign that Cato’s last words were + +“The earth, the air, and seas I know, and all +The joys and horrors of their peace and wars; +And now will view the Gods’ state and the stars,” + + +but such are not the thoughts nor the destiny of common men. What is +this heaven which they expect, if it is no better than they expect? Are +they prepared for a better than they can now imagine? Where is the +heaven of him who dies on a stage, in a theatre? Here or nowhere is our +heaven. + +“Although we see celestial bodies move +Above the earth, the earth we till and love.” + + +We can conceive of nothing more fair than something which we have +experienced. “The remembrance of youth is a sigh.” We linger in manhood +to tell the dreams of our childhood, and they are half forgotten ere we +have learned the language. We have need to be earth-born as well as +heaven-born, γηγενεῖς, as was said of the Titans of old, or in a better +sense than they. There have been heroes for whom this world seemed +expressly prepared, as if creation had at last succeeded; whose daily +life was the stuff of which our dreams are made, and whose presence +enhanced the beauty and ampleness of Nature herself. Where they walked, + +“Largior hic campos æther et lumine vestit +Purpureo: Solemque suum, sua sidera nôrunt.” + + +“Here a more copious air invests the fields, and clothes with purple +light; and they know their own sun and their own stars.” We love to +hear some men speak, though we hear not what they say; the very air +they breathe is rich and perfumed, and the sound of their voices falls +on the ear like the rustling of leaves or the crackling of the fire. +They stand many deep. They have the heavens for their abettors, as +those who have never stood from under them, and they look at the stars +with an answering ray. Their eyes are like glow-worms, and their +motions graceful and flowing, as if a place were already found for +them, like rivers flowing through valleys. The distinctions of +morality, of right and wrong, sense and nonsense, are petty, and have +lost their significance, beside these pure primeval natures. When I +consider the clouds stretched in stupendous masses across the sky, +frowning with darkness or glowing with downy light, or gilded with the +rays of the setting sun, like the battlements of a city in the heavens, +their grandeur appears thrown away on the meanness of my employment; +the drapery is altogether too rich for such poor acting. I am hardly +worthy to be a suburban dweller outside those walls + + “Unless above himself he can +Erect himself, how poor a thing is man!” + + +With our music we would fain challenge transiently another and finer +sort of intercourse than our daily toil permits. The strains come back +to us amended in the echo, as when a friend reads our verse. Why have +they so painted the fruits, and freighted them with such fragrance as +to satisfy a more than animal appetite? + +“I asked the schoolman, his advice was free, +But scored me out too intricate a way.” + + +These things imply, perchance, that we live on the verge of another and +purer realm, from which these odors and sounds are wafted over to us. +The borders of our plot are set with flowers, whose seeds were blown +from more Elysian fields adjacent. They are the pot-herbs of the gods. +Some fairer fruits and sweeter fragrances wafted over to us, betray +another realm’s vicinity. There, too, does Echo dwell, and there is the +abutment of the rainbow’s arch. + +A finer race and finer fed +Feast and revel o’er our head, +And we titmen are only able +To catch the fragments from their table. +Theirs is the fragrance of the fruits, +While we consume the pulp and roots. +What are the moments that we stand +Astonished on the Olympian land! + + +We need pray for no higher heaven than the pure senses can furnish, a +_purely_ sensuous life. Our present senses are but the rudiments of +what they are destined to become. We are comparatively deaf and dumb +and blind, and without smell or taste or feeling. Every generation +makes the discovery, that its divine vigor has been dissipated, and +each sense and faculty misapplied and debauched. The ears were made, +not for such trivial uses as men are wont to suppose, but to hear +celestial sounds. The eyes were not made for such grovelling uses as +they are now put to and worn out by, but to behold beauty now +invisible. May we not _see_ God? Are we to be put off and amused in +this life, as it were with a mere allegory? Is not Nature, rightly +read, that of which she is commonly taken to be the symbol merely? When +the common man looks into the sky, which he has not so much profaned, +he thinks it less gross than the earth, and with reverence speaks of +“the Heavens,” but the seer will in the same sense speak of “the +Earths,” and his Father who is in them. “Did not he that made that +which is _within_, make that which is _without_ also?” What is it, +then, to educate but to develop these divine germs called the senses? +for individuals and states to deal magnanimously with the rising +generation, leading it not into temptation,—not teach the eye to +squint, nor attune the ear to profanity. But where is the instructed +teacher? Where are the _normal_ schools? + +A Hindoo sage said, “As a dancer, having exhibited herself to the +spectator, desists from the dance, so does Nature desist, having +manifested herself to soul—. Nothing, in my opinion, is more gentle +than Nature; once aware of having been seen, she does not again expose +herself to the gaze of soul.” + +It is easier to discover another such a new world as Columbus did, than +to go within one fold of this which we appear to know so well; the land +is lost sight of, the compass varies, and mankind