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<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>
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<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>
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<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 &ldquo;WALDEN,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;er thou sail&rsquo;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&mdash;.
</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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="left">
&mdash;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. &ldquo;One branch of
it,&rdquo; according to the historian of Concord, for I love to quote so good
authority, &ldquo;rises in the south part of Hopkinton, and another from a pond
and a large cedar-swamp in Westborough,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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;&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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 &rsquo;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,&mdash;<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
&ldquo;Wonder-working Providence,&rdquo; 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: &ldquo;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.&rdquo; As to their farming he says:
&ldquo;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.&rdquo; And this from the same author &ldquo;Of the Planting of the 19th
Church in the Mattachusets&rsquo; Government, called Sudbury&rdquo;:
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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;&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;And thou Simois, that as an arrowe, clere<br/>
Through Troy rennest, aie downward to the sea&rdquo;;&mdash;
</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">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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">
&ldquo;Come, come, my lovely fair, and let us try<br/>
Those rural delicacies.&rdquo;<br/>
<br/>
<i>Christ&rsquo;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&rsquo;s labor in the spring, was in form
like a fisherman&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;Were it the will of Heaven, an osier bough<br/>
Were vessel safe enough the seas to plough.&rdquo;
</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 &ldquo;North
Bridge,&rdquo; 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
&ldquo;gave peace to these United States.&rdquo; As a Concord poet has
sung:&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;By the rude bridge that arched the flood,<br/>
    Their flag to April&rsquo;s breeze unfurled,<br/>
Here once the embattled farmers stood,<br/>
    And fired the shot heard round the world.<br/>
<br/>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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, &rsquo;t is in vain the peaceful din<br/>
    That wakes the ignoble town,<br/>
Not thus did braver spirits win<br/>
    A patriot&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;er the country&rsquo;s wide expanse,<br/>
And fed with &ldquo;Mosses from the Manse.&rdquo;<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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;-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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s Hill, the St. Ann&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s length of
where the larger fishes swim. Human life is to him very much like a river,
</p>

<p class="poem">
&mdash;&ldquo;renning aie downward to the sea.&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;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,&mdash;for youth and age then went a
fishing together,&mdash;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&rsquo;s life, entrapping silly fish; almost grown to be the
sun&rsquo;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 &ldquo;a contemplative man&rsquo;s
recreation,&rdquo; introducing him profitably to woods and water, so the fruit
of the naturalist&rsquo;s observations is not in new genera or species, but in
new contemplations still, and science is only a more contemplative man&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s are the only
fishes&rsquo; 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 &ldquo;New England&rsquo;s Rarities,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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 &ldquo;The Shad,&rdquo; 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&rsquo; 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&rsquo;s stock in trade in those days. It
purports to be a Fisherman&rsquo;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., &ldquo;one cod line,&rdquo; &ldquo;one brown
mug,&rdquo; and &ldquo;a line for the seine&rdquo;; rum and sugar, sugar and
rum, &ldquo;good loaf sugar,&rdquo; and &ldquo;good brown,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;cash in full&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s laws are more
immutable than any despot&rsquo;s, yet to man&rsquo;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, &ldquo;never better in their
lives&rdquo;; 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">
&ldquo;a beggar on the way,<br/>
Who sturdily could gang? ….<br/>
Who cared neither for wind nor wet,<br/>
In lands where&rsquo;er he past?&rdquo;<br/>
<br/>
&ldquo;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&rdquo;;&mdash;
</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?&mdash;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&rsquo;s behoof after the spawning season. Away
with the superficial and selfish phil-<i>anthropy</i> of men,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&mdash;wo&mdash;wo&mdash;w&mdash;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. &ldquo;I
would rather be a dog, and bay the moon,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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">
        &ldquo;The river calmly flows,<br/>
    Through shining banks, through lonely glen,<br/>
Where the owl shrieks, though ne&rsquo;er the cheer of men<br/>
        Has stirred its mute repose,<br/>
Still if you should walk there, you would go there again.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="left">
&mdash;C<small>HANNING</small>.
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;The Indians tell us of a beautiful River lying far to the south, which
they call Merrimack.&rdquo;
</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:&mdash;
</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 &ldquo;persevering mortal&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
        &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
At evening still the very stars seem but this maiden&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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
&ldquo;howling wilderness&rdquo;; 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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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&rsquo; 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&rsquo;s shop, for centre, and a good deal of wood to
cut and cord yet. And
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;Bedford, most noble Bedford,<br/>
I shall not thee forget.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
History has remembered thee; especially that meek and humble petition of thy
old planters, like the wailing of the Lord&rsquo;s own people, &ldquo;To the
gentlemen, the selectmen&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;In the
extreme difficult seasons of heat and cold,&rdquo; said they, &ldquo;we were
ready to say of the Sabbath, Behold what a weariness is
it.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;Buttrick&rsquo;s Plain,&rdquo; or rather on
&ldquo;Poplar Hill.&rdquo;&mdash;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
&ldquo;freedom to worship God&rdquo; in their way. And thus he plants a town.
The white man&rsquo;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&rsquo;s wigwam, perchance unnoticed,
when, with prophetic warning, it stung the Red child&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;Framingham, Sudbury, Bedford, Carlisle,
Billerica, Chelmsford,&mdash;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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 &ldquo;of equal antiquity with the <i>atua fauau po</i>, or
night-born gods.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s closeness to his mistress, something noble and cleanly in
the former&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;Some nation yet shut in<br/>
    With hills of ice.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
There are other, savager, and more primeval aspects of nature than our poets
have sung. It is only white man&rsquo;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&rsquo; 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&rsquo;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,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
Also, Lydgate says:&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
We read that Aristeus &ldquo;obtained of Jupiter and Neptune, that the
pestilential heat of the dog-days, wherein was great mortality, should be
mitigated with wind.&rdquo; 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,&mdash;the
Sibyls, the Eumenides, the Parcæ, the Graces, the Muses, Nemesis, &amp;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,&mdash;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
&ldquo;tale divine&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Robinson
Crusoe&rsquo;s adventures and wisdom,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;were read by
Mahometans in the market-places of Sanaa, Hodyeda, and Loheya, and admired and
believed!&rdquo; On reading the book, the Arabians exclaimed, &ldquo;O, that
Robinson Crusoe must have been a great prophet!&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;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, &ldquo;memoirs
to serve for a history,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;there may be a line for him in the future classical dictionary,
recording what that demigod did, and referring him to some new genealogy.
&ldquo;Son of &mdash;&mdash; and &mdash;&mdash;. He aided the Americans to gain
their independence, instructed mankind in economy, and drew down lightning from
the clouds.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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,&mdash;
</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&rsquo;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, &ldquo;He looked daggers at me,&rdquo;
for the first pattern and prototype of all daggers must have been a glance of
the eye. First, there was the glance of Jove&rsquo;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">
        &ldquo;The seventh is a holy day,<br/>
For then Latona brought forth golden-rayed Apollo,&rdquo;
</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:
&ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Towns were
directed to erect &lsquo;<i>a cage</i>&rsquo; near the meeting-house, and in
this all offenders against the sanctity of the Sabbath were confined.&rdquo;
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&rsquo;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, &#952;&#965;&#956;&#8183;
&#966;&#953;&#955;&#8051;&#959;&#965;&#963;&#8049; &#964;&#949;,
&#954;&#951;&#948;&#959;&#956;&#8051;&#957;&#951; &#964;&#949;. 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, &ldquo;in shape like a dog; he saved such as were in danger
of falling from rocks and trees.&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;days that tried men&rsquo;s souls,&rdquo; hearing
this, may say with Nestor, another of the old school, &ldquo;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 &#960;&#959;&#953;&#956;&#8051;&#957;&#945;
&#955;&#945;&#8182;&#957;,&rdquo; that is probably Washington, sole
&ldquo;Shepherd of the People.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;the history of Jerusalem, say, being a
part of the Universal History. The naked, the embalmed, unburied death of
Jerusalem amid its desolate hills,&mdash;think of it. In Tasso&rsquo;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?&mdash;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;&mdash;a church-bell ringing;&mdash;some unaffected tears shed by a
pilgrim on Mount Calvary within the week.&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Jerusalem, Jerusalem, when I forget thee, may my right hand forget her
cunning.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;By the waters of Babylon there we sat down, and we wept when we
remembered Zion.&rdquo;
</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. &ldquo;God is
the letter Ku, as well as Khu.&rdquo; Why need Christians be still intolerant
and superstitious? The simple-minded sailors were unwilling to cast overboard
Jonah at his own request.&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;Where is this love become in later age?<br/>
Alas! &rsquo;tis gone in endless pilgrimage<br/>
From hence, and never to return, I doubt,<br/>
Till revolution wheel those times about.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
One man says,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;The world&rsquo;s a popular disease, that reigns<br/>
Within the froward heart and frantic brains<br/>
Of poor distempered mortals.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
Another, that
</p>

