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A WEEK ON THE CONCORD AND MERRIMACK RIVERS


by HENRY D. THOREAU


  
AUTHOR OF “WALDEN,” ETC.
    
      
 
    

    
    
      
    
    
      Contents
    

   
          
               CONCORD RIVER. 

               SATURDAY 
 
               SUNDAY 

               MONDAY 
 
               TUESDAY 

               WEDNESDAY 

               THURSDAY 

               FRIDAY 

          
        
    
      
 
    
    
    
      
    

     Where’er thou sail’st who sailed with me,
     Though now thou climbest loftier mounts,
     And fairer rivers dost ascend,
     Be thou my Muse, my Brother—.

     I am bound, I am bound, for a distant shore,
     By a lonely isle, by a far Azore,
     There it is, there it is, the treasure I seek,
     On the barren sands of a desolate creek.

     I sailed up a river with a pleasant wind,
     New lands, new people, and new thoughts to find;
     Many fair reaches and headlands appeared,
     And many dangers were there to be feared;
     But when I remember where I have been,
     And the fair landscapes that I have seen,
     Thou seemest the only permanent shore,
     The cape never rounded, nor wandered o’er.


    


     Fluminaque obliquis cinxit declivia ripis;
     Quæ, diversa locis, partim sorbentur ab ipsa;
     In mare perveniunt partim, campoque recepta
     Liberioris aquæ, pro ripis litora pulsant.
Ovid, Met.  I.  39

   He confined the rivers within their sloping banks,
   Which in different places are part absorbed by the earth,
   Part reach the sea, and being received within the plain
   Of its freer waters, beat the shore for banks.

    
      
 
 
       
    
    
      


    

CONCORD RIVER.

     “Beneath low hills, in the broad interval
     Through which at will our Indian rivulet
     Winds mindful still of sannup and of squaw,
     Whose pipe and arrow oft the plough unburies,
     Here, in pine houses, built of new-fallen trees,
     Supplanters of the tribe, the farmers dwell.”

                                          Emerson.

The Musketaquid, or Grass-ground River, though probably as old as
the Nile or Euphrates, did not begin to have a place in civilized
history, until the fame of its grassy meadows and its fish
attracted settlers out of England in 1635, when it received the
other but kindred name of Concord from the first plantation on
its banks, which appears to have been commenced in a spirit of
peace and harmony.  It will be Grass-ground River as long as grass
grows and water runs here; it will be Concord River only while
men lead peaceable lives on its banks.  To an extinct race it was
grass-ground, where they hunted and fished, and it is still
perennial grass-ground to Concord farmers, who own the Great
Meadows, and get the hay from year to year.  “One branch of it,”
according to the historian of Concord, for I love to quote so
good authority, “rises in the south part of Hopkinton, and
another from a pond and a large cedar-swamp in Westborough,” and
flowing between Hopkinton and Southborough, through Framingham,
and between Sudbury and Wayland, where it is sometimes called
Sudbury River, it enters Concord at the south part of the town,
and after receiving the North or Assabeth River, which has its
source a little farther to the north and west, goes out at the
northeast angle, and flowing between Bedford and Carlisle, and
through Billerica, empties into the Merrimack at Lowell.  In
Concord it is, in summer, from four to fifteen feet deep, and
from one hundred to three hundred feet wide, but in the spring
freshets, when it overflows its banks, it is in some places
nearly a mile wide.  Between Sudbury and Wayland the meadows
acquire their greatest breadth, and when covered with water, they
form a handsome chain of shallow vernal lakes, resorted to by
numerous gulls and ducks.  Just above Sherman’s Bridge, between
these towns, is the largest expanse, and when the wind blows
freshly in a raw March day, heaving up the surface into dark and
sober billows or regular swells, skirted as it is in the distance
with alder-swamps and smoke-like maples, it looks like a smaller
Lake Huron, and is very pleasant and exciting for a landsman to
row or sail over.  The farm-houses along the Sudbury shore, which
rises gently to a considerable height, command fine water
prospects at this season.  The shore is more flat on the Wayland
side, and this town is the greatest loser by the flood.  Its
farmers tell me that thousands of acres are flooded now, since
the dams have been erected, where they remember to have seen the
white honeysuckle or clover growing once, and they could go dry
with shoes only in summer.  Now there is nothing but blue-joint
and sedge and cut-grass there, standing in water all the year
round.  For a long time, they made the most of the driest season
to get their hay, working sometimes till nine o’clock at night,
sedulously paring with their scythes in the twilight round the
hummocks left by the ice; but now it is not worth the getting
when they can come at it, and they look sadly round to their
wood-lots and upland as a last resource.