mutiny; and still +history accumulates like rubbish before the portals of nature. But +there is only necessary a moment’s sanity and sound senses, to teach us +that there is a nature behind the ordinary, in which we have only some +vague pre-emption right and western reserve as yet. We live on the +outskirts of that region. Carved wood, and floating boughs, and sunset +skies, are all that we know of it. We are not to be imposed on by the +longest spell of weather. Let us not, my friends, be wheedled and +cheated into good behavior to earn the salt of our eternal porridge, +whoever they are that attempt it. Let us wait a little, and not +purchase any clearing here, trusting that richer bottoms will soon be +put up. It is but thin soil where we stand; I have felt my roots in a +richer ere this. I have seen a bunch of violets in a glass vase, tied +loosely with a straw, which reminded me of myself. + +I am a parcel of vain strivings tied + By a chance bond together, + Dangling this way and that, their links + Were made so loose and wide, + Methinks, + For milder weather. + +A bunch of violets without their roots, + And sorrel intermixed, + Encircled by a wisp of straw + Once coiled about their shoots, +The law +By which I’m fixed. + +A nosegay which Time clutched from out + Those fair Elysian fields, + With weeds and broken stems, in haste, + Doth make the rabble rout + That waste + The day he yields. + +And here I bloom for a short hour unseen, + Drinking my juices up, + With no root in the land + To keep my branches green, + But stand + In a bare cup. + +Some tender buds were left upon my stem + In mimicry of life, + But ah! the children will not know, + Till time has withered them, + The woe + With which they’re rife. + +But now I see I was not plucked for naught, + And after in life’s vase + Of glass set while I might survive, + But by a kind hand brought + Alive + To a strange place. + +That stock thus thinned will soon redeem its hours, + And by another year, + Such as God knows, with freer air, + More fruits and fairer flowers + Will bear, + While I droop here. + + +This world has many rings, like Saturn, and we live now on the outmost +of them all. None can say deliberately that he inhabits the same +sphere, or is contemporary with, the flower which his hands have +plucked, and though his feet may seem to crush it, inconceivable spaces +and ages separate them, and perchance there is no danger that he will +hurt it. What do the botanists know? Our lives should go between the +lichen and the bark. The eye may see for the hand, but not for the +mind. We are still being born, and have as yet but a dim vision of sea +and land, sun, moon and stars, and shall not see clearly till after +nine days at least. That is a pathetic inquiry among travellers and +geographers after the site of ancient Troy. It is not near where they +think it is. When a thing is decayed and gone, how indistinct must be +the place it occupied! + +The anecdotes of modern astronomy affect me in the same way as do those +faint revelations of the Real which are vouchsafed to men from time to +time, or rather from eternity to eternity. When I remember the history +of that faint light in our firmament, which we call Venus, which +ancient men regarded, and which most modern men still regard, as a +bright spark attached to a hollow sphere revolving about our earth, but +which we have discovered to be _another world_, in itself,—how +Copernicus, reasoning long and patiently about the matter, predicted +confidently concerning it, before yet the telescope had been invented, +that if ever men came to see it more clearly than they did then, they +would discover that it had phases like our moon, and that within a +century after his death the telescope was invented, and that prediction +verified, by Galileo,—I am not without hope that we may, even here and +now obtain some accurate information concerning that OTHER WORLD which +the instinct of mankind has so long predicted. Indeed, all that we call +science, as well as all that we call poetry, is a particle of such +information, accurate as far as it goes, though it be but to the +confines of the truth. If we can reason so accurately, and with such +wonderful confirmation of our reasoning, respecting so-called material +objects and events infinitely removed beyond the range of our natural +vision, so that the mind hesitates to trust its calculations even when +they are confirmed by observation, why may not our speculations +penetrate as far into the immaterial starry system, of which the former +is but the outward and visible type? Surely, we are provided with +senses as well fitted to penetrate the spaces of the real, the +substantial, the eternal, as these outward are to penetrate the +material universe. Veias, Menu, Zoroaster, Socrates, Christ, +Shakespeare, Swedenborg,—these are some of our astronomers. + +There are perturbations in our orbits produced by the influence of +outlying spheres, and no astronomer has ever yet calculated the +elements of that undiscovered world which produces them. I perceive in +the common train of my thoughts a natural and uninterrupted sequence, +each implying the next, or, if interruption occurs, it is occasioned by +a new object being presented to my _senses_. But a steep, and sudden, +and by these means unaccountable transition, is that from a +comparatively narrow and partial, what is called common sense view of +things, to an infinitely expanded and liberating one, from seeing +things as men describe them, to seeing them as men cannot describe +them. This implies a sense which is not common, but rare in the wisest +man’s experience; which is sensible or sentient of more than common. + +In what enclosures does the astronomer