<p class="poem">
    &mdash;&ldquo;all the world&rsquo;s a stage,<br/>
And all the men and women merely players.&rdquo;
</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 &ldquo;brave, translunary things,&rdquo; and a &ldquo;fine
madness&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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,&mdash;&ldquo;Spectators sate part in your
tragedies.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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>
&ldquo;Verily, my angels! I was abashed on account of my servant, who had no
Providence but me; therefore did I pardon him.&rdquo;&mdash;<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,&mdash;very
<i>dry</i>, I assure you, to hear, dry enough to burn, dry-rotted and
powder-post, methinks,&mdash;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s topography? Whose friend are you that speak of
God&rsquo;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,&mdash;so have the Tahitians of theirs,&mdash;and some old
poet&rsquo;s grand imagination is imposed on us as adamantine everlasting
truth, and God&rsquo;s own word! Pythagoras says, truly enough, &ldquo;A true
assertion respecting God, is an assertion of God&rdquo;; 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&rsquo;s head and taste its true flavor.&mdash;I think
that Pilgrim&rsquo;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.&mdash;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,&mdash;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.&mdash;&ldquo;Seek first the kingdom of heaven.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;Lay
not up for yourselves treasures on earth.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;If thou wilt be
perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have
treasure in heaven.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;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?&rdquo;&mdash;Think of this,
Yankees!&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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, &ldquo;Heaven and earth shall pass away, but
my words shall not pass away.&rdquo; 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 &rsquo;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!&mdash;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 &ldquo;breaking the Lord&rsquo;s fourth
commandment,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s palace and Moses in the bulrushes, startling a multitude of
storks and alligators basking in the sun.
</p>

<p>
Everywhere &ldquo;good men&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s shadow. Our
mother&rsquo;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&rsquo;s moral reflections, and the words
&ldquo;Providence&rdquo; and &ldquo;He&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;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.&mdash;&mdash;&lsquo;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:&mdash;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!&rsquo;&rdquo;&mdash;<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&rsquo;
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&rsquo;s Call to the Unconverted, and other tracts, done into the
Massachusetts tongue, and taught them Christianity meanwhile. &ldquo;This
place,&rdquo; says Gookin, referring to Wamesit,
</p>

<p class="p2">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;May 5th, 1674,&rdquo; he continues,
&ldquo;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&rsquo;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.&rdquo; As yet, however, they had not prevailed on him
to embrace the Christian religion. &ldquo;But at this time,&rdquo; says Gookin,
&ldquo;May 6, 1674,&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;after some deliberation and serious
pause, he stood up, and made a speech to this effect:&mdash;&lsquo;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.&rsquo;&rdquo; One
&ldquo;Mr. Richard Daniel, a gentleman that lived in Billerica,&rdquo; who with
other &ldquo;persons of quality&rdquo; was present, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;Since that time, I hear this sachem doth persevere,
and is a constant and diligent hearer of God&rsquo;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.&rdquo;&mdash;
<i>Gookin&rsquo;s Hist. Coll. of the Indians in New England</i>, 1674.
</p>

<p>
Already, as appears from the records, &ldquo;At a General Court held at Boston
in New England, the 7th of the first month,
1643-4.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;Wassamequin, Nashoonon, Kutchamaquin, Massaconomet,
and Squaw Sachem, did voluntarily submit themselves&rdquo; to the English; and
among other things did &ldquo;promise to be willing from time to time to be
instructed in the knowledge of God.&rdquo; Being asked &ldquo;Not to do any
unnecessary work on the Sabbath day, especially within the gates of Christian
towns,&rdquo; they answered, &ldquo;It is easy to them; they have not much to
do on any day, and they can well take their rest on that
day.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;So,&rdquo; says Winthrop, in his Journal, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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 &ldquo;praying
Indians,&rdquo; and, as the General Court wrote to Cromwell, the &ldquo;work is
brought to this perfection, that some of the Indians themselves can pray and
prophesy in a comfortable manner.&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;Winthrop,&mdash;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 &ldquo;The Smile of the Great Spirit.&rdquo;
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;&mdash;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s and
Baker&rsquo;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 &ldquo;poore of waters, naked
of renowne,&rdquo; having received so many fair tributaries, as was said of the
Forth,
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;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&rdquo;;
</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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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,&mdash;a silver cascade which falls all the way from the White Mountains
to the sea,&mdash;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, &ldquo;trending up
into the land,&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;so near the great lake as the Indians do pass
their canoes into it over land.&rdquo; From which lake and the &ldquo;hideous
swamps&rdquo; about it, as they supposed, came all the beaver that was traded
between Virginia and Canada,&mdash;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 &ldquo;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.&rdquo; A rather picturesque and luxurious mode of fishing was formerly
practised on the Connecticut, at Bellows Falls, where a large rock divides the
stream. &ldquo;On the steep sides of the island rock,&rdquo; says Belknap,
&ldquo;hang several arm-chairs, fastened to ladders, and secured by a
counterpoise, in which fishermen sit to catch salmon and shad with dipping
nets.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;And is it
not pretty sport,&rdquo; wrote Captain John Smith, who was on this coast as
early as 1614, &ldquo;to pull up twopence, sixpence, and twelvepence, as fast
as you can haul and veer a line?&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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">
&ldquo;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/>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;Jam læto turgent in palmite gemmæ&rdquo;;<br/>
Now the buds swell on the joyful stem.<br/>
</p>

<p class="noindent">
or
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;Strata jacent passim sua quæque sub arbore poma&rdquo;;<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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The &ldquo;white-armed goddess Juno,&rdquo; sent by the Father of gods and men
for Iris and Apollo,
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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">
&#7952;&#960;&#949;&#953;&#8052; &#956;&#8049;&#955;&#945;
&#960;&#959;&#955;&#955;&#8048; &#956;&#949;&#964;&#945;&#958;&#8059;<br/>
&#8012;&#965;&#961;&#949;&#8049; &#964;&#949;
&#963;&#954;&#953;&#959;&#8051;&#957;&#964;&#945;,
&#952;&#945;&#955;&#8049;&#963;&#963;&#945; &#964;&#949;
&#7968;&#967;&#8053;&#949;&#963;&#963;&#945;.<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&rsquo;s account of the march of the Pylians against the Epeians is
extremely lifelike:&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;Then rose up to them sweet-worded Nestor, the shrill orator of the
Pylians,<br/>
And words sweeter than honey flowed from his tongue.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
This time, however, he addresses Patroclus alone: &ldquo;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
&rsquo;t was noonday, accoutred for the fight, even to Alpheus&rsquo;s sacred
source,&rdquo; &amp;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,&mdash;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">
&ldquo;Homer is gone; and where is Jove? and where<br/>
The rival cities seven? His song outlives<br/>
Time, tower, and god,&mdash;all that then was, save Heaven.&rdquo;
</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 (&#964;&#949;&#955;&#949;&#8055;&#945;) 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. &ldquo;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;&mdash;This world is not for him who doth not
worship; and where, O Arjoon, is there another?&rdquo; 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,&mdash;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.
&ldquo;The way to trade,&rdquo; as a pedler once told me, &ldquo;is to <i>put
it right through</i>,&rdquo; no matter what it is, anything that is agreed on.
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;You grov&rsquo;ling worldlings, you whose wisdom trades<br/>
Where light ne&rsquo;er shot his golden ray.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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">
        &ldquo;Merchants, arise,<br/>
And mingle conscience with your merchandise.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;To Athens gowned he goes, and from that school<br/>
Returns unsped, a more instructed fool.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s lives.
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;What I have learned is mine; I&rsquo;ve had my thought,<br/>
And me the Muses noble truths have taught.&rdquo;
</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">
&mdash;&ldquo;ask for that which is our whole life&rsquo;s light,<br/>
For the perpetual, true and clear insight.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s prayer,
</p>