It is worth the while to make a voyage up this stream, if you go
no farther than Sudbury, only to see how much country there is in
the rear of us; great hills, and a hundred brooks, and
farm-houses, and barns, and haystacks, you never saw before, and
men everywhere, Sudbury, that is Southborough men, and Wayland,
and Nine-Acre-Corner men, and Bound Rock, where four towns bound
on a rock in the river, Lincoln, Wayland, Sudbury, Concord.  Many
waves are there agitated by the wind, keeping nature fresh, the
spray blowing in your face, reeds and rushes waving; ducks by the
hundred, all uneasy in the surf, in the raw wind, just ready to
rise, and now going off with a clatter and a whistling like
riggers straight for Labrador, flying against the stiff gale with
reefed wings, or else circling round first, with all their
paddles briskly moving, just over the surf, to reconnoitre you
before they leave these parts; gulls wheeling overhead, muskrats
swimming for dear life, wet and cold, with no fire to warm them
by that you know of; their labored homes rising here and there
like haystacks; and countless mice and moles and winged titmice
along the sunny windy shore; cranberries tossed on the waves and
heaving up on the beach, their little red skiffs beating about
among the alders;—such healthy natural tumult as proves the last
day is not yet at hand.  And there stand all around the alders,
and birches, and oaks, and maples full of glee and sap, holding
in their buds until the waters subside.  You shall perhaps run
aground on Cranberry Island, only some spires of last year’s
pipe-grass above water, to show where the danger is, and get as
good a freezing there as anywhere on the Northwest Coast.  I never
voyaged so far in all my life.  You shall see men you never heard
of before, whose names you don’t know, going away down through
the meadows with long ducking-guns, with water-tight boots wading
through the fowl-meadow grass, on bleak, wintry, distant shores,
with guns at half-cock, and they shall see teal, blue-winged,
green-winged, shelldrakes, whistlers, black ducks, ospreys, and
many other wild and noble sights before night, such as they who
sit in parlors never dream of.  You shall see rude and sturdy,
experienced and wise men, keeping their castles, or teaming up
their summer’s wood, or chopping alone in the woods, men fuller
of talk and rare adventure in the sun and wind and rain, than a
chestnut is of meat; who were out not only in ’75 and 1812, but
have been out every day of their lives; greater men than Homer,
or Chaucer, or Shakespeare, only they never got time to say so;
they never took to the way of writing.  Look at their fields, and
imagine what they might write, if ever they should put pen to
paper.  Or what have they not written on the face of the earth
already, clearing, and burning, and scratching, and harrowing,
and ploughing, and subsoiling, in and in, and out and out, and
over and over, again and again, erasing what they had already
written for want of parchment.

As yesterday and the historical ages are past, as the work of
to-day is present, so some flitting perspectives, and
demi-experiences of the life that is in nature are in time
veritably future, or rather outside to time, perennial, young,
divine, in the wind and rain which never die.

     The respectable folks,—
     Where dwell they?
     They whisper in the oaks,
     And they sigh in the hay;
     Summer and winter, night and day,
     Out on the meadow, there dwell they.
     They never die,
     Nor snivel, nor cry,
     Nor ask our pity
     With a wet eye.
     A sound estate they ever mend
     To every asker readily lend;
     To the ocean wealth,
     To the meadow health,
     To Time his length,
     To the rocks strength,
     To the stars light,
     To the weary night,
     To the busy day,
     To the idle play;
     And so their good cheer never ends,
     For all are their debtors, and all their friends.

