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diff --git a/4232-h/4232-h.htm b/4232-h/4232-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..56cfa67 --- /dev/null +++ b/4232-h/4232-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,13461 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, by Henry David Thoreau</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.left {margin-left: 20%; + margin-top: 0em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, by Henry David Thoreau</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Henry David Thoreau</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: July, 2003 [eBook #4232]<br /> +[Most recently updated: February 10, 2022]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Charles Franks, Carlo Traverso and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WEEK ON THE CONCORD AND MERRIMACK RIVERS ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="cover " /> +</div> + +<h1>A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Henry David Thoreau</h2> + +<h4>AUTHOR OF “WALDEN,” ETC.</h4> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto"> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CONCORD RIVER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">SATURDAY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">SUNDAY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">MONDAY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">TUESDAY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">WEDNESDAY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">THURSDAY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">FRIDAY</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="poem"> +Where’er thou sail’st who sailed with me,<br/> +Though now thou climbest loftier mounts,<br/> +And fairer rivers dost ascend,<br/> +Be thou my Muse, my Brother—. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="poem"> +I am bound, I am bound, for a distant shore,<br/> +By a lonely isle, by a far Azore,<br/> +There it is, there it is, the treasure I seek,<br/> +On the barren sands of a desolate creek. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="poem"> +I sailed up a river with a pleasant wind,<br/> +New lands, new people, and new thoughts to find;<br/> +Many fair reaches and headlands appeared,<br/> +And many dangers were there to be feared;<br/> +But when I remember where I have been,<br/> +And the fair landscapes that I have seen,<br/> +T<small>HOU</small> seemest the only permanent shore,<br/> +The cape never rounded, nor wandered o’er. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="poem"> +Fluminaque obliquis cinxit declivia ripis;<br/> +Quæ, diversa locis, partim sorbentur ab ipsa;<br/> +In mare perveniunt partim, campoque recepta<br/> +Liberioris aquæ, pro ripis litora pulsant. +</p> + +<p class="left"> +O<small>VID</small>, Met. I. 39 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +He confined the rivers within their sloping banks,<br/> +Which in different places are part absorbed by the earth,<br/> +Part reach the sea, and being received within the plain<br/> +Of its freer waters, beat the shore for banks. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CONCORD RIVER</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +“Beneath low hills, in the broad interval<br/> +Through which at will our Indian rivulet<br/> +Winds mindful still of sannup and of squaw,<br/> +Whose pipe and arrow oft the plough unburies,<br/> +Here, in pine houses, built of new-fallen trees,<br/> +Supplanters of the tribe, the farmers dwell.” +</p> + +<p class="left"> +—E<small>MERSON</small>. +</p> + +<p> +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 C<small>ONCORD</small> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +The respectable folks,—<br/> +Where dwell they?<br/> +They whisper in the oaks,<br/> +And they sigh in the hay;<br/> +Summer and winter, night and day,<br/> +Out on the meadow, there dwell they.<br/> +They never die,<br/> +Nor snivel, nor cry,<br/> +Nor ask our pity<br/> +With a wet eye.<br/> +A sound estate they ever mend<br/> +To every asker readily lend;<br/> +To the ocean wealth,<br/> +To the meadow health,<br/> +To Time his length,<br/> +To the rocks strength,<br/> +To the stars light,<br/> +To the weary night,<br/> +To the busy day,<br/> +To the idle play;<br/> +And so their good cheer never ends,<br/> +For all are their debtors, and all their friends. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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;— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“And thou Simois, that as an arrowe, clere<br/> +Through Troy rennest, aie downward to the sea”;— +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +and I trust that I may be allowed to associate our muddy but much abused +Concord River with the most famous in history. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Sure there are poets which did never dream<br/> +Upon Parnassus, nor did taste the stream<br/> +Of Helicon; we therefore may suppose<br/> +Those made not poets, but the poets those.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>SATURDAY</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +“Come, come, my lovely fair, and let us try<br/> +Those rural delicacies.”<br/> +<br/> +<i>Christ’s Invitation to the Soul.</i> Q<small>UARLES</small> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Were it the will of Heaven, an osier bough<br/> +Were vessel safe enough the seas to plough.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“By the rude bridge that arched the flood,<br/> + Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,<br/> +Here once the embattled farmers stood,<br/> + And fired the shot heard round the world.<br/> +<br/> +“The foe long since in silence slept;<br/> + Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;<br/> +And Time the ruined bridge has swept<br/> + Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.” +</p> + +<p> +Our reflections had already acquired a historical remoteness from the scenes we +had left, and we ourselves essayed to sing. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Ah, ’t is in vain the peaceful din<br/> + That wakes the ignoble town,<br/> +Not thus did braver spirits win<br/> + A patriot’s renown.<br/> +<br/> +There is one field beside this stream,<br/> + Wherein no foot does fall,<br/> +But yet it beareth in my dream<br/> + A richer crop than all.<br/> +<br/> +Let me believe a dream so dear,<br/> + Some heart beat high that day,<br/> +Above the petty Province here,<br/> + And Britain far away;<br/> +<br/> +Some hero of the ancient mould,<br/> + Some arm of knightly worth,<br/> +Of strength unbought, and faith unsold,<br/> + Honored this spot of earth;<br/> +<br/> +Who sought the prize his heart described,<br/> + And did not ask release,<br/> +Whose free-born valor was not bribed<br/> + By prospect of a peace.<br/> +<br/> +The men who stood on yonder height<br/> + That day are long since gone;<br/> +Not the same hand directs the fight<br/> + And monumental stone.<br/> +<br/> +Ye were the Grecian cities then,<br/> + The Romes of modern birth,<br/> +Where the New England husbandmen<br/> + Have shown a Roman worth.<br/> +<br/> +In vain I search a foreign land<br/> + To find our Bunker Hill,<br/> +And Lexington and Concord stand<br/> + By no Laconian rill. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +But since we sailed<br/> +Some things have failed,<br/> +And many a dream<br/> +Gone down the stream.<br/> +<br/> +Here then an aged shepherd dwelt,<br/> +Who to his flock his substance dealt,<br/> +And ruled them with a vigorous crook,<br/> +By precept of the sacred Book;<br/> +But he the pierless bridge passed o’er,<br/> +And solitary left the shore.<br/> +<br/> +Anon a youthful pastor came,<br/> +Whose crook was not unknown to fame,<br/> +His lambs he viewed with gentle glance,<br/> +Spread o’er the country’s wide expanse,<br/> +And fed with “Mosses from the Manse.”<br/> +Here was our Hawthorne in the dale,<br/> +And here the shepherd told his tale. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +On Ponkawtasset, since, we took our way,<br/> +Down this still stream to far Billericay,<br/> +A poet wise has settled, whose fine ray<br/> +Doth often shine on Concord’s twilight day.<br/> +<br/> +Like those first stars, whose silver beams on high,<br/> +Shining more brightly as the day goes by,<br/> +Most travellers cannot at first descry,<br/> +But eyes that wont to range the evening sky,<br/> +<br/> +And know celestial lights, do plainly see,<br/> +And gladly hail them, numbering two or three;<br/> +For lore that’s deep must deeply studied be,<br/> +As from deep wells men read star-poetry.<br/> +<br/> +These stars are never paled, though out of sight,<br/> +But like the sun they shine forever bright;<br/> +Ay, <i>they</i> are suns, though earth must in its flight<br/> +Put out its eyes that it may see their light.<br/> +<br/> +Who would neglect the least celestial sound,<br/> +Or faintest light that falls on earthly ground,<br/> +If he could know it one day would be found<br/> +That star in Cygnus whither we are bound,<br/> +And pale our sun with heavenly radiance round? +</p> + +<p> +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 (<i>Salix Purshiana</i>) 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, +<i>Chelone glabra</i>, 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, +<i>Eupatorium purpureum</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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 <i>versus</i> 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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +—“renning aie downward to the sea.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +This was his observation. His honor made a great discovery in bailments. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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, <i>Pomotis vulgaris</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The Common Perch, <i>Perca flavescens</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +The Chivin, Dace, Roach, Cousin Trout, or whatever else it is called, +<i>Leuciscus pulchellus</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +The Dace, <i>Leuciscus argenteus</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +The Shiner, <i>Leuciscus crysoleucas</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +The Pickerel, <i>Esox reticulatus</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +The Horned Pout, <i>Pimelodus nebulosus</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +The Suckers, <i>Catostomi Bostonienses</i> and <i>tuberculati</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +The Common Eel, too, <i>Muraena Bostoniensis</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +<i>Petromyzon Americanus</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“a beggar on the way,<br/> +Who sturdily could gang? ….<br/> +Who cared neither for wind nor wet,<br/> +In lands where’er he past?”<br/> +<br/> +“That bold adopts each house he views, his own;<br/> +Makes every pulse his checquer, and, at pleasure,<br/> +Walks forth, and taxes all the world, like Cæsar”;— +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>reasoned</i> 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 <i>not</i> dwell, where there are <i>not</i> 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-<i>anthropy</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>sound</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +At length the antepenultimate and drowsy hours drew on, and all sounds were +denied entrance to our ears. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Who sleeps by day and walks by night,<br/> +Will meet no spirit but some sprite. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>SUNDAY</h2> + +<p class="poem"> + “The river calmly flows,<br/> + Through shining banks, through lonely glen,<br/> +Where the owl shrieks, though ne’er the cheer of men<br/> + Has stirred its mute repose,<br/> +Still if you should walk there, you would go there again.” +</p> + +<p class="left"> +—C<small>HANNING</small>. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The Indians tell us of a beautiful River lying far to the south, which +they call Merrimack.” +</p> + +<p class="left"> +S<small>IEUR DE MONTS</small>, <i>Relations of the jesuits</i>, 1604. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +An early unconverted Saint,<br/> +Free from noontide or evening taint,<br/> +Heathen without reproach,<br/> +That did upon the civil day encroach,<br/> +And ever since its birth<br/> +Had trod the outskirts of the earth. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>Mikania scandens</i>, 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, <i>Salix Purshiana</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“There is an inward voice, that in the stream<br/> +Sends forth its spirit to the listening ear,<br/> +And in a calm content it floweth on,<br/> +Like wisdom, welcome with its own respect.<br/> +Clear in its breast lie all these beauteous thoughts,<br/> +It doth receive the green and graceful trees,<br/> +And the gray rocks smile in its peaceful arms.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “Sweet falls the summer air<br/> + Over her frame who sails with me;<br/> + Her way like that is beautifully free,<br/> + Her nature far more rare,<br/> +And is her constant heart of virgin purity.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +At evening still the very stars seem but this maiden’s emissaries and +reporters of her progress. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Low in the eastern sky<br/> +Is set thy glancing eye;<br/> +And though its gracious light<br/> +Ne’er riseth to my sight,<br/> +Yet every star that climbs<br/> +Above the gnarled limbs<br/> + Of yonder hill,<br/> +Conveys thy gentle will.<br/> +<br/> +Believe I knew thy thought,<br/> +And that the zephyrs brought<br/> +Thy kindest wishes through,<br/> +As mine they bear to you,<br/> +That some attentive cloud<br/> +Did pause amid the crowd<br/> + Over my head,<br/> +While gentle things were said.<br/> +<br/> +Believe the thrushes sung,<br/> +And that the flower-bells rung,<br/> +That herbs exhaled their scent,<br/> +And beasts knew what was meant,<br/> +The trees a welcome waved,<br/> + And lakes their margins laved,<br/> +When thy free mind<br/> +To my retreat did wind.<br/> +<br/> +It was a summer eve,<br/> +The air did gently heave<br/> +While yet a low-hung cloud<br/> +Thy eastern skies did shroud;<br/> +The lightning’s silent gleam,<br/> +Startling my drowsy dream,<br/> + Seemed like the flash<br/> +Under thy dark eyelash.