<p class="poem">
    &ldquo;Let us set so just<br/>
A rate on knowledge, that the world may trust<br/>
The poet&rsquo;s sentence, and not still aver<br/>
Each art is to itself a flatterer.&rdquo;
</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?&mdash;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">
&ldquo;Olympian bards who sung<br/>
Divine ideas below,<br/>
Which always find us young,<br/>
And always keep us so.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
What earth or sea, mountain or stream, or Muses&rsquo; spring or grove, is safe
from his all-searching ardent eye, who drives off Phœbus&rsquo; 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&rsquo;d make another milky way,<br/>
And burn the world up with his ray;<br/>
<br/>
By us an undisputed seer,&mdash;<br/>
Who&rsquo;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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;lips of cunning fell<br/>
    The thrilling Delphic oracle.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;That&rsquo;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&rsquo;s days&rdquo;;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
yet spite of all they sang in praise of their &ldquo;Eliza&rsquo;s
reign,&rdquo; 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">
&ldquo;And that the utmost powers of English rhyme,&rdquo;<br/>
<i>Were not</i> &ldquo;within <i>her</i> peaceful reign confined.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
The prophecy of the poet Daniel is already how much more than fulfilled!
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;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&rsquo; enrich unknowing nations with our stores?<br/>
What worlds in th&rsquo; yet unformed occident,<br/>
May come refined with the accents that are ours.&rdquo;
</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">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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,&mdash;for it is
allowed to slander our own time,&mdash;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 &ldquo;the difficulty of understanding it; there was,&rdquo; he
said, &ldquo;but one person at Jidda, who was capable of understanding and
explaining the Pasha&rsquo;s correspondence.&rdquo; A man&rsquo;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 &ldquo;grounded upon antiquity and solid learning.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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, &ldquo;speaking with inspired mouth,
smileless, inornate, and unperfumed, pierces through centuries by the power of
the god.&rdquo; The scholar might frequently emulate the propriety and emphasis
of the farmer&rsquo;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&rsquo;s labor in the farmer&rsquo;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,&mdash;these
bones,&mdash;and this their work! Hands which could have felled an ox have
hewed this fragile matter which would not have tasked a lady&rsquo;s fingers!
Can this be a stalwart man&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s brim be a yellow primrose, and nothing more, than that it be
something less. Aubrey relates of Thomas Fuller that his was &ldquo;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.&rdquo; He says of Mr.
John Hales, that, &ldquo;He loved Canarie,&rdquo; and was buried &ldquo;under
an altar monument of black marble&mdash;&mdash; with a too long epitaph&rdquo;;
of Edmund Halley, that he &ldquo;at sixteen could make a dial, and then, he
said, he thought himself a brave fellow&rdquo;; of William Holder, who wrote a
book upon his curing one Popham who was deaf and dumb, &ldquo;he was beholding
to no author; did only consult with nature.&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;being received within the
plain of its freer water,&rdquo; it should &ldquo;beat the shores for
banks,&rdquo;&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
        &ldquo;campoque recepta<br/>
Liberioris aquæ, pro ripis litora pulsant.&rdquo;
</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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s
house stood not far from Wicasuck Falls. Gookin, who, in his Epistle Dedicatory
to Robert Boyle, apologizes for presenting his &ldquo;matter clothed in a
wilderness dress,&rdquo; says that on the breaking out of Philip&rsquo;s war in
1675, there were taken up by the Christian Indians and the English in
Marlborough, and sent to Cambridge, seven &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
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&rsquo;s
war, every other settler left the town, but &ldquo;he,&rdquo; says the
historian of Dunstable, &ldquo;fortified his house; and, although
&lsquo;obliged to send to Boston for his food,&rsquo; 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,&rdquo; humbly showing, as his
petition runs, that, as he lived &ldquo;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,&rdquo; he could render important service
to his country if only he had some assistance, &ldquo;there being,&rdquo; he
said, &ldquo;never an inhabitant left in the town but myself.&rdquo; Wherefore
he requests that their &ldquo;Honors would be pleased to order him <i>three or
four men</i> to help garrison his said house,&rdquo; which they did. But
methinks that such a garrison would be weakened by the addition of a man.
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
Thus he earned the title of first permanent settler. In 1694 a law was passed
&ldquo;that every settler who deserted a town for fear of the Indians should
forfeit all his rights therein.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo; 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,&mdash;for they did not know any better than we that they were on
an island,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;I thynke for to touche also<br/>
The worlde whiche neweth everie daie,<br/>
So as I can, so as I maie.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="left">
G<small>OWER</small>.
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;The hye sheryfe of Notynghame,<br/>
    Hym holde in your mynd.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="left">
<i>Robin Hood Ballads</i>.
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;His shoote it was but loosely shott,<br/>
    Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,<br/>
For it mett one of the sheriffe&rsquo;s men,<br/>
    And William a Trent was slaine.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="left">
<i>Robin Hood Ballads</i>
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;Gazed on the heavens for what he missed on Earth.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="left">
<i>Britania&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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 &ldquo;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.&rdquo; In the words of the old nursery tale, sung
about a hundred years ago,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;He and his valiant soldiers did range the woods full wide,<br/>
And hardships they endured to quell the Indian&rsquo;s pride.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
In the shaggy pine forest of Pequawket they met the &ldquo;rebel
Indians,&rdquo; and prevailed, after a bloody fight, and a remnant returned
home to enjoy the fame of their victory. A township called Lovewell&rsquo;s
Town, but now, for some reason, or perhaps without reason, Pembroke, was
granted them by the State.
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;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/>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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 &ldquo;English Chaplin&rdquo; in
these days could exhibit as unquestionable trophies of his valor as did
&ldquo;good young Frye.&rdquo; 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?&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;And braving many dangers and hardships in the way,<br/>
They safe arrived at Dunstable the thirteenth (?) day of May.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But they did not all &ldquo;safe arrive in Dunstable the thirteenth,&rdquo; or
the fifteenth, or the thirtieth &ldquo;day of May.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;After
travelling several miles, Frye was left and lost,&rdquo; though a more recent
poet has assigned him company in his last hours.
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;A man he was of comely form,<br/>
    Polished and brave, well learned and kind;<br/>
Old Harvard&rsquo;s learned halls he left<br/>
    Far in the wilds a grave to find.<br/>
<br/>
&ldquo;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/>
&ldquo;He prays kind Heaven to grant success,<br/>
    Brave Lovewell&rsquo;s men to guide and bless,<br/>
And when they&rsquo;ve shed their heart-blood true,<br/>
    To raise them all to happiness.&rdquo; . . . <br/>
<br/>
&ldquo;Lieutenant Farwell took his hand,<br/>
    His arm around his neck he threw,<br/>
And said, &lsquo;Brave Chaplain, I could wish<br/>
    That Heaven had made me die for you.&rsquo;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Farwell held out eleven days. &ldquo;A tradition says,&rdquo; as we learn from
the History of Concord, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;He had
subsisted,&rdquo; says an old journal, &ldquo;on the spontaneous vegetables of
the forest; and cranberries which he had eaten came out of wounds he had
received in his body.&rdquo; 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,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;For as we are informed, so thick and fast they fell,<br/>
Scarce twenty of their number at night did get home well,&rdquo;&mdash;
</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 &ldquo;he
replied, &lsquo;that he did not care for them,&rsquo; and bending down a small
elm beside which he was standing into a bow, declared &lsquo;that he would
treat the Indians in the same way.&rsquo; This elm is still standing [in
Nashua], a venerable and magnificent tree.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
Meanwhile, having passed the Horseshoe Interval in Tyngsborough, where the
river makes a sudden bend to the northwest,&mdash;for our reflections have
anticipated our progress somewhat,&mdash;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 &ldquo;new
lights,&rdquo; and free thinking men even then. &ldquo;The people in general
throughout the State,&rdquo; it is written, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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. &ldquo;Time drinketh up the essence of every great
and noble action which ought to be performed, and is delayed in the
execution.&rdquo; 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">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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 &ldquo;the soft tops of the twigs and
tender leaves are eaten,&rdquo; says his reviewer, &ldquo;and produce an
agreeable soothing excitement, restoring from fatigue, banishing sleep, and
disposing to the enjoyment of conversation.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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, &ldquo;Another
party of derveeshes came to me and observed, &lsquo;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.&rsquo;&rdquo; But forever
I ask of such, What then? The derveeshes in the deserts of Bokhara and the
reformers in Marlboro&rsquo; Chapel sing the same song. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a
good time coming, boys,&rdquo; but, asked one of the audience, in good faith,
&ldquo;Can you fix the date?&rdquo; Said I, &ldquo;Will you help it
along?&rdquo;
</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, &ldquo;Not hurling, according to the oracle, a transcendent foot
towards piety.&rdquo; 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?&mdash;or whoever
it was that was wise.&mdash;Enthusiasm is a supernatural serenity.
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;Men find that action is another thing<br/>
    Than what they in discoursing papers read;<br/>
The world&rsquo;s affairs require in managing<br/>
    More arts than those wherein you clerks proceed.&rdquo;
</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, &ldquo;As time
never fails, and the universe is eternal, neither the Tanais nor the Nile can
have flowed forever.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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? &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
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&rsquo;s way through this latest generation as through
dewy grass. Men are as innocent as the morning to the unsuspicious.
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;And round about good morrows fly,<br/>
As if day taught humanity.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
Not being Reve of this Shire,
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;The early pilgrim blithe he hailed,<br/>
    That o&rsquo;er the hills did stray,<br/>
And many an early husbandman,<br/>
    That he met on the way&rdquo;;&mdash;
</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.&mdash;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.&mdash;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&rsquo;s path, it is true, and at length one even becomes attached
to his unswept and undusted garret. I love man&mdash;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">
&ldquo;Now turn again, turn again, said the pindèr,<br/>
    For a wrong way you have gone,<br/>
For you have forsaken the king&rsquo;s highway,<br/>
    And made a path over the corn.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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">
        &ldquo;Virtues as rivers pass,<br/>
But still remains that virtuous man there was.&rdquo;
</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 &ldquo;They appeared to him to have been men of genius,
but to have lived with too passive a regard for the laws.&rdquo; The
philosophers of the West are liable to this rebuke still. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Chateaubriand said: &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;He who was born first has the greatest number of old
clothes,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="p2">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="center">
ANTIGONE.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="center">
ISMENE.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I indeed do not hold them in dishonor; but to act in opposition to the
citizens I am by nature unable.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Antigone being at length brought before King Creon, he asks,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Did you then dare to transgress these laws?&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="center">
ANTIGONE.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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. &ldquo;Immemorial custom is
transcendent law,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Perform the settled functions,&rdquo; says Kreeshna in
the Bhagvat-Geeta; &ldquo;action is preferable to inaction. The journey of thy
mortal frame may not succeed from inaction.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;A man&rsquo;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.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;Wherefore, O Arjoon, resolve to fight,&rdquo; 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? &ldquo;Assuredly,&rdquo; says a French translator, speaking of the
antiquity and durability of the Chinese and Indian nations, and of the wisdom
of their legislators, &ldquo;there are there some vestiges of the eternal laws
which govern the world.&rdquo;
</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 &ldquo;Om,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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 &ldquo;of a sublimity of conception, reasoning, and diction
almost unequalled,&rdquo; and that the writings of the Indian philosophers
&ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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:&mdash;
</p>