loiter! His skies are shoal, and +imagination, like a thirsty traveller, pants to be through their +desert. The roving mind impatiently bursts the fetters of astronomical +orbits, like cobwebs in a corner of its universe, and launches itself +to where distance fails to follow, and law, such as science has +discovered, grows weak and weary. The mind knows a distance and a space +of which all those sums combined do not make a unit of measure,—the +interval between that which _appears_, and that which _is_. I know that +there are many stars, I know that they are far enough off, bright +enough, steady enough in their orbits,—but what are they all worth? +They are more waste land in the West,—star territory,—to be made slave +States, perchance, if we colonize them. I have interest but for six +feet of star, and that interest is transient. Then farewell to all ye +bodies, such as I have known ye. + +Every man, if he is wise, will stand on such bottom as will sustain +him, and if one gravitates downward more strongly than another, he will +not venture on those meads where the latter walks securely, but rather +leave the cranberries which grow there unraked by himself. Perchance, +some spring a higher freshet will float them within his reach, though +they may be watery and frost-bitten by that time. Such shrivelled +berries I have seen in many a poor man’s garret, ay, in many a +church-bin and state-coffer, and with a little water and heat they +swell again to their original size and fairness, and added sugar +enough, stead mankind for sauce to this world’s dish. + +What is called common sense is excellent in its department, and as +invaluable as the virtue of conformity in the army and navy,—for there +must be subordination,—but uncommon sense, that sense which is common +only to the wisest, is as much more excellent as it is more rare. Some +aspire to excellence in the subordinate department, and may God speed +them. What Fuller says of masters of colleges is universally +applicable, that “a little alloy of dulness in a master of a college +makes him fitter to manage secular affairs.” + +“He that wants faith, and apprehends a grief +Because he wants it, hath a true belief; +And he that grieves because his grief’s so small, +Has a true grief, and the best Faith of all.” + + +Or be encouraged by this other poet’s strain,— + +“By them went Fido marshal of the field: + Weak was his mother when she gave him day; +And he at first a sick and weakly child, + As e’er with tears welcomed the sunny ray; + Yet when more years afford more growth and might, + A champion stout he was, and puissant knight, + As ever came in field, or shone in armor bright. + +“Mountains he flings in seas with mighty hand; + Stops and turns back the sun’s impetuous course; +Nature breaks Nature’s laws at his command; + No force of Hell or Heaven withstands his force; + Events to come yet many ages hence, + He present makes, by wondrous prescience; + Proving the senses blind by being blind to sense.” + + +“Yesterday, at dawn,” says Hafiz, “God delivered me from all worldly +affliction; and amidst the gloom of night presented me with the water +of immortality.” + +In the life of Sadi by Dowlat Shah occurs this sentence: “The eagle of +the immaterial soul of Shaikh Sadi shook from his plumage the dust of +his body.” + +Thus thoughtfully we were rowing homeward to find some autumnal work to +do, and help on the revolution of the seasons. Perhaps Nature would +condescend to make use of us even without our knowledge, as when we +help to scatter her seeds in our walks, and carry burrs and cockles on +our clothes from field to field. + +All things are current found +On earthly ground, +Spirits and elements +Have their descents. + +Night and day, year on year, +High and low, far and near, +These are our own aspects, +These are our own regrets. + +Ye gods of the shore, +Who abide evermore, +I see your far headland, +Stretching on either hand; + +I hear the sweet evening sounds +From your undecaying grounds; +Cheat me no more with time, +Take me to your clime. + + +As it grew later in the afternoon, and we rowed leisurely up the gentle +stream, shut in between fragrant and blooming banks, where we had first +pitched our tent, and drew nearer to the fields where our lives had +passed, we seemed to detect the hues of our native sky in the southwest +horizon. The sun was just setting behind the edge of a wooded hill, so +rich a sunset as would never have ended but for some reason unknown to +men, and to be marked with brighter colors than ordinary in the scroll +of time. Though the shadows of the hills were beginning to steal over +the stream, the whole river valley undulated with mild light, purer and +more memorable than the noon. For so day bids farewell even to solitary +vales uninhabited by man. Two herons, _Ardea herodias_, with their long +and slender limbs relieved against the sky, were seen travelling high +over our heads,—their lofty and silent flight, as they were wending +their way at evening, surely not to alight in any marsh on the earth’s +surface, but, perchance, on the other side of our atmosphere, a symbol +for the ages to study, whether impressed upon the sky, or sculptured +amid the hieroglyphics of Egypt. Bound to some northern meadow, they +held on their stately, stationary flight, like the storks in the +picture, and disappeared at length behind the clouds. Dense flocks of +blackbirds were winging their way along the river’s course, as if on a +short evening pilgrimage to some shrine of theirs, or to celebrate so +fair a sunset. + +“Therefore, as doth the pilgrim, whom the night + Hastes darkly to imprison on his way, +Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright + Of what’s