<br/> +<br/> +Still will I strive to be<br/> +As if thou wert with me;<br/> +Whatever path I take,<br/> +It shall be for thy sake,<br/> +Of gentle slope and wide,<br/> +As thou wert by my side,<br/> + Without a root<br/> +To trip thy gentle foot.<br/> +<br/> +I’ll walk with gentle pace,<br/> +And choose the smoothest place<br/> +And careful dip the oar,<br/> +And shun the winding shore,<br/> +And gently steer my boat<br/> +Where water-lilies float,<br/> + And cardinal flowers<br/> +Stand in their sylvan bowers. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“A man that looks on glass,<br/> + On it may stay his eye,<br/> +Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass,<br/> + And the heavens espy.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Dong, sounds the brass in the east,<br/> +As if to a funeral feast,<br/> +But I like that sound the best<br/> +Out of the fluttering west.<br/> +<br/> +The steeple ringeth a knell,<br/> +But the fairies’ silvery bell<br/> +Is the voice of that gentle folk,<br/> +Or else the horizon that spoke.<br/> +<br/> +Its metal is not of brass,<br/> +But air, and water, and glass,<br/> +And under a cloud it is swung,<br/> +And by the wind it is rung.<br/> +<br/> +When the steeple tolleth the noon,<br/> +It soundeth not so soon,<br/> +Yet it rings a far earlier hour,<br/> +And the sun has not reached its tower. +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Bedford, most noble Bedford,<br/> +I shall not thee forget.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Greece, who am I that should remember thee,<br/> +Thy Marathon and thy Thermopylæ?<br/> +Is my life vulgar, my fate mean,<br/> +Which on these golden memories can lean? +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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 <i>atua fauau po</i>, 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 <i>parterres</i> 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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Some nation yet shut in<br/> + With hills of ice.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“And Iadahel, as saith the boke,<br/> +Firste made nette, and fishes toke.<br/> +Of huntyng eke he fond the chace,<br/> +Whiche nowe is knowe in many place;<br/> +A tent of clothe, with corde and stake,<br/> +He sette up first, and did it make.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Also, Lydgate says:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Jason first sayled, in story it is tolde,<br/> +Toward Colchos, to wynne the flees of golde,<br/> +Ceres the Goddess fond first the tilthe of londe;<br/> +* * * * *<br/> +Also, Aristeus fonde first the usage<br/> +Of mylke, and cruddis, and of honey swote;<br/> +Peryodes, for grete avauntage,<br/> +From flyntes smote fuyre, daryng in the roote.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Some tumultuous little rill,<br/> + Purling round its storied pebble,<br/> +Tinkling to the selfsame tune,<br/> +From September until June,<br/> + Which no drought doth e’er enfeeble.<br/> +<br/> +Silent flows the parent stream,<br/> + And if rocks do lie below,<br/> +Smothers with her waves the din,<br/> +As it were a youthful sin,<br/> + Just as still, and just as slow. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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 <i>lets</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “The seventh is a holy day,<br/> +For then Latona brought forth golden-rayed Apollo,” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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 ‘<i>a cage</i>’ 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 <i>religion</i> than formerly. If the <i>ligature</i> is +found to be loosened in one part, it is only drawn the tighter in another. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.— +</p> + +<p> +“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, when I forget thee, may my right hand forget her +cunning.” +</p> + +<p> +“By the waters of Babylon there we sat down, and we wept when we +remembered Zion.” +</p> + +<p> +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.— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Where is this love become in later age?<br/> +Alas! ’tis gone in endless pilgrimage<br/> +From hence, and never to return, I doubt,<br/> +Till revolution wheel those times about.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +One man says,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The world’s a popular disease, that reigns<br/> +Within the froward heart and frantic brains<br/> +Of poor distempered mortals.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Another, that +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + —“all the world’s a stage,<br/> +And all the men and women merely players.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +I make ye an offer,<br/> +Ye gods, hear the scoffer,<br/> +The scheme will not hurt you,<br/> +If ye will find goodness, I will find virtue.<br/> +Though I am your creature,<br/> +And child of your nature,<br/> +I have pride still unbended,<br/> +And blood undescended,<br/> +Some free independence,<br/> +And my own descendants.<br/> +I cannot toil blindly,<br/> +Though ye behave kindly,<br/> +And I swear by the rood,<br/> +I’ll be slave to no God.<br/> +If ye will deal plainly,<br/> +I will strive mainly,<br/> +If ye will discover,<br/> +Great plans to your lover,<br/> +And give him a sphere<br/> +Somewhat larger than here. +</p> + +<p> +“Verily, my angels! I was abashed on account of my servant, who had no +Providence but me; therefore did I pardon him.”—<i>The Gulistan of +Sadi.</i> +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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 +<i>dry</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>were</i> read, they never <i>were</i> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Conscience is instinct bred in the house,<br/> +Feeling and Thinking propagate the sin<br/> +By an unnatural breeding in and in.<br/> +I say, Turn it out doors,<br/> +Into the moors.<br/> +I love a life whose plot is simple,<br/> +And does not thicken with every pimple,<br/> +A soul so sound no sickly conscience binds it,<br/> +That makes the universe no worse than ’t finds it.<br/> +I love an earnest soul,<br/> +Whose mighty joy and sorrow<br/> +Are not drowned in a bowl,<br/> +And brought to life to-morrow;<br/> +That lives one tragedy,<br/> +And not seventy;<br/> +A conscience worth keeping,<br/> +Laughing not weeping;<br/> +A conscience wise and steady,<br/> +And forever ready;<br/> +Not changing with events,<br/> +Dealing in compliments;<br/> +A conscience exercised about<br/> +Large things, where one <i>may</i> doubt.<br/> +I love a soul not all of wood,<br/> +Predestinated to be good,<br/> +But true to the backbone<br/> +Unto itself alone,<br/> +And false to none;<br/> +Born to its own affairs,<br/> +Its own joys and own cares;<br/> +By whom the work which God begun<br/> +Is finished, and not undone;<br/> +Taken up where he left off,<br/> +Whether to worship or to scoff;<br/> +If not good, why then evil,<br/> +If not good god, good devil.<br/> +Goodness!—you hypocrite, come out of that,<br/> +Live your life, do your work, then take your hat.<br/> +I have no patience towards<br/> +Such conscientious cowards.<br/> +Give me simple laboring folk,<br/> +Who love their work,<br/> +Whose virtue is a song<br/> +To cheer God along. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>pray</i> as he does, or because I +am not <i>ordained</i>. What under the sun are these things? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“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!’”—<i>Sadi</i>. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“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.”— +<i>Gookin’s Hist. Coll. of the Indians in New England</i>, 1674. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 M<small>ERRIMACK</small>, 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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Such water do the gods distil,<br/> +And pour down every hill<br/> + For their New England men;<br/> +A draught of this wild nectar bring,<br/> +And I’ll not taste the spring<br/> + Of Helicon again. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Doth grow the greater still, the further downe;<br/> + Till that abounding both in power and fame,<br/> + She long doth strive to give the sea her name”; +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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, <i>still</i>, against the +sky.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>privileges</i> in vain for ages, until at last the Yankee race came to +<i>improve</i> 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 <i>waste +water</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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 <i>Campanula rotundifolia</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“So silent is the cessile air,<br/> + That every cry and call,<br/> +The hills, and dales, and forest fair<br/> + Again repeats them all.<br/> +<br/> +“The herds beneath some leafy trees,<br/> + Amidst the flowers they lie,<br/> +The stable ships upon the seas<br/> + Tend up their sails to dry.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Jam læto turgent in palmite gemmæ”;<br/> +Now the buds swell on the joyful stem.<br/> +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +or +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Strata jacent passim sua quæque sub arbore poma”;<br/> +The apples lie scattered everywhere, each under its tree. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“As from the clouds appears the full moon,<br/> +All shining, and then again it goes behind the shadowy clouds,<br/> +So Hector, at one time appeared among the foremost,<br/> +And at another in the rear, commanding; and all with brass<br/> +He shone, like to the lightning of ægis-bearing Zeus.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“While it was dawn, and sacred day was advancing,<br/> +For that space the weapons of both flew fast, and the people fell;<br/> +But when now the woodcutter was preparing his morning meal,<br/> +In the recesses of the mountain, and had wearied his hands<br/> +With cutting lofty trees, and satiety came to his mind,<br/> +And the desire of sweet food took possession of his thoughts;<br/> +Then the Danaans, by their valor, broke the phalanxes,<br/> +Shouting to their companions from rank to rank.” +</p> + +<p> +When the army of the Trojans passed the night under arms, keeping watch lest +the enemy should re-embark under cover of the dark, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“They, thinking great things, upon the neutral ground of war<br/> +Sat all the night; and many fires burned for them.<br/> +As when in the heavens the stars round the bright moon<br/> +Appear beautiful, and the air is without wind;<br/> +And all the heights, and the extreme summits,<br/> +And the wooded sides of the mountains appear; and from the +heavens an infinite ether is diffused,<br/> +And all the stars are seen, and the shepherd rejoices in his heart;<br/> +So between the ships and the streams of Xanthus<br/> +Appeared the fires of the Trojans before Ilium.<br/> +A thousand fires burned on the plain, and by each<br/> +Sat fifty, in the light of the blazing fire;<br/> +And horses eating white barley and corn,<br/> +Standing by the chariots, awaited fair-throned Aurora.” +</p> + +<p> +The “white-armed goddess Juno,” sent by the Father of gods and men +for Iris and Apollo, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Went down the Idæan mountains to far Olympus,<br/> +As when the mind of a man, who has come over much earth,<br/> +Sallies forth, and he reflects with rapid thoughts,<br/> +There was I, and there, and remembers many things;<br/> +So swiftly the august Juno hastening flew through the air,<br/> +And came to high Olympus.” +</p> + +<p> +His scenery is always true, and not invented. He does not leap in imagination +from Asia to Greece, through mid air, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +ἐπειὴ μάλα +πολλὰ μεταξύ<br/> +Ὄυρεά τε +σκιοέντα, +θαλάσσα τε +ἠχήεσσα.<br/> +for there are very many<br/> +Shady mountains and resounding seas between. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Then rose up to them sweet-worded Nestor, the shrill orator of the +Pylians,<br/> +And words sweeter than honey flowed from his tongue.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Homer is gone; and where is Jove? and where<br/> +The rival cities seven? His song outlives<br/> +Time, tower, and god,—all that then was, save Heaven.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>put +it right through</i>,” no matter what it is, anything that is agreed on. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“You grov’ling worldlings, you whose wisdom trades<br/> +Where light ne’er shot his golden ray.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “Merchants, arise,<br/> +And mingle conscience with your merchandise.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“To Athens gowned he goes, and from that school<br/> +Returns unsped, a more instructed fool.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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 <i>terra firma</i>, though by shipwrecked mariners, and not the art +of navigation by those who have never been out of sight of land. <i>They</i> +must not yield wheat and potatoes, but must themselves be the unconstrained and +natural harvest of their author’s lives. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“What I have learned is mine; I’ve had my thought,<br/> +And me the Muses noble truths have taught.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +—“ask for that which is our whole life’s light,<br/> +For the perpetual, true and clear insight.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “Let us set so just<br/> +A rate on knowledge, that the world may trust<br/> +The poet’s sentence, and not still aver<br/> +Each art is to itself a flatterer.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Lately the victor, whom all Pindars praised, has won another palm, contending +with +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Olympian bards who sung<br/> +Divine ideas below,<br/> +Which always find us young,<br/> +And always keep us so.