<p class="p2">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The forsaking of works&rdquo; was taught by Kreeshna to the most ancient
of men, and handed down from age to age,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;until at length, in the course of time, the mighty art was lost.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In wisdom is to be found every work without exception,&rdquo; says<br/>
Kreeshna.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Although thou wert the greatest of all offenders, thou shalt<br/>
be able to cross the gulf of sin with the bark of wisdom.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There is not anything in this world to be compared with wisdom<br/>
for purity.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The action stands at a distance inferior to the application of<br/>
wisdom.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The wisdom of a Moonee &ldquo;is confirmed, when, like the tortoise, he can
draw in all his members, and restrain them from their wonted purposes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;For the man who doeth that which he hath to do, without affection,
obtaineth the Supreme.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He who enjoyeth but the Amreeta which is left of his offerings,
obtaineth the eternal spirit of Brahm, the Supreme.&rdquo;
</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">
&ldquo;I am the same to all mankind,&rdquo; says Kreeshna; &ldquo;there is not
one who is worthy of my love or hatred.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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> &ldquo;formed upon the
speculative doctrines of the <i>Sankhya Sastra</i>.&rdquo; &ldquo;Seek an
asylum in wisdom alone&rdquo;; but what is wisdom to a Western mind? The duty
of which he speaks is an arbitrary one. When was it established? The
Brahman&rsquo;s virtue consists in doing, not right, but arbitrary things. What
is that which a man &ldquo;hath to do&rdquo;? What is &ldquo;action&rdquo;?
What are the &ldquo;settled functions&rdquo;? What is &ldquo;a man&rsquo;s own
religion,&rdquo; which is so much better than another&rsquo;s? What is &ldquo;a
man&rsquo;s own particular calling&rdquo;? What are the duties which are
appointed by one&rsquo;s birth? It is a defence of the institution of casts, of
what is called the &ldquo;natural duty&rdquo; of the Kshetree, or soldier,
&ldquo;to attach himself to the discipline,&rdquo; &ldquo;not to flee from the
field,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
To conclude these extracts, I can say, in the words of Sanjay, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;known to have been written by&mdash;&mdash;,
more than four thousand years ago,&mdash;it matters not whether three or four,
or when,&mdash;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;for the contemplations of those Indian sages have influenced,
and still influence, the intellectual development of mankind,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s blustering shore,<br/>
New England&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; The last is believed
by the Hindoos &ldquo;to have been promulged in the beginning of time, by Menu,
son or grandson of Brahma,&rdquo; and &ldquo;first of created beings&rdquo;;
and Brahma is said to have &ldquo;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.&rdquo; Others affirm that they have undergone successive
abridgments for the convenience of mortals, &ldquo;while the gods of the lower
heaven and the band of celestial musicians are engaged in studying the primary
code.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
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.&mdash;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 &ldquo;pine,
larch, spruce, and silver fir,&rdquo; which cover the southern face of the
Himmaleh range; of the &ldquo;gooseberry, raspberry, strawberry,&rdquo; 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
&ldquo;lily of the valley, cowslip, dandelion,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;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. &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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; &ldquo;From fire, from
air, and from the sun,&rdquo; it was &ldquo;milked out.&rdquo; One might as
well investigate the chronology of light and heat. Let the sun shine. Menu
understood this matter best, when he said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; Indeed, the Mussulman and Tartar dynasties are beyond
all dating. Methinks I have lived under them myself. In every man&rsquo;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,&mdash;once it was
Nottingham,&mdash;once &mdash;
</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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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&rsquo; Arabian Chronicle: &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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,&mdash;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 &ldquo;caused stakes to be
fixed in the highways where he had seen a clear spring,&rdquo; and
&ldquo;brazen dishes were chained to them to refresh the weary sojourner, whose
fatigues Edwin had himself experienced.&rdquo; This is worth all Arthur&rsquo;s
twelve battles.
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;Through the shadow of the world we sweep into the younger day:<br/>
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.&rdquo;<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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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:&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
    &ldquo;Fragments of the lofty strain<br/>
    Float down the tide of years,<br/>
As buoyant on the stormy main<br/>
    A parted wreck appears.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s horn was heard echoing from shore to shore, to give
notice of his approach to the farmer&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s matting,
and the ropes and peasant&rsquo;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, &ldquo;on account of its
flexibility, lightness, and resiliency.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s memory and imagination were fertile in
fishermen&rsquo;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 &ldquo;famous Captain Lovewell.&rdquo; 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:&mdash;He cobbled shoes without glasses at a hundred, and cut a handsome
swath at a hundred and five! Lovewell&rsquo;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, &ldquo;were slain by our Indian enemies
on September 2d, [1691,] in the evening.&rdquo; As Gookin observed on a
previous occasion, &ldquo;The Indian rod upon the English backs had not yet
done God&rsquo;s errand.&rdquo; 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;&mdash;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:&mdash;
</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;&mdash;<br/>
Firm argument that never stirs,<br/>
Outcircling the philosophers,&mdash;<br/>
Like some vast fleet,<br/>
Sailing through rain and sleet,<br/>
Through winter&rsquo;s cold and summer&rsquo;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,&mdash;<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&rsquo;ertop the western day,<br/>
Reposing yonder on God&rsquo;s croft<br/>
Like solid stacks of hay;<br/>
So bold a line as ne&rsquo;er was writ<br/>
On any page by human wit;<br/>
The forest glows as if<br/>
An enemy&rsquo;s camp-fires shone<br/>
Along the horizon,<br/>
Or the day&rsquo;s funeral pyre<br/>
Were lighted there;<br/>
Edged with silver and with gold,<br/>
The clouds hang o&rsquo;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&rsquo;s sill<br/>
Like a child&rsquo;s toy left overnight,<br/>
And other duds to left and right,<br/>
On the earth&rsquo;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&rsquo;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 &rsquo;tween me and you,<br/>
Thou western pioneer,<br/>
Who know&rsquo;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&rsquo;s axe,<br/>
Cleaving thy road on high<br/>
With thy well-tempered brow,<br/>
And mak&rsquo;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&rsquo;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:&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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 &ldquo;Memento
Mori,&rdquo; and the name of one of them, how they &ldquo;departed this
life,&rdquo; and
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;This man with seven more that lies in<br/>
    this grave was slew all in a day by<br/>
        the Indians.&rdquo;
</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">
&ldquo;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/>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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,&mdash;the &ldquo;Indian
Head.&rdquo; &ldquo;It was observed by some judicious,&rdquo; says Gookin,
referring to Philip&rsquo;s war, &ldquo;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>&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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;&mdash;an indispensable hero to New England. As the more recent poet of
Lovewell&rsquo;s fight has sung, halting a little but bravely still:&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;Strata jacent passim <i>suo</i> quæque sub&rdquo; <i>lapide</i>&mdash;
</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&rsquo;s bodies, from the pyramids down. A monument should at least be
&ldquo;star-y-pointing,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;a stone to a bone? &ldquo;Here lies,&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;Here
lies&rdquo;;&mdash;why do they not sometimes write, There rises? Is it a
monument to the body only that is intended? &ldquo;Having reached the term of
his <i>natural</i> life&rdquo;;&mdash;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/>
        &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;<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&rsquo;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 &ldquo;long celebrous for the yielding of
excellent whetstones.&rdquo; 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:&mdash;
</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&rsquo;,<br/>
Whate&rsquo;er transpired hath since morn,<br/>
How wags the world by brier and brake<br/>
From hence to Athabasca Lake;&mdash;
</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,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;When the drum beat at dead of night.&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;Ah, you know me, you rogue,&mdash;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,&mdash;
</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&rsquo;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:
&ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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 &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Travelling on foot very early one morning due east from here about twenty
miles, from Caleb Harriman&rsquo;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,&mdash;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">
                    &ldquo;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.&rdquo;<br/>
<br/>
        &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;<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/>
&rsquo;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&rsquo; 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">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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 &rsquo;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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s house, with a knapsack on my back which held a few
traveller&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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 &ldquo;clove road,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;d, like a school-boy&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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 &ldquo;untamable fly&rdquo; 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.&mdash;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,&mdash;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,
&#963;&#954;&#953;&#8118;&#962; &#8004;&#957;&#945;&#961;, and this new
platform was gained. As I had climbed above storm and cloud, so by successive
days&rsquo; journeys I might reach the region of eternal day, beyond the
tapering shadow of the earth; ay,
</p>