Concord River is remarkable for the gentleness of its current,
which is scarcely perceptible, and some have referred to its
influence the proverbial moderation of the inhabitants of
Concord, as exhibited in the Revolution, and on later occasions.
It has been proposed, that the town should adopt for its coat of
arms a field verdant, with the Concord circling nine times round.
I have read that a descent of an eighth of an inch in a mile is
sufficient to produce a flow.  Our river has, probably, very near
the smallest allowance.  The story is current, at any rate,
though I believe that strict history will not bear it out, that
the only bridge ever carried away on the main branch, within the
limits of the town, was driven up stream by the wind.  But
wherever it makes a sudden bend it is shallower and swifter, and
asserts its title to be called a river.  Compared with the other
tributaries of the Merrimack, it appears to have been properly
named Musketaquid, or Meadow River, by the Indians.  For the most
part, it creeps through broad meadows, adorned with scattered
oaks, where the cranberry is found in abundance, covering the
ground like a moss-bed.  A row of sunken dwarf willows borders
the stream on one or both sides, while at a greater distance the
meadow is skirted with maples, alders, and other fluviatile
trees, overrun with the grape-vine, which bears fruit in its
season, purple, red, white, and other grapes.  Still farther from
the stream, on the edge of the firm land, are seen the gray and
white dwellings of the inhabitants.  According to the valuation
of 1831, there were in Concord two thousand one hundred and
eleven acres, or about one seventh of the whole territory in
meadow; this standing next in the list after pasturage and
unimproved lands, and, judging from the returns of previous
years, the meadow is not reclaimed so fast as the woods are
cleared.

Let us here read what old Johnson says of these meadows in his
“Wonder-working Providence,” which gives the account of New
England from 1628 to 1652, and see how matters looked to him.  He
says of the Twelfth Church of Christ gathered at Concord: “This
town is seated upon a fair fresh river, whose rivulets are filled
with fresh marsh, and her streams with fish, it being a branch of
that large river of Merrimack.  Allwifes and shad in their season
come up to this town, but salmon and dace cannot come up, by
reason of the rocky falls, which causeth their meadows to lie
much covered with water, the which these people, together with
their neighbor town, have several times essayed to cut through
but cannot, yet it may be turned another way with an hundred
pound charge as it appeared.”  As to their farming he says:
“Having laid out their estate upon cattle at 5 to 20 pound a cow,
when they came to winter them with inland hay, and feed upon such
wild fother as was never cut before, they could not hold out the
winter, but, ordinarily the first or second year after their
coming up to a new plantation, many of their cattle died.” And
this from the same author “Of the Planting of the 19th Church in
the Mattachusets’ Government, called Sudbury”: “This year [does
he mean 1654] the town and church of Christ at Sudbury began to
have the first foundation stones laid, taking up her station in
the inland country, as her elder sister Concord had formerly
done, lying further up the same river, being furnished with great
plenty of fresh marsh, but, it lying very low is much indamaged
with land floods, insomuch that when the summer proves wet they
lose part of their hay; yet are they so sufficiently provided
that they take in cattle of other towns to winter.”

The sluggish artery of the Concord meadows steals thus unobserved
through the town, without a murmur or a pulse-beat, its general
course from southwest to northeast, and its length about fifty
miles; a huge volume of matter, ceaselessly rolling through the
plains and valleys of the substantial earth with the moccasoned
tread of an Indian warrior, making haste from the high places of
the earth to its ancient reservoir.  The murmurs of many a famous
river on the other side of the globe reach even to us here, as to
more distant dwellers on its banks; many a poet’s stream floating
the helms and shields of heroes on its bosom.  The Xanthus or
Scamander is not a mere dry channel and bed of a mountain
torrent, but fed by the everflowing springs of fame;—

    “And thou Simois, that as an arrowe, clere
     Through Troy rennest, aie downward to the sea”;—

and I trust that I may be allowed to associate our muddy but much
abused Concord River with the most famous in history.

    “Sure there are poets which did never dream
     Upon Parnassus, nor did taste the stream
     Of Helicon; we therefore may suppose
     Those made not poets, but the poets those.”

The Mississippi, the Ganges, and the Nile, those journeying atoms
from the Rocky Mountains, the Himmaleh, and Mountains of the
Moon, have a kind of personal importance in the annals of the
world.  The heavens are not yet drained over their sources, but
the Mountains of the Moon still send their annual tribute to the
Pasha without fail, as they did to the Pharaohs, though he must
collect the rest of his revenue at the point of the sword.
Rivers must have been the guides which conducted the footsteps of
the first travellers.  They are the constant lure, when they flow
by our doors, to distant enterprise and adventure, and, by a
natural impulse, the dwellers on their banks will at length
accompany their currents to the lowlands of the globe, or explore
at their invitation the interior of continents.  They are the
natural highways of all nations, not only levelling the ground
and removing obstacles from the path of the traveller, quenching
his thirst and bearing him on their bosoms, but conducting him
through the most interesting scenery, the most populous portions
of the globe, and where the animal and vegetable kingdoms attain
their greatest perfection.