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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! +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +That Phaeton of our day,<br/> +Who’d make another milky way,<br/> +And burn the world up with his ray;<br/> +<br/> +By us an undisputed seer,—<br/> +Who’d drive his flaming car so near<br/> +Unto our shuddering mortal sphere,<br/> +<br/> +Disgracing all our slender worth,<br/> +And scorching up the living earth,<br/> +To prove his heavenly birth.<br/> +<br/> +The silver spokes, the golden tire,<br/> +Are glowing with unwonted fire,<br/> +And ever nigher roll and nigher;<br/> +<br/> +The pins and axle melted are,<br/> +The silver radii fly afar,<br/> +Ah, he will spoil his Father’s car!<br/> +<br/> +Who let him have the steeds he cannot steer?<br/> +Henceforth the sun will not shine for a year;<br/> +And we shall Ethiops all appear. +</p> + +<p> +From <i>his</i> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“lips of cunning fell<br/> + The thrilling Delphic oracle.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +And yet, sometimes, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +We should not mind if on our ear there fell<br/> +Some less of cunning, more of oracle. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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? +</p> + +<p> +Though we know well, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“That’t is not in the power of kings [or presidents] to raise<br/> +A spirit for verse that is not born thereto,<br/> +Nor are they born in every prince’s days”; +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +yet spite of all they sang in praise of their “Eliza’s +reign,” we have evidence that poets may be born and sing in <i>our</i> +day, in the presidency of James K. Polk, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“And that the utmost powers of English rhyme,”<br/> +<i>Were not</i> “within <i>her</i> peaceful reign confined.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +The prophecy of the poet Daniel is already how much more than fulfilled! +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“And who in time knows whither we may vent<br/> +The treasure of our tongue? To what strange shores<br/> +This gain of our best glory shall be sent,<br/> +T’ enrich unknowing nations with our stores?<br/> +What worlds in th’ yet unformed occident,<br/> +May come refined with the accents that are ours.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“How many thousands never heard the name<br/> + Of Sidney, or of Spenser, or their books?<br/> +And yet brave fellows, and presume of fame,<br/> + And seem to bear down all the world with looks.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>labored</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Then spend an age in whetting thy desire,<br/> +Thou needs’t not <i>hasten</i> if thou dost <i>stand fast</i>. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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 <i>rivus</i>, but barely +<i>fluvius</i>, or between <i>fluvius</i> and <i>lacus</i>. This Merrimack was +neither <i>rivus</i> nor <i>fluvius</i> nor <i>lacus</i>, but rather +<i>amnis</i> 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,”— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “campoque recepta<br/> +Liberioris aquæ, pro ripis litora pulsant.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>three or +four men</i> to help garrison his said house,” which they did. But +methinks that such a garrison would be weakened by the addition of a man. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Make bandog thy scout watch to bark at a thief,<br/> +Make courage for life, to be capitain chief;<br/> +Make trap-door thy bulwark, make bell to begin,<br/> +Make gunstone and arrow show who is within.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>it</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>MONDAY</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +“I thynke for to touche also<br/> +The worlde whiche neweth everie daie,<br/> +So as I can, so as I maie.” +</p> + +<p class="left"> +G<small>OWER</small>. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The hye sheryfe of Notynghame,<br/> + Hym holde in your mynd.” +</p> + +<p class="left"> +<i>Robin Hood Ballads</i>. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“His shoote it was but loosely shott,<br/> + Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,<br/> +For it mett one of the sheriffe’s men,<br/> + And William a Trent was slaine.” +</p> + +<p class="left"> +<i>Robin Hood Ballads</i> +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Gazed on the heavens for what he missed on Earth.” +</p> + +<p class="left"> +<i>Britania’s Pastorals</i> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“All courageous knichtis<br/> +Agains the day dichtis<br/> +The breest-plate that bricht is,<br/> + To feght with their foue.<br/> +The stoned steed stampis<br/> +Throw curage and crampis,<br/> +Syne on the land lampis;<br/> + The night is neir gone.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>transjectus</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“He and his valiant soldiers did range the woods full wide,<br/> +And hardships they endured to quell the Indian’s pride.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Of all our valiant English, there were but thirty-four,<br/> +And of the rebel Indians, there were about four-score;<br/> +And sixteen of our English did safely home return,<br/> +The rest were killed and wounded, for which we all must mourn.<br/> +<br/> +“Our worthy Capt. Lovewell among them there did die,<br/> +They killed Lieut. Robbins, and wounded good young Frye,<br/> +Who was our English Chaplin; he many Indians slew,<br/> +And some of them he scalped while bullets round him flew.” +</p> + +<p> +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?— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“And braving many dangers and hardships in the way,<br/> +They safe arrived at Dunstable the thirteenth (?) day of May.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“A man he was of comely form,<br/> + Polished and brave, well learned and kind;<br/> +Old Harvard’s learned halls he left<br/> + Far in the wilds a grave to find.<br/> +<br/> +“Ah! now his blood-red arm he lifts;<br/> + His closing lids he tries to raise;<br/> +And speak once more before he dies,<br/> + In supplication and in praise.<br/> +<br/> +“He prays kind Heaven to grant success,<br/> + Brave Lovewell’s men to guide and bless,<br/> +And when they’ve shed their heart-blood true,<br/> + To raise them all to happiness.” . . . <br/> +<br/> +“Lieutenant Farwell took his hand,<br/> + His arm around his neck he threw,<br/> +And said, ‘Brave Chaplain, I could wish<br/> + That Heaven had made me die for you.’” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But alas! of the crippled Indians, and their adventures in the woods,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“For as we are informed, so thick and fast they fell,<br/> +Scarce twenty of their number at night did get home well,”— +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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 <i>wise +men</i> who pretend to reject it; but they have not yet been able to substitute +a better in its place.” +</p> + +<p> +The other voyageur, perhaps, would in the mean while have seen a brown hawk, or +a woodchuck, or a musquash creeping under the alders. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs,<br/> +And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the Suns.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +There are secret articles in our treaties with the gods, of more importance +than all the rest, which the historian can never know. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>are</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +The nonchalance and <i>dolce-far-niente</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>must</i> 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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Men find that action is another thing<br/> + Than what they in discoursing papers read;<br/> +The world’s affairs require in managing<br/> + More arts than those wherein you clerks proceed.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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 <i>wisely</i>; 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 +<i>average</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +In my short experience of human life, the <i>outward</i> 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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“And round about good morrows fly,<br/> +As if day taught humanity.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Not being Reve of this Shire, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The early pilgrim blithe he hailed,<br/> + That o’er the hills did stray,<br/> +And many an early husbandman,<br/> + That he met on the way”;— +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. <i>They</i> rule this world, +and the living are but their executors. Such foundation too have our lectures +and our sermons, commonly. They are all <i>Dudleian;</i> and piety derives its +origin still from that exploit of <i>pius Æneas</i>, 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 <i>living near</i> 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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Now turn again, turn again, said the pindèr,<br/> + For a wrong way you have gone,<br/> +For you have forsaken the king’s highway,<br/> + And made a path over the corn.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “Virtues as rivers pass,<br/> +But still remains that virtuous man there was.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“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.” +</p> + +<p class="center"> +ANTIGONE. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p class="center"> +ISMENE. +</p> + +<p> +“I indeed do not hold them in dishonor; but to act in opposition to the +citizens I am by nature unable.” +</p> + +<p> +Antigone being at length brought before King Creon, he asks,— +</p> + +<p> +“Did you then dare to transgress these laws?” +</p> + +<p class="center"> +ANTIGONE. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +This was concerning the burial of a dead body. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>reflects</i>, but it <i>repents</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>rarer</i> 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. <i>It</i> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The forsaking of works” was taught by Kreeshna to the most ancient +of men, and handed down from age to age, +</p> + +<p> +“until at length, in the course of time, the mighty art was lost. +</p> + +<p> +“In wisdom is to be found every work without exception,” says<br/> +Kreeshna. +</p> + +<p> +“Although thou wert the greatest of all offenders, thou shalt<br/> +be able to cross the gulf of sin with the bark of wisdom.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is not anything in this world to be compared with wisdom<br/> +for purity.” +</p> + +<p> +“The action stands at a distance inferior to the application of<br/> +wisdom.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“For the man who doeth that which he hath to do, without affection, +obtaineth the Supreme.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wise men call him a <i>Pandeet</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“He who enjoyeth but the Amreeta which is left of his offerings, +obtaineth the eternal spirit of Brahm, the Supreme.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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? +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“I am the same to all mankind,” says Kreeshna; “there is not +one who is worthy of my love or hatred.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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 <i>not</i> “formed upon the +speculative doctrines of the <i>Sankhya Sastra</i>.” “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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>time</i>. The contemplative Moonee sleepeth but in the day of +<i>time</i>, when all things wake.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>worthiest</i> 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. <i>Ex +oriente lux</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Though all the fates should prove unkind,<br/> +Leave not your native land behind.<br/> +The ship, becalmed, at length stands still;<br/> +The steed must rest beneath the hill;<br/> +But swiftly still our fortunes pace<br/> +To find us out in every place.<br/> +<br/> +The vessel, though her masts be firm,<br/> +Beneath her copper bears a worm;<br/> +Around the cape, across the line,<br/> +Till fields of ice her course confine;<br/> +It matters not how smooth the breeze,<br/> +How shallow or how deep the seas,<br/> +Whether she bears Manilla twine,<br/> +Or in her hold Madeira wine,<br/> +Or China teas, or Spanish hides,<br/> +In port or quarantine she rides;<br/> +Far from New England’s blustering shore,<br/> +New England’s worm her hulk shall bore,<br/> +And sink her in the Indian seas,<br/> +Twine, wine, and hides, and China teas. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>moral</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 — +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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 +<i>then</i>, but its <i>now</i>. We do not complain that the mountains in the +horizon are blue and indistinct; they are the more like the heavens. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Ahmed Almatin +Aljorhami</i>, who had it from <i>Rephâa Ebn Kais Alámiri</i>, who had it from +<i>Saiph Ebn Fabalah Alchâtquarmi</i>, who had it from <i>Thabet Ebn +Alkamah</i>, 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 +<i>past</i> cannot be <i>presented</i>; 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 <i>were</i> men, or not rather that they +<i>are</i> bones? +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>dark ages</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Through the shadow of the world we sweep into the younger day:<br/> +Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.”