<p class="poem">
        &ldquo;Heaven itself shall slide,<br/>
And roll away, like melting stars that glide<br/>
Along their oily threads.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,<br/>
<br/>
.   .   .   .   .   .<br/>
<br/>
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
But never here did &ldquo;Heaven&rsquo;s sun&rdquo; 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">
&ldquo;Anon permit the basest clouds to ride<br/>
With ugly wrack on his celestial face,&rdquo;&mdash;
</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
&ldquo;forlorn world,&rdquo; from which the celestial sun had hid his
visage,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;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&rsquo;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!&rdquo;
</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 &ldquo;Away! away!&rdquo;<br/>
    Many a lengthy reach we&rsquo;ve rowed,<br/>
Still the sparrow on the spray<br/>
Hastes to usher in the day<br/>
    With her simple stanza&rsquo;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&rsquo;s fields!
</p>

<p>
The same pleasant and observant historian whom we quoted above says, that,
&ldquo;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,
&lsquo;They are wet with the showers of the mountains.&rsquo;&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s rays
struggled through the mist and showed us the pines on shore dripping with dew,
and springs trickling from the moist banks,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;And now the taller sons, whom Titan warms,<br/>
Of unshorn mountains blown with easy winds,<br/>
Dandle the morning&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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 &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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, &ldquo;Some time after pewter was found in the well, and an iron
pot and trammel in the sand; the latter are preserved.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s buried
wealth, and it is said that some years ago a farmer&rsquo;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&rsquo;
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&rsquo;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 &ldquo;vast uplandish
country&rdquo; 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,&mdash;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&rsquo; 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&rsquo;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 &ldquo;what is a foreign country to those who have science?
Who is a stranger to those who have the habit of speaking kindly?&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
        &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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.
&ldquo;Sometimes we do,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo; 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, &ldquo;It runs in the
corner.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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. &ldquo;Not so very rough
neither,&rdquo; 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; &ldquo;and if we have some hills,&rdquo; added he,
&ldquo;there&rsquo;s no better pasturage anywhere.&rdquo; 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,&mdash;for why should
I quarrel with nature?&mdash;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&rsquo;s culture,&mdash;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">
&ldquo;Amongst the pumy stones, which seemed to plain,<br/>
With gentle murmur, that his course they did restrain.&rdquo;
</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:&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
    &ldquo;His reverend locks<br/>
In comelye curles did wave;<br/>
And on his aged temples grew<br/>
    The blossoms of the grave.&rdquo;
</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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
Being now fairly in the stream of this week&rsquo;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,&mdash;fifteen or sixteen cords of wood, and as many thousand bricks, at
a time,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo; 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,&mdash;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, &ldquo;there might be a profitable
inland navigation.&rdquo; <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?&mdash;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&rsquo;s paddle gleams in the air.
</p>

<p class="poem">
Man&rsquo;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 &ldquo;hand,&rdquo; 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&mdash;&mdash;the &ldquo;King&rsquo;s
navy.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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> &ldquo;and keels
which had long stood on high mountains careered insultingly
(<i>insultavêre</i>) over unknown waves.&rdquo; (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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
But, alas, our chest, like the cabin of a coaster, contained only its
well-thumbed &ldquo;Navigator&rdquo; for all literature, and we were obliged to
draw on our memory for these things.
</p>

<p>
We naturally remembered Alexander Henry&rsquo;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,&mdash;Lake Winnipeg, Hudson
Bay, Ottaway, and portages innumerable; Chipeways, Gens de Terres, Les
Pilleurs, The Weepers; with reminiscences of Hearne&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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 &ldquo;Mr. Hinchmanne&rsquo;s farme ner Meremack,&rdquo;
wrote thus &ldquo;to the Honred Governer and Council at Bostown, <i>Hast, Post
Hast&rdquo;:</i>&mdash;
</p>

<p class="p2">
&ldquo;Sagamore Wanalancet come this morning to informe me, and then went to
Mr. Tyng&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</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 &ldquo;at place
called Malamake rever, other name chef Natukkog and Panukkog, that one rever
great many names,&rdquo; wrote thus to the governor:&mdash;
</p>

<p class="right">
&ldquo;May 15th, 1685.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Honor governor my friend,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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>
&ldquo;This all Indian hand, but pray you do consider your humble servant,
</p>