yet left thee of life’s wasting day: + Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn, + And twice it is not given thee to be born.” + + +The sun-setting presumed all men at leisure, and in a contemplative +mood; but the farmer’s boy only whistled the more thoughtfully as he +drove his cows home from pasture, and the teamster refrained from +cracking his whip, and guided his team with a subdued voice. The last +vestiges of daylight at length disappeared, and as we rowed silently +along with our backs toward home through the darkness, only a few stars +being visible, we had little to say, but sat absorbed in thought, or in +silence listened to the monotonous sound of our oars, a sort of +rudimental music, suitable for the ear of Night and the acoustics of +her dimly lighted halls; + +“Pulsæ referunt ad sidera valles,” + + +and the valleys echoed the sound to the stars. + +As we looked up in silence to those distant lights, we were reminded +that it was a rare imagination which first taught that the stars are +worlds, and had conferred a great benefit on mankind. It is recorded in +the Chronicle of Bernaldez, that in Columbus’s first voyage the natives +“pointed towards the heavens, making signs that they believed that +there was all power and holiness.” We have reason to be grateful for +celestial phenomena, for they chiefly answer to the ideal in man. The +stars are distant and unobtrusive, but bright and enduring as our +fairest and most memorable experiences. “Let the immortal depth of your +soul lead you, but earnestly extend your eyes upwards.” + +As the truest society approaches always nearer to solitude, so the most +excellent speech finally falls into Silence. Silence is audible to all +men, at all times, and in all places. She is when we hear inwardly, +sound when we hear outwardly. Creation has not displaced her, but is +her visible framework and foil. All sounds are her servants, and +purveyors, proclaiming not only that their mistress is, but is a rare +mistress, and earnestly to be sought after. They are so far akin to +Silence, that they are but bubbles on her surface, which straightway +burst, an evidence of the strength and prolificness of the +under-current; a faint utterance of Silence, and then only agreeable to +our auditory nerves when they contrast themselves with and relieve the +former. In proportion as they do this, and are heighteners and +intensifiers of the Silence, they are harmony and purest melody. + +Silence is the universal refuge, the sequel to all dull discourses and +all foolish acts, a balm to our every chagrin, as welcome after satiety +as after disappointment; that background which the painter may not +daub, be he master or bungler, and which, however awkward a figure we +may have made in the foreground, remains ever our inviolable asylum, +where no indignity can assail, no personality disturb us. + +The orator puts off his individuality, and is then most eloquent when +most silent. He listens while he speaks, and is a hearer along with his +audience. Who has not hearkened to Her infinite din? She is Truth’s +speaking-trumpet, the sole oracle, the true Delphi and Dodona, which +kings and courtiers would do well to consult, nor will they be balked +by an ambiguous answer. For through Her all revelations have been made, +and just in proportion as men have consulted her oracle within, they +have obtained a clear insight, and their age has been marked as an +enlightened one. But as often as they have gone gadding abroad to a +strange Delphi and her mad priestess, their age has been dark and +leaden. Such were garrulous and noisy eras, which no longer yield any +sound, but the Grecian or silent and melodious era is ever sounding and +resounding in the ears of men. + +A good book is the plectrum with which our else silent lyres are +struck. We not unfrequently refer the interest which belongs to our own +unwritten sequel, to the written and comparatively lifeless body of the +work. Of all books this sequel is the most indispensable part. It +should be the author’s aim to say once and emphatically, “He said,” +ἔφη, ἔ. This is the most the book-maker can attain to. If he make his +volume a mole whereon the waves of Silence may break, it is well. + +It were vain for me to endeavor to interrupt the Silence. She cannot be +done into English. For six thousand years men have translated her with +what fidelity belonged to each, and still she is little better than a +sealed book. A man may run on confidently for a time, thinking he has +her under his thumb, and shall one day exhaust her, but he too must at +last be silent, and men remark only how brave a beginning he made; for +when he at length dives into her, so vast is the disproportion of the +told to the untold, that the former will seem but the bubble on the +surface where he disappeared. Nevertheless, we will go on, like those +Chinese cliff swallows, feathering our nests with the froth, which may +one day be bread of life to such as dwell by the sea-shore. + +We had made about fifty miles this day with sail and oar, and now, far +in the evening, our boat was grating against the bulrushes of its +native port, and its keel recognized the Concord mud, where some +semblance of its outline was still preserved in the flattened flags +which had scarce yet erected themselves since our departure; and we +leaped gladly on shore, drawing it up, and fastening it to the wild +apple-tree, whose stem still bore the mark which its chain had worn in +the chafing of the spring freshets. + +THE END. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WEEK ON THE CONCORD AND MERRIMACK RIVERS *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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