<br/> +Than fifty years of Europe better one New England ray! +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>there</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “Fragments of the lofty strain<br/> + Float down the tide of years,<br/> +As buoyant on the stormy main<br/> + A parted wreck appears.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>Tilia Americana</i>, +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +With frontier strength ye stand your ground,<br/> +With grand content ye circle round,<br/> +Tumultuous silence for all sound,<br/> +Ye distant nursery of rills,<br/> +Monadnock and the Peterborough Hills;—<br/> +Firm argument that never stirs,<br/> +Outcircling the philosophers,—<br/> +Like some vast fleet,<br/> +Sailing through rain and sleet,<br/> +Through winter’s cold and summer’s heat;<br/> +Still holding on upon your high emprise,<br/> +Until ye find a shore amid the skies;<br/> +Not skulking close to land,<br/> +With cargo contraband,<br/> +For they who sent a venture out by ye<br/> +Have set the Sun to see<br/> +Their honesty.<br/> +<br/> +Ships of the line, each one,<br/> +Ye westward run,<br/> +Convoying clouds,<br/> +Which cluster in your shrouds,<br/> +Always before the gale,<br/> +Under a press of sail,<br/> +With weight of metal all untold,—<br/> +I seem to feel ye in my firm seat here,<br/> +Immeasurable depth of hold,<br/> +And breadth of beam, and length of running gear<br/> +<br/> +Methinks ye take luxurious pleasure<br/> +In your novel western leisure;<br/> +So cool your brows and freshly blue,<br/> +As Time had naught for ye to do;<br/> +For ye lie at your length,<br/> +An unappropriated strength,<br/> +Unhewn primeval timber,<br/> +For knees so stiff, for masts so limber;<br/> +The stock of which new earths are made,<br/> +One day to be our <i>western</i> trade,<br/> +Fit for the stanchions of a world<br/> +Which through the seas of space is hurled.<br/> +<br/> +While we enjoy a lingering ray,<br/> +Ye still o’ertop the western day,<br/> +Reposing yonder on God’s croft<br/> +Like solid stacks of hay;<br/> +So bold a line as ne’er was writ<br/> +On any page by human wit;<br/> +The forest glows as if<br/> +An enemy’s camp-fires shone<br/> +Along the horizon,<br/> +Or the day’s funeral pyre<br/> +Were lighted there;<br/> +Edged with silver and with gold,<br/> +The clouds hang o’er in damask fold,<br/> +And with such depth of amber light<br/> +The west is dight,<br/> +Where still a few rays slant,<br/> +That even Heaven seems extravagant.<br/> +Watatic Hill<br/> +Lies on the horizon’s sill<br/> +Like a child’s toy left overnight,<br/> +And other duds to left and right,<br/> +On the earth’s edge, mountains and trees<br/> +Stand as they were on air graven,<br/> +Or as the vessels in a haven<br/> +Await the morning breeze.<br/> +I fancy even<br/> +Through your defiles windeth the way to heaven;<br/> +And yonder still, in spite of history’s page,<br/> +Linger the golden and the silver age;<br/> +Upon the laboring gale<br/> +The news of future centuries is brought,<br/> +And of new dynasties of thought,<br/> +From your remotest vale.<br/> +<br/> +But special I remember thee,<br/> +Wachusett, who like me<br/> +Standest alone without society.<br/> +Thy far blue eye,<br/> +A remnant of the sky,<br/> +Seen through the clearing or the gorge,<br/> +Or from the windows of the forge,<br/> +Doth leaven all it passes by.<br/> +Nothing is true<br/> +But stands ’tween me and you,<br/> +Thou western pioneer,<br/> +Who know’st not shame nor fear,<br/> +By venturous spirit driven<br/> +Under the eaves of heaven;<br/> +And canst expand thee there,<br/> +And breathe enough of air?<br/> +Even beyond the West<br/> +Thou migratest,<br/> +Into unclouded tracts,<br/> +Without a pilgrim’s axe,<br/> +Cleaving thy road on high<br/> +With thy well-tempered brow,<br/> +And mak’st thyself a clearing in the sky.<br/> +Upholding heaven, holding down earth,<br/> +Thy pastime from thy birth;<br/> +Not steadied by the one, nor leaning on the other,<br/> +May I approve myself thy worthy brother! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“They carried these foresters into fair Nottingham,<br/> + As many there did know,<br/> +They digged them graves in their churchyard,<br/> + And they buried them all a-row.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“This man with seven more that lies in<br/> + this grave was slew all in a day by<br/> + the Indians.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Gentle river, gentle river,<br/> + Lo, thy streams are stained with gore,<br/> +Many a brave and noble captain<br/> + Floats along thy willowed shore.<br/> +<br/> +“All beside thy limpid waters,<br/> + All beside thy sands so bright,<br/> +<i>Indian</i> Chiefs and Christian warriors<br/> + Joined in fierce and mortal fight.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Veni, vidi, vici.</i>” But we may conclude that +the judicious would by this time have made a different observation. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Then did the crimson streams that flowed<br/> + Seem like the waters of the brook,<br/> +That brightly shine, that loudly dash,<br/> + Far down the cliffs of Agiochook.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +It is remarkable that the dead lie everywhere under stones,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Strata jacent passim <i>suo</i> quæque sub” <i>lapide</i>— +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +<i>corpora</i>, 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 <i>natural</i> life”;—would it not be truer to say, Having +reached the term of his <i>unnatural</i> 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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Here lies an honest man,<br/> +Rear-Admiral Van.<br/> +<br/> + ———<br/> +<br/> +Faith, then ye have<br/> +Two in one grave,<br/> +For in his favor,<br/> +Here too lies the Engraver. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Fame itself is but an epitaph; as late, as false, as true. But they only are +the true epitaphs which Old Mortality retouches. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +The western wind came lumbering in,<br/> +Bearing a faint Pacific din,<br/> +Our evening mail, swift at the call<br/> +Of its Postmaster General;<br/> +Laden with news from Californ’,<br/> +Whate’er transpired hath since morn,<br/> +How wags the world by brier and brake<br/> +From hence to Athabasca Lake;— +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“When the drum beat at dead of night.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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 <small>IT</small> was well. That ancient universe is in such capital +health, I think undoubtedly it will never die. Heal yourselves, doctors; by +God, I live. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Then idle Time ran gadding by<br/> + And left me with Eternity alone;<br/> +I hear beyond the range of sound,<br/> +I see beyond the verge of sight,— +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + It doth expand my privacies<br/> +To all, and leave me single in the crowd. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Now chiefly is my natal hour,<br/> +And only now my prime of life.<br/> +I will not doubt the love untold,<br/> +Which not my worth nor want hath bought,<br/> +Which wooed me young and wooes me old,<br/> +And to this evening hath me brought. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Therefore a torrent of sadness deep,<br/> +Through the strains of thy triumph is heard to sweep. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +R<small>UMORS FROM AN</small> Æ<small>OLIAN</small> H<small>ARP</small>. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +There is a vale which none hath seen,<br/> +Where foot of man has never been,<br/> +Such as here lives with toil and strife,<br/> +An anxious and a sinful life.<br/> +<br/> +There every virtue has its birth,<br/> +Ere it descends upon the earth,<br/> +And thither every deed returns,<br/> +Which in the generous bosom burns.<br/> +<br/> +There love is warm, and youth is young,<br/> +And poetry is yet unsung,<br/> +For Virtue still adventures there,<br/> +And freely breathes her native air.<br/> +<br/> +And ever, if you hearken well,<br/> +You still may hear its vesper bell,<br/> +And tread of high-souled men go by,<br/> +Their thoughts conversing with the sky. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “Before each van<br/> +Prick forth the aery knights, and couch their spears<br/> +Till thickest legions close; with feats of arms<br/> +From either end of Heaven the welkin burns.”<br/> +<br/> + —————<br/> +<br/> +Away! away! away! away!<br/> + Ye have not kept your secret well,<br/> +I will abide that other day,<br/> + Those other lands ye tell.<br/> +<br/> +Has time no leisure left for these,<br/> + The acts that ye rehearse?<br/> +Is not eternity a lease<br/> + For better deeds than verse?<br/> +<br/> +’T is sweet to hear of heroes dead,<br/> + To know them still alive,<br/> +But sweeter if we earn their bread,<br/> + And in us they survive.<br/> +<br/> +Our life should feed the springs of fame<br/> + With a perennial wave.<br/> +As ocean feeds the babbling founts<br/> + Which find in it their grave.<br/> +<br/> +Ye skies drop gently round my breast,<br/> + And be my corselet blue,<br/> +Ye earth receive my lance in rest,<br/> + My faithful charger you;<br/> +<br/> +Ye stars my spear-heads in the sky,<br/> + My arrow-tips ye are;<br/> +I see the routed foemen fly,<br/> + My bright spears fixed are.<br/> +<br/> +Give me an angel for a foe,<br/> + Fix now the place and time,<br/> +And straight to meet him I will go<br/> + Above the starry chime.<br/> +<br/> +And with our clashing bucklers’ clang<br/> + The heavenly spheres shall ring,<br/> +While bright the northern lights shall hang<br/> + Beside our tourneying.<br/> +<br/> +And if she lose her champion true,<br/> + Tell Heaven not despair,<br/> +For I will be her champion new,<br/> + Her fame I will repair. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>TUESDAY</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +“On either side the river lie<br/> +Long fields of barley and of rye,<br/> +That clothe the wold and meet the sky;<br/> +And through the fields the road runs by<br/> + To many-towered Camelot.” +</p> + +<p class="left"> +T<small>ENNYSON</small>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Though we were enveloped in mist as usual, we trusted that there was a bright +day behind it. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Ply the oars! away! away!<br/> +In each dew-drop of the morning<br/> + Lies the promise of a day.<br/> +<br/> +Rivers from the sunrise flow,<br/> + Springing with the dewy morn;<br/> +Voyageurs ’gainst time do row,<br/> +Idle noon nor sunset know,<br/> + Ever even with the dawn. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>they</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>terra firma</i> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “Heaven itself shall slide,<br/> +And roll away, like melting stars that glide<br/> +Along their oily threads.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,<br/> +<br/> +. . . . . .<br/> +<br/> +Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +But never here did “Heaven’s sun” stain himself. +</p> + +<p> +But, alas, owing, as I think, to some unworthiness in myself, my private sun +did stain himself, and +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Anon permit the basest clouds to ride<br/> +With ugly wrack on his celestial face,”— +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“How may a worm that crawls along the dust,<br/> +Clamber the azure mountains, thrown so high,<br/> +And fetch from thence thy fair idea just,<br/> +That in those sunny courts doth hidden lie,<br/> +Clothed with such light as blinds the angel’s eye?<br/> + How may weak mortal ever hope to file<br/> + His unsmooth tongue, and his deprostrate style?<br/> +O, raise thou from his corse thy now entombed exile!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But now we must make haste back before the fog disperses to the blithe +Merrimack water. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Since that first “Away! away!”<br/> + Many a lengthy reach we’ve rowed,<br/> +Still the sparrow on the spray<br/> +Hastes to usher in the day<br/> + With her simple stanza’d ode. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Low-anchored cloud,<br/> +Newfoundland air,<br/> +Fountain-head and source of rivers,<br/> +Dew-cloth, dream drapery,<br/> +And napkin spread by fays;<br/> +Drifting meadow of the air,<br/> +Where bloom the daisied banks and violets,<br/> +And in whose fenny labyrinth<br/> +The bittern booms and heron wades;<br/> +Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,<br/> +Bear only perfumes and the scent<br/> +Of healing herbs to just men’s fields! +</p> + +<p> +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.’” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“And now the taller sons, whom Titan warms,<br/> +Of unshorn mountains blown with easy winds,<br/> +Dandle the morning’s childhood in their arms,<br/> +And, if they chanced to slip the prouder pines,<br/> +The under corylets did catch their shines,<br/> +To gild their leaves.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>Sciurus striatus</i> (<i>Tamias Lysteri</i>, 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 (<i>Scriurus Hudsonius</i>), 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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 <i>buoy</i>, and could see him for a long while scratching +his head in vain to know if he had heard aright. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “In a pleasant glade,<br/> +With mountains round about environed,<br/> +And mighty woods, which did the valley shade,<br/> +And like a stately theatre it made,<br/> +Spreading itself into a spacious plain;<br/> +And in the midst a little river played<br/> +Amongst the pumy stones which seemed to plain,<br/> +With gentle murmur, that his course they did restrain.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Amongst the pumy stones, which seemed to plain,<br/> +With gentle murmur, that his course they did restrain.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “His reverend locks<br/> +In comelye curles did wave;<br/> +And on his aged temples grew<br/> + The blossoms of the grave.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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>I</i> then lived some-where to tell of. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>we</i> 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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Man’s little acts are grand,<br/> +Beheld from land to land,<br/> +There as they lie in time,<br/> +Within their native clime<br/> + Ships with the noontide weigh,<br/> + And glide before its ray<br/> + To some retired bay,<br/> + Their haunt,<br/> + Whence, under tropic sun,<br/> + Again they run,<br/> + Bearing gum Senegal and Tragicant.<br/> +For this was ocean meant,<br/> +For this the sun was sent,<br/> +And moon was lent,<br/> +And winds in distant caverns pent. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Our uninquiring corpses lie more low<br/> +Than our life’s curiosity doth go. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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 <i>knows</i> how the other half lives. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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; <i>quæque diu steterant in +montibus altis, Fluctibus ignotis insultavêre carinæ;</i> “and keels +which had long stood on high mountains careered insultingly +(<i>insultavêre</i>) 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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +The waves slowly beat,<br/> +Just to keep the noon sweet,<br/> +And no sound is floated o’er,<br/> +Save the mallet on shore,<br/> +Which echoing on high<br/> +Seems a-calking the sky. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Woof of the sun, ethereal gauze,<br/> +Woven of Nature’s richest stuffs,<br/> +Visible heat, air-water, and dry sea,<br/> +Last conquest of the eye;<br/> +Toil of the day displayed sun-dust,<br/> +Aerial surf upon the shores of earth.<br/> +Ethereal estuary, frith of light,<br/> +Breakers of air, billows of heat<br/> +Fine summer spray on inland seas;<br/> +Bird of the sun, transparent-winged<br/> +Owlet of noon, soft-pinioned,<br/> +From heath or stubble rising without song;<br/> +Establish thy serenity o’er the fields +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>annals</i> of the country, but the natural facts, or +<i>perennials</i>, which are ever without date. When out of history the truth +shall be extracted, it will have shed its dates like withered leaves. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +The Souhegan, or <i>Crooked</i> 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, <i>Hast, Post +Hast”:</i>— +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“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.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Penacooks and Mohawks! <i>ubique gentium sunt?</i> 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:— +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“May 15th, 1685. +</p> + +<p> +“Honor governor my friend,— +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“This all Indian hand, but pray you do consider your humble servant, +</p> + +<p class="right"> +J<small>OHN</small> H<small>OGKINS</small>.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Signed also by Simon Detogkom, King Hary, Sam Linis, Mr. Jorge Rodunnonukgus, +John Owamosimmin, and nine other Indians, with their marks against their names. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The Souhegan, though a rapid river, seemed to-day to have borrowed its +character from the noon. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Where gleaming fields of haze<br/> +Meet the voyageur’s gaze,<br/> +And above, the heated air<br/> +Seems to make a river there,<br/> +The pines stand up with pride<br/> +By the Souhegan’s side,<br/> +And the hemlock and the larch<br/> +With their triumphal arch<br/> +Are waving o’er its march<br/> + To the sea.<br/> +No wind stirs its waves,<br/> +But the spirits of the braves<br/> + Hov’ring o’er,<br/> +Whose antiquated graves<br/> +Its still water laves<br/> + On the shore.<br/> +With an Indian’s stealthy tread<br/> +It goes sleeping in its bed,<br/> +Without joy or grief,<br/> +Or the rustle of a leaf,<br/> +Without a ripple or a billow,<br/> +Or the sigh of a willow,<br/> +From the Lyndeboro’ hills<br/> +To the Merrimack mills.<br/> +With a louder din<br/> +Did its current begin,<br/> +When melted the snow<br/> +On the far mountain’s brow,<br/> +And the drops came together<br/> +In that rainy weather.<br/> +Experienced river,<br/> +Hast thou flowed forever?<br/> +Souhegan soundeth old,<br/> +But the half is not told,<br/> +What names hast thou borne,<br/> +In the ages far gone,<br/> +When the Xanthus and Meander<br/> +Commenced to wander,<br/> +Ere the black bear haunted<br/> + Thy red forest-floor,<br/> +Or Nature had planted<br/> + The pines by thy shore? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Too quick resolves do resolution wrong,<br/> +What, part so soon to be divorced so long?<br/> +Things to be done are long to be debated;<br/> +Heaven is not day’d, Repentance is not dated.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>chipper</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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 +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +ANACREON. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Nor has he ceased his charming song, for still that lyre,<br/> +Though he is dead, sleeps not in Hades.” +</p> + +<p class="left"> +<i>Simonides’ Epigram on Anacreon.</i> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But passing by these rumors of bards, let us pause for a moment at the Teian +poet. +</p> + +<p> +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,—<i>which you must perceive with the +flower of the mind</i>,—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; +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The young and tender stalk<br/> +Ne’er bends when <i>they</i> do walk.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +These are some of the best that have come down to us. +</p> + +<h5>ON HIS LYRE.</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +I wish to sing the Atridæ,<br/> +And Cadmus I wish to sing;<br/> +But my lyre sounds<br/> +Only love with its chords.<br/> +Lately I changed the strings<br/> +And all the lyre;<br/> +And I began to sing the labors<br/> +Of Hercules; but my lyre<br/> +Resounded loves.<br/> +Farewell, henceforth, for me,<br/> +Heroes! for my lyre<br/> +Sings only loves. +</p> + +<h5>TO A SWALLOW.</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Thou indeed, dear swallow,<br/> +Yearly going and coming,<br/> +In summer weavest thy nest,<br/> +And in winter go’st disappearing<br/> +Either to Nile or to Memphis.<br/> +But Love always weaveth<br/> +His nest in my heart…. +</p> + +<h5>ON A SILVER CUP.</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Turning the silver,<br/> +Vulcan, make for me,<br/> +Not indeed a panoply,<br/> +For what are battles to me?<br/> +But a hollow cup,<br/> +As deep as thou canst<br/> +And make for me in it<br/> +Neither stars, nor wagons,<br/> +Nor sad Orion;<br/> +What are the Pleiades to me?<br/> +What the shining Bootes?<br/> +Make vines for me,<br/> +And clusters of grapes in it,<br/> +And of gold Love and Bathyllus<br/> +Treading the grapes<br/> +With the fair Lyæus +</p> + +<h5>ON HIMSELF.</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Thou sing’st the affairs of Thebes,<br/> +And he the battles of Troy,<br/> +But I of my own defeats.<br/> +No horse have wasted me,<br/> +Nor foot, nor ships;<br/> +But a new and different host,<br/> +From eyes smiting me. +</p> + +<h5>TO A DOVE.</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Lovely dove,<br/> +Whence, whence dost thou fly?<br/> +Whence, running on air,<br/> +Dost thou waft and diffuse<br/> +So many sweet ointments?<br/> +Who art? What thy errand?—<br/> +Anacreon sent me<br/> +To a boy, to Bathyllus,<br/> +Who lately is ruler and tyrant of all.<br/> +Cythere has sold me<br/> +For one little song,<br/> +And I’m doing this service<br/> +For Anacreon.<br/> +And now, as you see,<br/> +I bear letters from him.<br/> +And he says that directly<br/> +He’ll make me free,<br/> +But though he release me,<br/> +His slave I will tarry with him.<br/> +For why should I fly<br/> +Over mountains and fields,<br/> +And perch upon trees,<br/> +Eating some wild thing?<br/> +Now indeed I eat bread,<br/> +Plucking it from the hands<br/> +Of Anacreon himself;<br/> +And he gives me to drink<br/> +The wine which he tastes,<br/> +And drinking, I dance,<br/> +And shadow my master’s<br/> +Face with my wings;<br/> +And, going to rest,<br/> +On the lyre itself I sleep.<br/> +That is all; get thee gone.<br/> +Thou hast made me more talkative,<br/> +Man, than a crow. +</p> + +<h5>ON LOVE.</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Love walking swiftly,<br/> +With hyacinthine staff,<br/> +Bade me to take a run with him;<br/> +And hastening through swift torrents,<br/> +And woody places, and over precipices,<br/> +A water-snake stung me.<br/> +And my heart leaped up to<br/> +My mouth, and I should have fainted;<br/> +But Love fanning my brows<br/> +With his soft wings, said,<br/> +Surely, thou art not able to love. +</p> + +<h5>ON WOMEN.</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Nature has given horns<br/> +To bulls, and hoofs to horses,<br/> +Swiftness to hares,<br/> +To lions yawning teeth,<br/> +To fishes swimming,<br/> +To birds flight,<br/> +To men wisdom.<br/> +For woman she had nothing beside;<br/> +What then does she give? Beauty,—<br/> +Instead of all shields,<br/> +Instead of all spears;<br/> +And she conquers even iron<br/> +And fire, who is beautiful. +</p> + +<h5>ON LOVERS.</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Horses have the mark<br/> +Of fire on their sides,<br/> +And some have distinguished<br/> +The Parthian men by their crests;<br/> +So I, seeing lovers,<br/> +Know them at once,<br/> +For they have a certain slight<br/> +Brand on their hearts. +</p> + +<h5>TO A SWALLOW.</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +What dost thou wish me to do to thee,—<br/> +What, thou loquacious swallow?<br/> +Dost thou wish me taking thee<br/> +Thy light pinions to clip?<br/> +Or rather to pluck out<br/> +Thy tongue from within,<br/> +As that Tereus did?<br/> +Why with thy notes in the dawn<br/> +Hast thou plundered Bathyllus<br/> +From my beautiful dreams? +</p> + +<h5>TO A COLT.</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Thracian colt, why at me<br/> +Looking aslant with thy eyes,<br/> +Dost thou cruelly flee,<br/> +And think that I know nothing wise?<br/> +Know I could well<br/> +Put the bridle on thee,<br/> +And holding the reins, turn<br/> +Round the bounds of the course.<br/> +But now thou browsest the meads,<br/> +And gambolling lightly dost play,<br/> +For thou hast no skilful horseman<br/> +Mounted upon thy back. +</p> + +<h5>CUPID WOUNDED.</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Love once among roses<br/> +Saw not<br/> +A sleeping bee, but was stung;<br/> +And being wounded in the finger<br/> +Of his hand, cried for pain.<br/> +Running as well as flying<br/> +To the beautiful Venus,<br/> +I am killed, mother, said he,<br/> +I am killed, and I die.<br/> +A little serpent has stung me,<br/> +Winged, which they call<br/> +A bee,—the husbandmen.<br/> +And she said, If the sting<br/> +Of a bee afflicts you,<br/> +How, think you, are they afflicted,<br/> +Love, whom you smite?<br/> +<br/> +————— +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Thus, perchance, the Indian hunter,<br/> + Many a lagging year agone,<br/> +Gliding o’er thy rippling waters,<br/> + Lowly hummed a natural song.<br/> +<br/> +Now the sun’s behind the willows,<br/> + Now he gleams along the waves,<br/> +Faintly o’er the wearied billows<br/> + Come the spirits of the braves. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>WEDNESDAY</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +<i>“Man is man’s foe and destiny.”</i> +</p> + +<p class="left"> +C<small>OTTON</small>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>he</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Such near aspects had we<br/> +Of our life’s scenery. +</p> + +<p> +It might be seen by what tenure men held the earth. The smallest stream is +<i>mediterranean</i> 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 <i>vessels</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +My life is like a stroll upon the beach,<br/> + As near the ocean’s edge as I can go,<br/> +My tardy steps its waves sometimes o’erreach,<br/> + Sometimes I stay to let them overflow.<br/> +<br/> +My sole employment ’t is, and scrupulous care,<br/> + To place my gains beyond the reach of tides,<br/> +Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare,<br/> + Which ocean kindly to my hand confides.<br/> +<br/> +I have but few companions on the shore,<br/> + They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea,<br/> +Yet oft I think the ocean they’ve sailed o’er<br/> + Is deeper known upon the strand to me.<br/> +<br/> +The middle sea contains no crimson dulse,<br/> + Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view,<br/> +Along the shore my hand is on its pulse,<br/> + And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>sua si bona nôrint</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “He knew of our haste,<br/> +And immediately seizing a clod<br/> +With his right hand, strove to give it<br/> +As a chance stranger’s gift.<br/> +Nor did the hero disregard him, but leaping on the shore,<br/> +Stretching hand to hand,<br/> +Received the mystic clod.<br/> +But I hear it sinking from the deck,<br/> +Go with the sea brine<br/> +At evening, accompanying the watery sea.<br/> +Often indeed I urged the careless<br/> +Menials to guard it, but their minds forgot.<br/> +And now in this island the imperishable seed of spacious Libya<br/> +Is spilled before its hour.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “springing up from the bottom,<br/> +Capable of feeding many men, and suitable for flocks; +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +and at the nod of Zeus, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “The island sprang from the watery<br/> +Sea; and the genial Father of penetrating beams,<br/> +Ruler of fire-breathing horses, has it.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 “<i>Judæa Capta</i>” with a woman mourning under a +palm-tree, with silent argument and demonstration confirms the pages of +history. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Rome living was the world’s sole ornament;<br/> +And dead is now the world’s sole monument.<br/> + * * * * *<br/> +With her own weight down pressed now she lies,<br/> +And by her heaps her hugeness testifies.