<p class="right">
J<small>OHN</small> H<small>OGKINS</small>.&rdquo;
</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 &ldquo;brecking&rdquo; our
&ldquo;conow,&rdquo; reading the New England Gazetteer, and seeing no traces of
&ldquo;Mohogs&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s side,<br/>
And the hemlock and the larch<br/>
With their triumphal arch<br/>
Are waving o&rsquo;er its march<br/>
        To the sea.<br/>
No wind stirs its waves,<br/>
But the spirits of the braves<br/>
        Hov&rsquo;ring o&rsquo;er,<br/>
Whose antiquated graves<br/>
Its still water laves<br/>
        On the shore.<br/>
With an Indian&rsquo;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&rsquo; 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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;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&rsquo;d, Repentance is not dated.&rdquo;
</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, &ldquo;not a
sparrow falleth to the ground without our Heavenly Father&rsquo;s
knowledge,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;fattened
fire.&rdquo; With a sudden impulse we threw them away, and washed our hands,
and boiled some rice for our dinner. &ldquo;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!&rdquo; &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
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 &ldquo;pleasant harbor&rdquo; 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">
&ldquo;Nor has he ceased his charming song, for still that lyre,<br/>
Though he is dead, sleeps not in Hades.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="left">
<i>Simonides&rsquo; 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,&mdash;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, &#8005; &#967;&#961;&#8053;
&#963;&#949; &#957;&#959;&#949;&#8150;&#957; &#957;&#8057;&#959;&#965;
&#7940;&#957;&#952;&#949;&#953;,&mdash;<i>which you must perceive with the
flower of the mind</i>,&mdash;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">
&ldquo;The young and tender stalk<br/>
Ne&rsquo;er bends when <i>they</i> do walk.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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?&mdash;<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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;<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,&mdash;<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,&mdash;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/>
&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;
</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&rsquo;s Ferry, and another island called
McGaw&rsquo;s Island, we reached some rapids called Moore&rsquo;s Falls, and
entered on &ldquo;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.&rdquo; After passing Moore&rsquo;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&rsquo;s field or widow&rsquo;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;er thy rippling waters,<br/>
    Lowly hummed a natural song.<br/>
<br/>
Now the sun&rsquo;s behind the willows,<br/>
    Now he gleams along the waves,<br/>
Faintly o&rsquo;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
&ldquo;&rsquo;Skeag&rdquo;; 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>&ldquo;Man is man&rsquo;s foe and destiny.&rdquo;</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,&mdash;which last is five or six
miles distant, and contains fifteen hundred acres, being the largest body of
fresh water in Rockingham County,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s work of it. Thus all parties were benefited. It was worth the while
to see the place where Lowell was &ldquo;dug out.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s Falls,
in what is now the town of Bedford, famous &ldquo;for hops and for its fine
domestic manufactures,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s will
erelong be the white man&rsquo;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,&mdash;for commonly there was no lock-man at hand,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&mdash;were all sunk; for which at length
he pays the price, and is seen descending the ship&rsquo;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,&mdash;&ldquo;By the latest arrival,&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;by the good
ship&mdash;&mdash;.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;s edge as I can go,<br/>
My tardy steps its waves sometimes o&rsquo;erreach,<br/>
    Sometimes I stay to let them overflow.<br/>
<br/>
My sole employment &rsquo;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&rsquo;ve sailed o&rsquo;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&rsquo;s houses were particularly well placed,
retired, and high, always at falls or rapids, and commanding the pleasantest
reaches of the river,&mdash;for it is generally wider and more lake-like just
above a fall,&mdash;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
&ldquo;dresser&rdquo; lightly, as if afraid to disturb the devotions of the
household,&mdash;for Oriental dynasties appear to have passed away since the
dinner-table was last spread here,&mdash;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. &ldquo;Perhaps
you would like some molasses and ginger,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s and Griffith&rsquo;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">
        &ldquo;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&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It is a beautiful fable, also related by Pindar, how Helius, or the Sun, looked
down into the sea one day,&mdash;when perchance his rays were first reflected
from some increasing glittering sandbar,&mdash;and saw the fair and fruitful
island of Rhodes
</p>

<p class="poem">
        &ldquo;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">
        &ldquo;The island sprang from the watery<br/>
Sea; and the genial Father of penetrating beams,<br/>
Ruler of fire-breathing horses, has it.&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;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 &ldquo;the only perfect skeleton
of a Greenland or river whale in the United States&rdquo; was to be seen, and I
also read in its directory of a &ldquo;Manchester Athenæum and Gallery of the
Fine Arts.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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 &ldquo;great fishing-place.&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;that God had cut them out for that purpose,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;they
seem plainly to be artificial.&rdquo; Similar &ldquo;pot-holes&rdquo; may be
seen at the Stone Flume on this river, on the Ottaway, at Bellows&rsquo; 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,&mdash;we noticed
some here at least sixteen feet above the present level of the
water,&mdash;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 &ldquo;sermons in stones, and books in the running streams.&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;<i>Judæa Capta</i>&rdquo; with a woman mourning under a
palm-tree, with silent argument and demonstration confirms the pages of
history.
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;Rome living was the world&rsquo;s sole ornament;<br/>
And dead is now the world&rsquo;s sole monument.<br/>
     *     *     *     *     *<br/>
With her own weight down pressed now she lies,<br/>
And by her heaps her hugeness testifies.&rdquo;
</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, &ldquo;A
broken urn is a whole evidence; or an old gate still surviving out of which the
city is run out.&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;guess,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s eye may still detect the brazen nails
which fastened Time&rsquo;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;&mdash;the first faint sounds of spring, older than the
summer of Athenian glory, the titmouse lisping in the wood, the jay&rsquo;s
scream, and blue-bird&rsquo;s warble, and the hum of
</p>

<p class="poem">
            &ldquo;bees that fly<br/>
About the laughing blossoms of sallowy.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
Here is the gray dawn for antiquity, and our to-morrow&rsquo;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s Mother sprightly greets us now,<br/>
Wearing her youthful radiance on her brow.<br/>
If Carnac&rsquo;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
&ldquo;at Pawtucket, when he was about one hundred and twenty years old.&rdquo;
He was reputed a wise man and a powwow, and restrained his people from going to
war with the English. They believed &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;possibly might have such a kind of spirit upon him as was upon
Balaam, who in xxiii. Numbers, 23, said &lsquo;Surely, there is no enchantment
against Jacob, neither is there any divination against Israel.&rsquo;&rdquo;
His son Wannalancet carefully followed his advice, and when Philip&rsquo;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, &ldquo;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,
&lsquo;Me next.&rsquo;&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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:&mdash;
</p>

<p class="p2">
&ldquo;The Hon. Wyseman Clagett closed his life in this town.&rdquo; According
to another, &ldquo;He was a classical scholar, a good lawyer, a wit, and a
poet.&rdquo; We saw his old gray house just below Great Nesenkeag
Brook.&mdash;Under the head of Merrimack: &ldquo;Hon. Mathew Thornton, one of
the signers of the Declaration of American Independence, resided many years in
this town.&rdquo; His house too we saw from the river.&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;&mdash;Col.
George Reid and Capt. David M&rsquo;Clary, also citizens of Londonderry, were
&ldquo;distinguished and brave&rdquo; officers.&mdash;&ldquo;Major Andrew
M&rsquo;Clary, a native of this town [Epsom], fell at the battle of
Breed&rsquo;s Hill.&rdquo;&mdash;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, &ldquo;3 miles to Squire MacGaw&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
</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 &ldquo;The Two
Breasts,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s profession is a
satire on the other&rsquo;s, and either&rsquo;s success would be the
other&rsquo;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 &ldquo;standing out,&rdquo; 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 &ldquo;take them in tow,&rdquo; 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>
&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;
</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,&mdash;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&rsquo; 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&rsquo;s mould,<br/>
As one she had designed for Beauty&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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/>
&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;<br/>
<br/>
Is&rsquo;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&rsquo;s experience, and remembered like
heat lightning in past summers. Fair and flitting like a summer
cloud;&mdash;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&rsquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s verge and firm land&rsquo;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&rsquo;s eye<br/>
A sailing vessel doth descry;<br/>
In the ocean&rsquo;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: &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s novels entertain us,&mdash;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&rsquo;
<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, &ldquo;Sweet Friends!&rdquo; and the salutation
is, &ldquo;Damn your eyes!&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo; 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,&mdash;neighbors are kind enough for that,&mdash;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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;He that hath love and judgment too,<br/>
Sees more than any other doe.&rdquo;
</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">
&ldquo;Why love among the virtues is not known,<br/>
Is that love is them all contract in one.&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;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
&ldquo;no better than I should be,&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;Know that the contrariety of
foe and Friend proceeds from God.&rdquo; 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">
&ldquo;I never asked thy leave to let me love thee,&mdash;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, &mdash;you are infinitely good. I can trust
you forever. I did not think that humanity was so rich. Give me an opportunity
to live.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You are the fact in a fiction,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This is what I would like,&mdash;to be as intimate with you as our
spirits are intimate,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have discovered you; how can you be concealed from me?&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s hopes.
They are kind to each other&rsquo;s dreams.
</p>

<p>
Though the poet says, &ldquo;&rsquo;Tis the pre-eminence of Friendship to
impute excellence,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s love is exactly
balanced and represented by the other&rsquo;s. Persons are only the vessels
which contain the nectar, and the hydrostatic paradox is the symbol of
love&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;And love as well the shepherd can<br/>
As can the mighty nobleman.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
The one sex is not, in this respect, more tender than the other.<br/>
A hero&rsquo;s love is as delicate as a maiden&rsquo;s.
</p>

<p>
Confucius said, &ldquo;Never contract Friendship with a man who is not better
than thyself.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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,&mdash;&ldquo;I will be so
related to thee as thou canst imagine; even so thou mayest believe. I will
spend truth,&mdash;all my wealth on thee,&rdquo;&mdash;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?&mdash;as if you could forget
anything.&mdash;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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The Friendship which Wawatam testified for Henry the fur-trader, as described
in the latter&rsquo;s &ldquo;Adventures,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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. &ldquo;Metals unite from fluxility; birds and beasts from
motives of convenience; fools from fear and stupidity; and just men at
sight.&rdquo; If Wawatam would taste the &ldquo;white man&rsquo;s milk&rdquo;
with his tribe, or take his bowl of human broth made of the trader&rsquo;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.
&ldquo;We now exchanged farewells,&rdquo; says Henry, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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">
&ldquo;There be mo sterres in the skie than a pair,&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
remains to be proved;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;And certaine he is well begone<br/>
Among a thousand that findeth one.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;s wing,<br/>
Hovering o&rsquo;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&rsquo;s net<br/>
    Which stays my flight,<br/>
And craftily is set<br/>
    T&rsquo;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:&mdash;
</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: &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s virtues more distinctly than another&rsquo;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. &ldquo;Take care! my friend,&rdquo; said the latter, &ldquo;here is
a steep precipice; go no farther this way.&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;I know
better,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;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, &ldquo;Although
Friendship between good men is interrupted, their principles remain unaltered.
The stalk of the lotus may be broken, and the fibres remain connected.&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;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: &ldquo;Seven paces together is sufficient for
the friendship of the virtuous, but thou and I have dwelt together.&rdquo; 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 &rsquo;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;&mdash;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,&mdash;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">
&ldquo;Friends, Romans, Countrymen, and Lovers.&rdquo;<br/>
<br/>
Let such pure hate still underprop<br/>
Our love, that we may be<br/>
Each other&rsquo;s conscience.<br/>
And have our sympathy<br/>
Mainly from thence.<br/>
<br/>
We&rsquo;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,&mdash;<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,&mdash;<br/>
Love can afford to wait,<br/>
For it no hour&rsquo;s too late<br/>
That witnesseth one duty&rsquo;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,&mdash;<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 &rsquo;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&rsquo;er all<br/>
He will the castle win,<br/>
And shine along the wall.<br/>
<br/>
There&rsquo;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,&mdash;<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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s garden as
another&rsquo;s, and the sun lodges as kindly under his hillside,&mdash;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,&mdash;for
they commonly hug the shore if bound up stream, either to avoid the current, or
touch the bottom with their poles,&mdash;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,&mdash;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? &ldquo;Imagination is the air of mind,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;and yet every man lives till he&mdash;dies. How
did he manage that? Is there no immediate danger? We wonder superfluously when
we hear of a somnambulist walking a plank securely,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s morn,<br/>
Where&rsquo;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&rsquo;s noonday hum,&mdash;<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&rsquo;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
&ldquo;the pause when the blast is recollecting itself.&rdquo;
</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">
&ldquo;Silver sands and pebbles sing<br/>
Eternal ditties with the spring,&rdquo;
</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">
&ldquo;Who dreamt devoutlier than most use to pray.&rdquo;
</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">
&ldquo;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&rsquo;s troublous cryes,<br/>
As still are wont t&rsquo; annoy the walled towne,<br/>
Might there be heard; but careless Quiet lyes<br/>
Wrapt in eternall silence farre from enemyes.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap07"></a>THURSDAY</h2>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;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,&mdash;his hall the azure dome;<br/>
Where his clear spirit leads him, there&rsquo;s his road,<br/>
By God&rsquo;s own light illumined and foreshowed.&rdquo;
</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>
&ldquo;Nothing that naturally happens to man can <i>hurt</i> him, earthquakes
and thunder-storms not excepted,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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. &ldquo;Riches are
the attendants of the miser; and the heavens rain plenteously upon the
mountains.&rdquo; I can fancy that it would be a luxury to stand up to
one&rsquo;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&rsquo;
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!&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
My books I&rsquo;d fain cast off, I cannot read,<br/>
&rsquo;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&rsquo;s life were rich to live again,<br/>
What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,<br/>
Nor Shakespeare&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;ve business with this drop of dew,<br/>
And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower,&mdash;<br/>
I&rsquo;ll meet him shortly when the sky is blue.<br/>
<br/>
This bed of herd&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;er melt me so,<br/>
My dripping locks,&mdash;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>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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, &ldquo;Men generally live over about the same
surface; some live long and narrow, and others live broad and short&rdquo;; 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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
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&rsquo;s house for fourpence, moisten it in the next brook that crosses
the road, and dip into it your sugar,&mdash;this alone will last you a whole
day;&mdash;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.&mdash;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,&mdash;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">
            &ldquo;Ipse semipaganus<br/>
Ad sacra Vatum carmen affero nostrum.&rdquo;<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&rsquo;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:&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;Haud cuivis promptum est, murmurque humilesque susurros<br/>
Tollere de templis; et aperto vivere voto.&rdquo;<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:&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;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?&rdquo;<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">
&ldquo;Securus quo pes ferat, atque ex tempore <i>vivit</i>,&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;Stat contrà ratio, et secretam garrit in aurem,<br/>
Ne liceat facere id, quod quis vitiabit agendo.&rdquo;<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,&mdash;for what deed does not fall maimed
and imperfect from our hands?&mdash;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&rsquo;s or a marten&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;for we would be faithful to our
experience,&mdash;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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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
&ldquo;Father,&rdquo; the bargain was concluded,&mdash;we to buy it at a
venture on the vine, green or ripe, our risk, and pay &ldquo;what the gentlemen
pleased.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;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&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
So we sailed this afternoon, thinking of the saying of Pythagoras, though we
had no peculiar right to remember it, &ldquo;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.&rdquo; 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">
            &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;Not only o&rsquo;er the dial&rsquo;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&rsquo;s mouldering walls,<br/>
From Teneriffe, towering o&rsquo;er the sea,<br/>
    From every blade of grass it falls.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s brains
dashed out against an apple-tree, and had left her own and her neighbors&rsquo;
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. &ldquo;Strike &rsquo;em
there,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;
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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;a fabulous wild man to us. On either side, the primeval forest
stretches away uninterrupted to Canada, or to the &ldquo;South Sea&rdquo;; 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&rsquo;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. &ldquo;We must look a long way
back,&rdquo; says Raleigh, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
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&rsquo;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&mdash;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,&mdash;whose gossip would be Universal History. The fourth old woman
from myself suckled Columbus,&mdash;the ninth was nurse to the Norman
Conqueror,&mdash;the nineteenth was the Virgin Mary,&mdash;the twenty-fourth
the Cumæan Sibyl,&mdash;the thirtieth was at the Trojan war and Helen her
name,&mdash;the thirty-eighth was Queen Semiramis,&mdash;the sixtieth was Eve
the mother of mankind. So much for the
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;Old woman that lives under the hill,<br/>
And if she&rsquo;s not gone she lives there still.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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,
&ldquo;that,&rdquo; to use his own words, &ldquo;they might behold with their
eyes, what I had praised to their ears,&rdquo;&mdash;&ldquo;and I added
nothing, not even the ivy which for centuries had decorated the walls.&rdquo;
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,
&ldquo;Signor perdonate, quésta è la mia patria,&rdquo; he confesses that
&ldquo;to me poor northerner came something tear-like into the eyes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Goethe&rsquo;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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: &ldquo;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.&rdquo; He further says of himself: &ldquo;I had lived among painters
from my childhood, and had accustomed myself to look at objects, as they did,
with reference to art.&rdquo; 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">
&ldquo;The laws of Nature break the rules of Art.&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;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>
&ldquo;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;s tufts of hair bound up, the
men&rsquo;s bare breasts and light jackets, the excellent oxen which they drive
home from market, the little asses with their loads,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
Thus we &ldquo;sayled by thought and pleasaunce,&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s feasting;&mdash;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">
            &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="left">
S<small>PENSER</small>.
</p>