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>ruins</i>. 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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “bees that fly<br/> +About the laughing blossoms of sallowy.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +This is my Carnac, whose unmeasured dome<br/> +Shelters the measuring art and measurer’s home.<br/> +Behold these flowers, let us be up with time,<br/> +Not dreaming of three thousand years ago,<br/> +Erect ourselves and let those columns lie,<br/> +Not stoop to raise a foil against the sky.<br/> +Where is the spirit of that time but in<br/> +This present day, perchance the present line?<br/> +Three thousand years ago are not agone,<br/> +They are still lingering in this summer morn,<br/> +And Memnon’s Mother sprightly greets us now,<br/> +Wearing her youthful radiance on her brow.<br/> +If Carnac’s columns still stand on the plain,<br/> +To enjoy our opportunities they remain. +</p> + +<p> +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.’” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +The graves of Pasaconaway and Wannalancet are marked by no monument on the bank +of their native river. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“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.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>something</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Our course this afternoon was between Manchester and Goffstown. +</p> + +<p> +—————— +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +True kindness is a pure divine affinity,<br/> +Not founded upon human consanguinity.<br/> +It is a spirit, not a blood relation,<br/> +Superior to family and station. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Lately, alas, I knew a gentle boy,<br/> + Whose features all were cast in Virtue’s mould,<br/> +As one she had designed for Beauty’s toy,<br/> + But after manned him for her own strong-hold.<br/> +<br/> +On every side he open was as day,<br/> + That you might see no lack of strength within,<br/> +For walls and ports do only serve alway<br/> + For a pretence to feebleness and sin.<br/> +<br/> +Say not that Cæsar was victorious,<br/> + With toil and strife who stormed the House of Fame,<br/> +In other sense this youth was glorious,<br/> + Himself a kingdom wheresoe’er he came.<br/> +<br/> +No strength went out to get him victory,<br/> + When all was income of its own accord;<br/> +For where he went none other was to see,<br/> + But all were parcel of their noble lord.<br/> +<br/> +He forayed like the subtile haze of summer,<br/> + That stilly shows fresh landscapes to our eyes,<br/> +And revolutions works without a murmur,<br/> + Or rustling of a leaf beneath the skies.<br/> +<br/> +So was I taken unawares by this,<br/> + I quite forgot my homage to confess;<br/> +Yet now am forced to know, though hard it is,<br/> + I might have loved him had I loved him less.<br/> +<br/> +Each moment as we nearer drew to each,<br/> + A stern respect withheld us farther yet,<br/> +So that we seemed beyond each other’s reach,<br/> + And less acquainted than when first we met.<br/> +<br/> +We two were one while we did sympathize,<br/> + So could we not the simplest bargain drive;<br/> +And what avails it now that we are wise,<br/> + If absence doth this doubleness contrive?<br/> +<br/> +Eternity may not the chance repeat,<br/> + But I must tread my single way alone,<br/> +In sad remembrance that we once did meet,<br/> + And know that bliss irrevocably gone.<br/> +<br/> +The spheres henceforth my elegy shall sing,<br/> + For elegy has other subject none;<br/> +Each strain of music in my ears shall ring<br/> + Knell of departure from that other one.<br/> +<br/> +Make haste and celebrate my tragedy;<br/> + With fitting strain resound ye woods and fields;<br/> +Sorrow is dearer in such case to me<br/> + Than all the joys other occasion yields.<br/> +<br/> +—————<br/> +<br/> +Is’t then too late the damage to repair?<br/> + Distance, forsooth, from my weak grasp hath reft<br/> +The empty husk, and clutched the useless tare,<br/> + But in my hands the wheat and kernel left.<br/> +<br/> +If I but love that virtue which he is,<br/> + Though it be scented in the morning air,<br/> +Still shall we be truest acquaintances,<br/> + Nor mortals know a sympathy more rare. +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<h5>THE ATLANTIDES.</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +The smothered streams of love, which flow<br/> +More bright than Phlegethon, more low,<br/> +Island us ever, like the sea,<br/> +In an Atlantic mystery.<br/> +Our fabled shores none ever reach,<br/> +No mariner has found our beach,<br/> +Scarcely our mirage now is seen,<br/> +And neighboring waves with floating green,<br/> +Yet still the oldest charts contain<br/> +Some dotted outline of our main;<br/> +In ancient times midsummer days<br/> +Unto the western islands’ gaze,<br/> +To Teneriffe and the Azores,<br/> +Have shown our faint and cloud-like shores.<br/> +<br/> +But sink not yet, ye desolate isles,<br/> +Anon your coast with commerce smiles,<br/> +And richer freights ye’ll furnish far<br/> +Than Africa or Malabar.<br/> +Be fair, be fertile evermore,<br/> +Ye rumored but untrodden shore,<br/> +Princes and monarchs will contend<br/> +Who first unto your land shall send,<br/> +And pawn the jewels of the crown<br/> +To call your distant soil their own. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Sea and land are but his neighbors,<br/> +And companions in his labors,<br/> +Who on the ocean’s verge and firm land’s end<br/> +Doth long and truly seek his Friend.<br/> +Many men dwell far inland,<br/> +But he alone sits on the strand.<br/> +Whether he ponders men or books,<br/> +Always still he seaward looks,<br/> +Marine news he ever reads,<br/> +And the slightest glances heeds,<br/> +Feels the sea breeze on his cheek,<br/> +At each word the landsmen speak,<br/> +In every companion’s eye<br/> +A sailing vessel doth descry;<br/> +In the ocean’s sullen roar<br/> +From some distant port he hears,<br/> +Of wrecks upon a distant shore,<br/> +And the ventures of past years. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Friends</i>, and that we are our Friends’ +<i>Friends</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +What is commonly honored with the name of Friendship is no very profound or +powerful instinct. Men do not, after all, <i>love</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +Think of the importance of Friendship in the education of men. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“He that hath love and judgment too,<br/> +Sees more than any other doe.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And it is well said by another poet, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Why love among the virtues is not known,<br/> +Is that love is them all contract in one.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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 <i>good</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +But sometimes we are said to <i>love</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +The books for young people say a great deal about the <i>selection</i> of +Friends; it is because they really have nothing to say about <i>Friends</i>. +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 <i>think</i> they must, but +what they <i>must</i>. Even their Friendship is to some extent but a sublime +phenomenon to them. +</p> + +<p> +The true and not despairing Friend will address his Friend in some such terms +as these. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +“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 <i>your own</i>, but +as something universal and worthy of love, <i>which I have found</i>. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have discovered you; how can you be concealed from me?” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>behavior</i>, +or ever <i>treat</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“And love as well the shepherd can<br/> +As can the mighty nobleman.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +The one sex is not, in this respect, more tender than the other.<br/> +A hero’s love is as delicate as a maiden’s. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>last</i> words? Alas, it is only the word of words, which you +have so long sought and found not; <i>you</i> have not a <i>first</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>necessarius</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“When manhood shall be matched so<br/> + That fear can take no place,<br/> +Then weary <i>works</i> make warriors<br/> + Each other to embrace.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“There be mo sterres in the skie than a pair,” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +remains to be proved; +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“And certaine he is well begone<br/> +Among a thousand that findeth one.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +My love must be as free<br/> + As is the eagle’s wing,<br/> +Hovering o’er land and sea<br/> + And everything.<br/> +<br/> +I must not dim my eye<br/> + In thy saloon,<br/> +I must not leave my sky<br/> + And nightly moon.<br/> +<br/> +Be not the fowler’s net<br/> + Which stays my flight,<br/> +And craftily is set<br/> + T’allure the sight.<br/> +<br/> +But be the favoring gale<br/> + That bears me on,<br/> +And still doth fill my sail<br/> + When thou art gone.<br/> +<br/> +I cannot leave my sky<br/> + For thy caprice,<br/> +True love would soar as high<br/> + As heaven is.<br/> +<br/> +The eagle would not brook<br/> + Her mate thus won,<br/> +Who trained his eye to look<br/> + Beneath the sun. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +The Good how can we trust?<br/> +Only the Wise are just.<br/> +The Good we use,<br/> +The Wise we cannot choose.<br/> +These there are none above;<br/> +The Good they know and love,<br/> +But are not known again<br/> +By those of lesser ken.<br/> +They do not charm us with their eyes,<br/> +But they transfix with their advice;<br/> +No partial sympathy they feel,<br/> +With private woe or private weal,<br/> +But with the universe joy and sigh,<br/> +Whose knowledge is their sympathy. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Nature doth have her dawn each day,<br/> + But mine are far between;<br/> +Content, I cry, for sooth to say,<br/> + Mine brightest are I ween.<br/> +<br/> +For when my sun doth deign to rise,<br/> + Though it be her noontide,<br/> +Her fairest field in shadow lies,<br/> + Nor can my light abide.<br/> +<br/> +Sometimes I bask me in her day,<br/> + Conversing with my mate,<br/> +But if we interchange one ray,<br/> + Forthwith her heats abate.<br/> +<br/> +Through his discourse I climb and see,<br/> + As from some eastern hill,<br/> +A brighter morrow rise to me<br/> + Than lieth in her skill.<br/> +<br/> +As ’t were two summer days in one,<br/> + Two Sundays come together,<br/> +Our rays united make one sun,<br/> + With fairest summer weather. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +But all that can be said of Friendship, is like botany to flowers. How can the +understanding take account of its friendliness? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +This to our cis-Alpine and cis-Atlantic Friends. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Also this other word of entreaty and advice to the large and respectable nation +of Acquaintances, beyond the mountains;—Greeting. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Once more to one and all, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Friends, Romans, Countrymen, and Lovers.”<br/> +<br/> +Let such pure hate still underprop<br/> +Our love, that we may be<br/> +Each other’s conscience.<br/> +And have our sympathy<br/> +Mainly from thence.<br/> +<br/> +We’ll one another treat like gods,<br/> +And all the faith we have<br/> +In virtue and in truth, bestow<br/> +On either, and suspicion leave<br/> +To gods below.<br/> +<br/> +Two solitary stars,—<br/> +Unmeasured systems far<br/> +Between us roll,<br/> +But by our conscious light we are<br/> +Determined to one pole.<br/> +<br/> +What need confound the sphere,—<br/> +Love can afford to wait,<br/> +For it no hour’s too late<br/> +That witnesseth one duty’s end,<br/> +Or to another doth beginning lend.<br/> +<br/> +It will subserve no use,<br/> +More than the tints of flowers,<br/> +Only the independent guest<br/> +Frequents its bowers,<br/> +Inherits its bequest.<br/> +<br/> +No speech though kind has it,<br/> +But kinder silence doles<br/> +Unto its mates,<br/> +By night consoles,<br/> +By day congratulates.<br/> +<br/> +What saith the tongue to tongue?<br/> +What heareth ear of ear?<br/> +By the decrees of fate<br/> +From year to year,<br/> +Does it communicate.<br/> +<br/> +Pathless the gulf of feeling yawns,—<br/> +No trivial bridge of words,<br/> +Or arch of boldest span,<br/> +Can leap the moat that girds<br/> +The sincere man.<br/> +<br/> +No show of bolts and bars<br/> +Can keep the foeman out,<br/> +Or ’scape his secret mine<br/> +Who entered with the doubt<br/> +That drew the line.<br/> +<br/> +No warder at the gate<br/> +Can let the friendly in,<br/> +But, like the sun, o’er all<br/> +He will the castle win,<br/> +And shine along the wall.<br/> +<br/> +There’s nothing in the world I know<br/> +That can escape from love,<br/> +For every depth it goes below,<br/> +And every height above.<br/> +<br/> +It waits as waits the sky,<br/> +Until the clouds go by,<br/> +Yet shines serenely on<br/> +With an eternal day,<br/> +Alike when they are gone,<br/> +And when they stay.<br/> +<br/> +Implacable is Love,—<br/> +Foes may be bought or teased<br/> +From their hostile intent,<br/> +But he goes unappeased<br/> +Who is on kindness bent. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>there</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>them</i>. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Men are by birth equal in this, that given<br/> +Themselves and their condition, they are even. +</p> + +<p> +I am astonished at the singular pertinacity and endurance of our lives. The +miracle is, that what is <i>is</i>, 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 +</p> + +<h5>THE INWARD MORNING</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +Packed in my mind lie all the clothes<br/> + Which outward nature wears,<br/> +And in its fashion’s hourly change<br/> + It all things else repairs.