<p class="poem">
            &ldquo;Summer&rsquo;s robe grows<br/>
Dusky, and like an oft-dyed garment shows.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;And now the cold autumnal dews are seen<br/>
    To cobweb ev&rsquo;ry green;<br/>
And by the low-shorn rowens doth appear<br/>
    The fast-declining year.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;Amos, Abner, Elnathan, Elbridge,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;From steep pine-bearing mountains to the plain.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
I love these sons of earth every mother&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;Wise Nature&rsquo;s darlings, they live in the world<br/>
Perplexing not themselves how it is hurled.&rdquo;
</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">
                &ldquo;at all,<br/>
Came lovers home from this great festival.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s people, how they pour into the
town, the sober farmer folk, now all agog, their very shirt and coat-collars
pointing forward,&mdash;collars so broad as if they had put their shirts on
wrong end upward, for the fashions always tend to superfluity,&mdash;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&rsquo;s best, yet never dressed; come to see the sport, and have a hand
in what is going,&mdash;to know &ldquo;what&rsquo;s the row,&rdquo; 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
&ldquo;striped pig.&rdquo; 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,&mdash;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 &ldquo;To a Mistress&rsquo;s Eyebrow.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s body even is not fed like other men&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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 &ldquo;worship the ghosts of their fathers,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;Don&rsquo;t interrupt these
men&rsquo;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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;The wrathful kings, on cairns apart,<br/>
Look forward from behind their shields,<br/>
And mark the wandering stars,<br/>
That brilliant westward move.&rdquo;
</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">
&ldquo;Mounds will answer questions of them,<br/>
For many future years.&rdquo;
</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">
&ldquo;His soul departed to his warlike sires,<br/>
To follow misty forms of boars,<br/>
In tempestuous islands bleak.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
The hero&rsquo;s cairn is erected, and the bard sings a brief significant
strain, which will suffice for epitaph and biography.
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;The weak will find his bow in the dwelling,<br/>
The feeble will attempt to bend it.&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;I straightway seize the unfutile tales,<br/>
And send them down in faithful verse.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
His philosophy of life is expressed in the opening of the third Duan of
Ca-Lodin.
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;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&rsquo; deeds alone?<br/>
I view the generations gone;<br/>
The past appears but dim;<br/>
As objects by the moon&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
The ignoble warriors die and are forgotten;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;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/>
&lsquo;The arms belonged to heroes gone;<br/>
We never heard their praise in song.&rsquo;&rdquo;
</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, &ldquo;Gray-haired Torkil of
Torne,&rdquo; seen in the skies,
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;Thou glidest away like receding ships.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
So when the hosts of Fingal and Starne approach to battle,
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;With murmurs loud, like rivers far,<br/>
The race of Torne hither moved.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
And when compelled to retire,
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;dragging his spear behind,<br/>
Cudulin sank in the distant wood,<br/>
Like a fire upblazing ere it dies.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
Nor did Fingal want a proper audience when he spoke;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;A thousand orators inclined<br/>
To hear the lay of Fingal.&rdquo;
</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">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
If Ossian&rsquo;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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
Crodar, blind and old, receives Ossian, son of Fingal, who comes to aid him in
war;&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;&lsquo;My eyes have failed,&rsquo; says he, &lsquo;Crodar is blind,<br/>
Is thy strength like that of thy fathers?<br/>
Stretch, Ossian, thine arm to the hoary-haired.&rsquo;<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/>
&rsquo;Strong art thou, son of the mighty,<br/>
Though not so dreadful as Morven&rsquo;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.&rsquo;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Even Ossian himself, the hero-bard, pays tribute to the superior strength of
his father Fingal.
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;How beauteous, mighty man, was thy mind,<br/>
Why succeeded Ossian without its strength?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;
</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&rsquo;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;&mdash;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,&mdash;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?&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s pride.
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;And what&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
The air was really the &ldquo;fine element&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;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&rsquo;s splendid ray.<br/>
<br/>
&ldquo;The aster&rsquo;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/>
&ldquo;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&rsquo;er.<br/>
     *     *     *     *     *<br/>
&ldquo;No more the water-lily&rsquo;s pride<br/>
    In milk-white circles swims content,<br/>
No more the blue-weed&rsquo;s clusters ride<br/>
    And mock the heavens&rsquo; element.<br/>
     *     *     *     *     *<br/>
&ldquo;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/>
&ldquo;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/>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo; 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&rsquo; craft.
Certainly it blooms in no garden of man&rsquo;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;s banks, as on the Euphrates or the Nile. This
apple-tree, which stands within a few rods of the river, is called
&ldquo;Elisha&rsquo;s apple-tree,&rdquo; 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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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:&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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 &#923;&#8057;&#947;&#959;&#962; &#964;&#959;&#8166;
&#7956;&#961;&#947;&#959;&#965; &#7940;&#957;&#949;&#965;
&#8021;&#955;&#951;&#962;, <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&rsquo;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. &ldquo;The Greeks,&rdquo; says Gesner,
&ldquo;had a common proverb (&#923;&#945;&#947;&#959;&#962;
&#954;&#945;&#952;&#949;&#965;&#948;&#959;&#957;) 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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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 &ldquo;not the smallest trace of
vegetation,&rdquo; 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;&mdash;the practical British reviewer proceeds thus,
sticking to his last, &ldquo;On the 22d of January, afternoon, the Expedition
made the latitude of 74° 20&rsquo; 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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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 &ldquo;right as divers pathes leaden
divers folke the right waye to Rome.&rdquo; In the Testament of Love he writes,
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;For first the thing is thought within the hart,<br/>
Er any word out from the mouth astart.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,
&ldquo;Ah, my dear God!&rdquo; Our poet uses similar words with propriety; and
whenever he sees a beautiful person, or other object, prides himself on the
&ldquo;maistry&rdquo; of his God. He even recommends Dido to be his
bride,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;if that God that heaven and yearth made,<br/>
Would have a love for beauty and goodnesse,<br/>
And womanhede, trouth, and semeliness.&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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, &ldquo;a smoother and polisher of language&rdquo;; 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>
&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;
</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,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s last words were
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;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&rsquo; state and the stars,&rdquo;
</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">
&ldquo;Although we see celestial bodies move<br/>
Above the earth, the earth we till and love.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
We can conceive of nothing more fair than something which we have experienced.
&ldquo;The remembrance of youth is a sigh.&rdquo; 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,
&#947;&#951;&#947;&#949;&#957;&#949;&#8150;&#962;, 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">
&ldquo;Largior hic campos æther et lumine vestit<br/>
Purpureo: Solemque suum, sua sidera nôrunt.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
&ldquo;Here a more copious air invests the fields, and clothes with purple
light; and they know their own sun and their own stars.&rdquo; 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">
        &ldquo;Unless above himself he can<br/>
Erect himself, how poor a thing is man!&rdquo;
</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">
&ldquo;I asked the schoolman, his advice was free,<br/>
But scored me out too intricate a way.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s vicinity. There,
too, does Echo dwell, and there is the abutment of the rainbow&rsquo;s arch.
</p>

<p class="poem">
A finer race and finer fed<br/>
Feast and revel o&rsquo;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 &ldquo;the Heavens,&rdquo; but the
seer will in the same sense speak of &ldquo;the Earths,&rdquo; and his Father
who is in them. &ldquo;Did not he that made that which is <i>within</i>, make
that which is <i>without</i> also?&rdquo; 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,&mdash;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, &ldquo;As a dancer, having exhibited herself to the
spectator, desists from the dance, so does Nature desist, having manifested
herself to soul&mdash;. 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.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;re rife.<br/>
<br/>
But now I see I was not plucked for naught,<br/>
        And after in life&rsquo;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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,&mdash;but what are
they all worth? They are more waste land in the West,&mdash;star
territory,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,&mdash;for there must be
subordination,&mdash;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 &ldquo;a little alloy of
dulness in a master of a college makes him fitter to manage secular
affairs.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;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&rsquo;s so small,<br/>
Has a true grief, and the best Faith of all.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
Or be encouraged by this other poet&rsquo;s strain,&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
&ldquo;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&rsquo;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/>
&ldquo;Mountains he flings in seas with mighty hand;<br/>
    Stops and turns back the sun&rsquo;s impetuous course;<br/>
Nature breaks Nature&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="noindent">
&ldquo;Yesterday, at dawn,&rdquo; says Hafiz, &ldquo;God delivered me from all
worldly affliction; and amidst the gloom of night presented me with the water
of immortality.&rdquo;
</p>

<p class="p2">
In the life of Sadi by Dowlat Shah occurs this sentence: &ldquo;The eagle of
the immaterial soul of Shaikh Sadi shook from his plumage the dust of his
body.&rdquo;
</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,&mdash;their lofty and silent flight, as they were wending
their way at evening, surely not to alight in any marsh on the earth&rsquo;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&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;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&rsquo;s yet left thee of life&rsquo;s wasting day:<br/>
        Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn,<br/>
        And twice it is not given thee to be born.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The sun-setting presumed all men at leisure, and in a contemplative mood; but
the farmer&rsquo;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">
&ldquo;Pulsæ referunt ad sidera valles,&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;s first voyage the natives &ldquo;pointed
towards the heavens, making signs that they believed that there was all power
and holiness.&rdquo; 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.
&ldquo;Let the immortal depth of your soul lead you, but earnestly extend your
eyes upwards.&rdquo;
</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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s aim to
say once and emphatically, &ldquo;He said,&rdquo; &#7956;&#966;&#951;, &#7956;.
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-->

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