<br/> +<br/> +In vain I look for change abroad,<br/> + And can no difference find,<br/> +Till some new ray of peace uncalled<br/> + Illumes my inmost mind.<br/> +<br/> +What is it gilds the trees and clouds,<br/> + And paints the heavens so gay,<br/> +But yonder fast-abiding light<br/> + With its unchanging ray?<br/> +<br/> +Lo, when the sun streams through the wood,<br/> + Upon a winter’s morn,<br/> +Where’er his silent beams intrude,<br/> + The murky night is gone.<br/> +<br/> +How could the patient pine have known<br/> + The morning breeze would come,<br/> +Or humble flowers anticipate<br/> + The insect’s noonday hum,—<br/> +<br/> +Till the new light with morning cheer<br/> + From far streamed through the aisles,<br/> +And nimbly told the forest trees<br/> + For many stretching miles?<br/> +<br/> +I’ve heard within my inmost soul<br/> + Such cheerful morning news,<br/> +In the horizon of my mind<br/> + Have seen such orient hues,<br/> +<br/> +As in the twilight of the dawn,<br/> + When the first birds awake,<br/> +Are heard within some silent wood,<br/> + Where they the small twigs break,<br/> +<br/> +Or in the eastern skies are seen,<br/> + Before the sun appears,<br/> +The harbingers of summer heats<br/> + Which from afar he bears. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Silver sands and pebbles sing<br/> +Eternal ditties with the spring,” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +We bless and curse ourselves. Some dreams are divine, as well as some waking +thoughts. Donne sings of one +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Who dreamt devoutlier than most use to pray.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>dreamed</i> of +such a thing. Our truest life is when we are in dreams awake. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“And, more to lulle him in his slumber soft,<br/> +A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe,<br/> +And ever-drizzling raine upon the loft,<br/> +Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne<br/> +Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swowne.<br/> +No other noyse, nor people’s troublous cryes,<br/> +As still are wont t’ annoy the walled towne,<br/> +Might there be heard; but careless Quiet lyes<br/> +Wrapt in eternall silence farre from enemyes.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>THURSDAY</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +“He trode the unplanted forest floor, whereon<br/> +The all-seeing sun for ages hath not shone,<br/> +Where feeds the moose, and walks the surly bear,<br/> +And up the tall mast runs the woodpecker.<br/> + * * * * *<br/> +Where darkness found him he lay glad at night;<br/> +There the red morning touched him with its light.<br/> + * * * * *<br/> +Go where he will, the wise man is at home,<br/> +His hearth the earth,—his hall the azure dome;<br/> +Where his clear spirit leads him, there’s his road,<br/> +By God’s own light illumined and foreshowed.” +</p> + +<p class="left"> +E<small>MERSON</small>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing that naturally happens to man can <i>hurt</i> 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? +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +My books I’d fain cast off, I cannot read,<br/> +’Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large<br/> +Down in the meadow, where is richer feed,<br/> +And will not mind to hit their proper targe.<br/> +<br/> +Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too,<br/> +Our Shakespeare’s life were rich to live again,<br/> +What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,<br/> +Nor Shakespeare’s books, unless his books were men.<br/> +<br/> +Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough,<br/> +What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town,<br/> +If juster battles are enacted now<br/> +Between the ants upon this hummock’s crown?<br/> +<br/> +Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn,<br/> +If red or black the gods will favor most,<br/> +Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn,<br/> +Struggling to heave some rock against the host.<br/> +<br/> +Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour,<br/> +For now I’ve business with this drop of dew,<br/> +And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower,—<br/> +I’ll meet him shortly when the sky is blue.<br/> +<br/> +This bed of herd’s-grass and wild oats was spread<br/> +Last year with nicer skill than monarchs use,<br/> +A clover tuft is pillow for my head,<br/> +And violets quite overtop my shoes.<br/> +<br/> +And now the cordial clouds have shut all in<br/> +And gently swells the wind to say all’s well<br/> +The scattered drops are falling fast and thin,<br/> +Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell.<br/> +<br/> +I am well drenched upon my bed of oats;<br/> +But see that globe come rolling down its stem<br/> +Now like a lonely planet there it floats,<br/> +And now it sinks into my garment’s hem.<br/> +<br/> +Drip drip the trees for all the country round,<br/> +And richness rare distils from every bough,<br/> +The wind alone it is makes every sound,<br/> +Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.<br/> +<br/> +For shame the sun will never show himself,<br/> +Who could not with his beams e’er melt me so,<br/> +My dripping locks,—they would become an elf,<br/> +Who in a beaded coat does gayly go. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +We were hospitably entertained in Concord, New Hampshire, which we persisted in +calling <i>New</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>surface</i> of things, men have been there before us. We cannot now have +the pleasure of erecting the <i>last</i> 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 <i>fronts</i> 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 <i>it</i>. Let him +build himself a log-house with the bark on where he is, <i>fronting</i> +<small>IT</small>, 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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<h5>AULUS PERSIUS FLACCUS.</h5> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “Ipse semipaganus<br/> +Ad sacra Vatum carmen affero nostrum.”<br/> +<br/> + I half pagan<br/> +Bring my verses to the shrine of the poets. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +As long as there is satire, the poet is, as it were, <i>particeps criminis</i>. +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps it would be truer to say, that the highest strain of the muse is +essentially plaintive. The saint’s are still <i>tears</i> of joy. Who has +ever heard the <i>Innocent</i> sing? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Haud cuivis promptum est, murmurque humilesque susurros<br/> +Tollere de templis; et aperto vivere voto.”<br/> +<br/> +It is not easy for every one to take murmurs and low<br/> +Whispers out of the temples, and live with open vow. +</p> + +<p> +To the virtuous man, the universe is the only <i>sanctum sanctorum</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +In the third satire, he asks:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Est aliquid quò tendis, et in quod dirigis arcum?<br/> +An passim sequeris corvos, testâve, lutove,<br/> +Securus quò pes ferat, atque ex tempore vivis?”<br/> +<br/> +Is there anything to which thou tendest, and against which thou directest thy +bow?<br/> +Or dost thou pursue crows, at random, with pottery or clay,<br/> +Careless whither thy feet bear thee, and live <i>ex tempore</i>? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Securus quo pes ferat, atque ex tempore <i>vivit</i>,” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +In the fifth satire, which is the best, I find,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Stat contrà ratio, et secretam garrit in aurem,<br/> +Ne liceat facere id, quod quis vitiabit agendo.”<br/> +<br/> +Reason opposes, and whispers in the secret ear,<br/> +That it is not lawful to do that which one will spoil by doing. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>was</i> 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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 A<small>GIOCOCHOOK</small>. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Sweet days, so cool, so calm, so bright,<br/> +The bridal of the earth and sky,<br/> +Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night,<br/> + For thou must die.” +</p> + +<p class="left"> +H<small>ERBERT</small>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“To journey for his marriage,<br/> +And return with such an host,<br/> +That wedded might be least and most. . . . .<br/> +Which barge was as a man’s thought,<br/> +After his pleasure to him brought,<br/> +The queene herself accustomed aye<br/> +In the same barge to play,<br/> +It needed neither mast ne rother,<br/> +I have not heard of such another,<br/> +No master for the governance,<br/> +Hie sayled by thought and pleasaunce,<br/> +Without labor east and west,<br/> +All was one, calme or tempest.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “The swaying soft,<br/> +Made by the delicate wave parted in front,<br/> +As through the gentle element we move<br/> +Like shadows gliding through untroubled dreams.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>waving</i> lines which represent the flight of birds +appear to have been copied from the ripple. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Not only o’er the dial’s face,<br/> + This silent phantom day by day,<br/> +With slow, unseen, unceasing pace<br/> + Steals moments, months, and years away;<br/> +From hoary rock and aged tree,<br/> + From proud Palmyra’s mouldering walls,<br/> +From Teneriffe, towering o’er the sea,<br/> + From every blade of grass it falls.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Old woman that lives under the hill,<br/> +And if she’s not gone she lives there still.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +It will not take a very great-granddaughter of hers to be in at the death of +Time. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>well-bred</i> 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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The laws of Nature break the rules of Art.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Poetry is the mysticism of mankind. +</p> + +<p> +The expressions of the poet cannot be analyzed; his sentence is one word, whose +syllables are words. There are indeed no <i>words</i> quite worthy to be set to +his music. But what matter if we do not hear the words always, if we hear the +music? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +If you can speak what you will never hear, if you can write what you will never +read, you have done rare things. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +The work we choose should be our own,<br/> + God lets alone. +</p> + +<p> +The unconsciousness of man is the consciousness of God. +</p> + +<p> +Deep are the foundations of sincerity. Even stone walls have their foundation +below the frost. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +On his journey from Brenner to Verona, Goethe writes: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>FRIDAY</h2> + +<p class="poem"> + “The Boteman strayt<br/> +Held on his course with stayed stedfastnesse,<br/> +Ne ever shroncke, ne ever sought to bayt<br/> +His tryed armes for toylesome wearinesse;<br/> +But with his oares did sweepe the watry wildernesse.” +</p> + +<p class="left"> +S<small>PENSER</small>. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “Summer’s robe grows<br/> +Dusky, and like an oft-dyed garment shows.” +</p> + +<p class="left"> +D<small>ONNE</small>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“And now the cold autumnal dews are seen<br/> + To cobweb ev’ry green;<br/> +And by the low-shorn rowens doth appear<br/> + The fast-declining year.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“From steep pine-bearing mountains to the plain.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Wise Nature’s darlings, they live in the world<br/> +Perplexing not themselves how it is hurled.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “at all,<br/> +Came lovers home from this great festival.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>aura</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>what he has become through his work</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +My life has been the poem I would have writ,<br/> +But I could not both live and utter it. +</p> + +<h5>THE POET’S DELAY.</h5> + +<p class="poem"> +In vain I see the morning rise,<br/> + In vain observe the western blaze,<br/> +Who idly look to other skies,<br/> + Expecting life by other ways.<br/> +<br/> +Amidst such boundless wealth without,<br/> + I only still am poor within,<br/> +The birds have sung their summer out,<br/> + But still my spring does not begin.<br/> +<br/> +Shall I then wait the autumn wind,<br/> + Compelled to seek a milder day,<br/> +And leave no curious nest behind,<br/> + No woods still echoing to my lay? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The wrathful kings, on cairns apart,<br/> +Look forward from behind their shields,<br/> +And mark the wandering stars,<br/> +That brilliant westward move.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Mounds will answer questions of them,<br/> +For many future years.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“His soul departed to his warlike sires,<br/> +To follow misty forms of boars,<br/> +In tempestuous islands bleak.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +The hero’s cairn is erected, and the bard sings a brief significant +strain, which will suffice for epitaph and biography. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The weak will find his bow in the dwelling,<br/> +The feeble will attempt to bend it.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“I straightway seize the unfutile tales,<br/> +And send them down in faithful verse.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +His philosophy of life is expressed in the opening of the third Duan of +Ca-Lodin. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Whence have sprung the things that are?<br/> +And whither roll the passing years?<br/> +Where does Time conceal its two heads,<br/> +In dense impenetrable gloom,<br/> +Its surface marked with heroes’ deeds alone?<br/> +I view the generations gone;<br/> +The past appears but dim;<br/> +As objects by the moon’s faint beams,<br/> +Reflected from a distant lake.<br/> +I see, indeed, the thunderbolts of war,<br/> +But there the unmighty joyless dwell,<br/> +All those who send not down their deeds<br/> +To far, succeeding times.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +The ignoble warriors die and are forgotten; +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Strangers come to build a tower,<br/> +And throw their ashes overhand;<br/> +Some rusted swords appear in dust;<br/> +One, bending forward, says,<br/> +‘The arms belonged to heroes gone;<br/> +We never heard their praise in song.’” +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Thou glidest away like receding ships.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +So when the hosts of Fingal and Starne approach to battle, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“With murmurs loud, like rivers far,<br/> +The race of Torne hither moved.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +And when compelled to retire, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“dragging his spear behind,<br/> +Cudulin sank in the distant wood,<br/> +Like a fire upblazing ere it dies.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Nor did Fingal want a proper audience when he spoke; +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“A thousand orators inclined<br/> +To hear the lay of Fingal.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Thy mother shall find thee pale on the shore,<br/> +While lessening on the waves she spies<br/> +The sails of him who slew her son.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“He strode away forthwith,<br/> +And bent in grief above a stream,<br/> +His cheeks bedewed with tears.<br/> +From time to time the thistles gray<br/> +He lopped with his inverted lance.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Crodar, blind and old, receives Ossian, son of Fingal, who comes to aid him in +war;— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘My eyes have failed,’ says he, ‘Crodar is blind,<br/> +Is thy strength like that of thy fathers?<br/> +Stretch, Ossian, thine arm to the hoary-haired.’<br/> + I gave my arm to the king.<br/> +The aged hero seized my hand;<br/> +He heaved a heavy sigh;<br/> +Tears flowed incessant down his cheek.<br/> +’Strong art thou, son of the mighty,<br/> +Though not so dreadful as Morven’s prince.<br/> +<br/> +Let my feast be spread in the hall,<br/> +Let every sweet-voiced minstrel sing;<br/> +Great is he who is within my walls,<br/> +Sons of wave-echoing Croma.’” +</p> + +<p> +Even Ossian himself, the hero-bard, pays tribute to the superior strength of +his father Fingal. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“How beauteous, mighty man, was thy mind,<br/> +Why succeeded Ossian without its strength?” +</p> + +<p> +———————— +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +I hearing get, who had but ears,<br/> + And sight, who had but eyes before,<br/> +I moments live, who lived but years,<br/> + And truth discern, who knew but learning’s lore. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Men dig and dive but cannot my wealth spend,<br/> + Who yet no partial store appropriate,<br/> +Who no armed ship into the Indies send,<br/> + To rob me of my orient estate. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>have</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + Salmon Brook,<br/> + Penichook,<br/> +Ye sweet waters of my brain,<br/> + When shall I look,<br/> + Or cast the hook,<br/> + In your waves again?<br/> +<br/> + Silver eels,<br/> + Wooden creels,<br/> +These the baits that still allure,<br/> + And dragon-fly<br/> + That floated by,<br/> + May they still endure? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“And what’s a life? The flourishing array<br/> +Of the proud summer meadow, which to-day<br/> +Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 (<i>Trichostema dichotoma</i>), humble roadside +blossoms, and, lingering still, the harebell and the <i>Rhexia Virginica</i>. +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“I see the golden-rod shine bright,<br/> + As sun-showers at the birth of day,<br/> +A golden plume of yellow light,<br/> + That robs the Day-god’s splendid ray.<br/> +<br/> +“The aster’s violet rays divide<br/> + The bank with many stars for me,<br/> +And yarrow in blanch tints is dyed,<br/> + As moonlight floats across the sea.<br/> +<br/> +“I see the emerald woods prepare<br/> + To shed their vestiture once more,<br/> +And distant elm-trees spot the air<br/> + With yellow pictures softly o’er.<br/> + * * * * *<br/> +“No more the water-lily’s pride<br/> + In milk-white circles swims content,<br/> +No more the blue-weed’s clusters ride<br/> + And mock the heavens’ element.<br/> + * * * * *<br/> +“Autumn, thy wreath and mine are blent<br/> + With the same colors, for to me<br/> +A richer sky than all is lent,<br/> + While fades my dream-like company.<br/> +<br/> +“Our skies glow purple, but the wind<br/> + Sobs chill through green trees and bright grass,<br/> +To-day shines fair, and lurk behind<br/> + The times that into winter pass.<br/> +<br/> +“So fair we seem, so cold we are,<br/> + So fast we hasten to decay,<br/> +Yet through our night glows many a star,<br/> + That still shall claim its sunny day.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +So sang a Concord poet once. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Prunus +littoralis</i>, 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 (<i>sumen</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Oft, as I turn me on my pillow o’er,<br/> +I hear the lapse of waves upon the shore,<br/> +Distinct as if it were at broad noonday,<br/> +And I were drifting down from Nashua. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>The principle of the work without the wood</i>; +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>supernatural</i> 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, <i>that</i> is <i>mixed</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The poet uses the results of science and philosophy, and generalizes their +widest deductions. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>mode</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>know</i> what +we are <i>told</i> 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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +We see the <i>planet</i> fall,<br/> +And that is all. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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 <i>seer</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +There is no wisdom that can take place of humanity, and we find <i>that</i> 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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“For first the thing is thought within the hart,<br/> +Er any word out from the mouth astart.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +And so new was all his theme in those days, that he did not have to invent, but +only to tell. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>O alma redemptoris mater</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +Such pure and genuine and childlike love of Nature is hardly to be found in any +poet. +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“if that God that heaven and yearth made,<br/> +Would have a love for beauty and goodnesse,<br/> +And womanhede, trouth, and semeliness.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +——————— +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“There is a place beyond that flaming hill,<br/> + From whence the stars their thin appearance shed,<br/> +A place beyond all place, where never ill,<br/> + Nor impure thought was ever harbored.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +I am the autumnal sun,<br/> +With autumn gales my race is run;<br/> +When will the hazel put forth its flowers,<br/> +Or the grape ripen under my bowers?<br/> +When will the harvest or the hunter’s moon,<br/> +Turn my midnight into mid-noon?<br/> + I am all sere and yellow,<br/> + And to my core mellow.<br/> +The mast is dropping within my woods,<br/> +The winter is lurking within my moods,<br/> +And the rustling of the withered leaf<br/> +Is the constant music of my grief. +</p> + +<p> +To an unskilful rhymer the Muse thus spoke in prose: +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Men nowhere, east or west, live yet a <i>natural</i> 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 <i>naturalized</i>, 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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The earth, the air, and seas I know, and all<br/> +The joys and horrors of their peace and wars;<br/> +And now will view the Gods’ state and the stars,” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Although we see celestial bodies move<br/> +Above the earth, the earth we till and love.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Largior hic campos æther et lumine vestit<br/> +Purpureo: Solemque suum, sua sidera nôrunt.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +“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 +</p> + +<p class="poem"> + “Unless above himself he can<br/> +Erect himself, how poor a thing is man!” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“I asked the schoolman, his advice was free,<br/> +But scored me out too intricate a way.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +A finer race and finer fed<br/> +Feast and revel o’er our head,<br/> +And we titmen are only able<br/> +To catch the fragments from their table.<br/> +Theirs is the fragrance of the fruits,<br/> +While we consume the pulp and roots.<br/> +What are the moments that we stand<br/> +Astonished on the Olympian land! +</p> + +<p> +We need pray for no higher heaven than the pure senses can furnish, a +<i>purely</i> 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 <i>see</i> 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 <i>within</i>, make +that which is <i>without</i> 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 <i>normal</i> schools? +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +I am a parcel of vain strivings tied<br/> + By a chance bond together,<br/> + Dangling this way and that, their links<br/> + Were made so loose and wide,<br/> + Methinks,<br/> + For milder weather.<br/> +<br/> +A bunch of violets without their roots,<br/> + And sorrel intermixed,<br/> + Encircled by a wisp of straw<br/> + Once coiled about their shoots,<br/> +The law<br/> +By which I’m fixed.<br/> +<br/> +A nosegay which Time clutched from out<br/> + Those fair Elysian fields,<br/> + With weeds and broken stems, in haste,<br/> + Doth make the rabble rout<br/> + That waste<br/> + The day he yields.<br/> +<br/> +And here I bloom for a short hour unseen,<br/> + Drinking my juices up,<br/> + With no root in the land<br/> + To keep my branches green,<br/> + But stand<br/> + In a bare cup.<br/> +<br/> +Some tender buds were left upon my stem<br/> + In mimicry of life,<br/> + But ah! the children will not know,<br/> + Till time has withered them,<br/> + The woe<br/> + With which they’re rife.<br/> +<br/> +But now I see I was not plucked for naught,<br/> + And after in life’s vase<br/> + Of glass set while I might survive,<br/> + But by a kind hand brought<br/> + Alive<br/> + To a strange place.<br/> +<br/> +That stock thus thinned will soon redeem its hours,<br/> + And by another year,<br/> + Such as God knows, with freer air,<br/> + More fruits and fairer flowers<br/> + Will bear,<br/> + While I droop here. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>another +world</i>, 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 <small>OTHER WORLD</small> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>senses</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>appears</i>, and that +which <i>is</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“He that wants faith, and apprehends a grief<br/> +Because he wants it, hath a true belief;<br/> +And he that grieves because his grief’s so small,<br/> +Has a true grief, and the best Faith of all.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Or be encouraged by this other poet’s strain,— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“By them went Fido marshal of the field:<br/> + Weak was his mother when she gave him day;<br/> +And he at first a sick and weakly child,<br/> + As e’er with tears welcomed the sunny ray;<br/> + Yet when more years afford more growth and might,<br/> + A champion stout he was, and puissant knight,<br/> + As ever came in field, or shone in armor bright.<br/> +<br/> +“Mountains he flings in seas with mighty hand;<br/> + Stops and turns back the sun’s impetuous course;<br/> +Nature breaks Nature’s laws at his command;<br/> + No force of Hell or Heaven withstands his force;<br/> + Events to come yet many ages hence,<br/> + He present makes, by wondrous prescience;<br/> + Proving the senses blind by being blind to sense.” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +“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.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +All things are current found<br/> +On earthly ground,<br/> +Spirits and elements<br/> +Have their descents.<br/> +<br/> +Night and day, year on year,<br/> +High and low, far and near,<br/> +These are our own aspects,<br/> +These are our own regrets.<br/> +<br/> +Ye gods of the shore,<br/> +Who abide evermore,<br/> +I see your far headland,<br/> +Stretching on either hand;<br/> +<br/> +I hear the sweet evening sounds<br/> +From your undecaying grounds;<br/> +Cheat me no more with time,<br/> +Take me to your clime. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>Ardea herodias</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Therefore, as doth the pilgrim, whom the night<br/> + Hastes darkly to imprison on his way,<br/> +Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright<br/> + Of what’s yet left thee of life’s wasting day:<br/> + Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn,<br/> + And twice it is not given thee to be born.” +</p> + +<p> +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; +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Pulsæ referunt ad sidera valles,” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +and the valleys echoed the sound to the stars. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<h5>THE END.</h5> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WEEK ON THE CONCORD AND MERRIMACK RIVERS ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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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