I had often stood on the banks of the Concord, watching the lapse
of the current, an emblem of all progress, following the same law
with the system, with time, and all that is made; the weeds at
the bottom gently bending down the stream, shaken by the watery
wind, still planted where their seeds had sunk, but erelong to
die and go down likewise; the shining pebbles, not yet anxious to
better their condition, the chips and weeds, and occasional logs
and stems of trees that floated past, fulfilling their fate, were
objects of singular interest to me, and at last I resolved to
launch myself on its bosom and float whither it would bear me.

    
      
 
 
       
    
    
      


    

SATURDAY.

   “Come, come, my lovely fair, and let us try
    Those rural delicacies.”
               Christ’s Invitation to the Soul.

                                            Quarles

SATURDAY.


At length, on Saturday, the last day of August, 1839, we two,
brothers, and natives of Concord, weighed anchor in this river
port; for Concord, too, lies under the sun, a port of entry and
departure for the bodies as well as the souls of men; one shore
at least exempted from all duties but such as an honest man will
gladly discharge.  A warm drizzling rain had obscured the
morning, and threatened to delay our voyage, but at length the
leaves and grass were dried, and it came out a mild afternoon, as
serene and fresh as if Nature were maturing some greater scheme
of her own.  After this long dripping and oozing from every pore,
she began to respire again more healthily than ever.  So with a
vigorous shove we launched our boat from the bank, while the
flags and bulrushes courtesied a God-speed, and dropped silently
down the stream.

Our boat, which had cost us a week’s labor in the spring, was in
form like a fisherman’s dory, fifteen feet long by three and a
half in breadth at the widest part, painted green below, with a
border of blue, with reference to the two elements in which it
was to spend its existence.  It had been loaded the evening before
at our door, half a mile from the river, with potatoes and melons
from a patch which we had cultivated, and a few utensils, and was
provided with wheels in order to be rolled around falls, as well
as with two sets of oars, and several slender poles for shoving
in shallow places, and also two masts, one of which served for a
tent-pole at night; for a buffalo-skin was to be our bed, and a
tent of cotton cloth our roof.  It was strongly built, but heavy,
and hardly of better model than usual.  If rightly made, a boat
would be a sort of amphibious animal, a creature of two elements,
related by one half its structure to some swift and shapely fish,
and by the other to some strong-winged and graceful bird.  The
fish shows where there should be the greatest breadth of beam and
depth in the hold; its fins direct where to set the oars, and the
tail gives some hint for the form and position of the rudder.  The
bird shows how to rig and trim the sails, and what form to give
to the prow that it may balance the boat, and divide the air and
water best.  These hints we had but partially obeyed.  But the
eyes, though they are no sailors, will never be satisfied with
any model, however fashionable, which does not answer all the
requisitions of art.  However, as art is all of a ship but the
wood, and yet the wood alone will rudely serve the purpose of a
ship, so our boat, being of wood, gladly availed itself of the
old law that the heavier shall float the lighter, and though a
dull water-fowl, proved a sufficient buoy for our purpose.

    “Were it the will of Heaven, an osier bough
     Were vessel safe enough the seas to plough.”

Some village friends stood upon a promontory lower down the
stream to wave us a last farewell; but we, having already
performed these shore rites, with excusable reserve, as befits
those who are embarked on unusual enterprises, who behold but
speak not, silently glided past the firm lands of Concord, both
peopled cape and lonely summer meadow, with steady sweeps.  And
yet we did unbend so far as to let our guns speak for us, when at
length we had swept out of sight, and thus left the woods to ring
again with their echoes; and it may be many russet-clad children,
lurking in those broad meadows, with the bittern and the woodcock
and the rail, though wholly concealed by brakes and hardhack and
meadow-sweet, heard our salute that afternoon.

We were soon floating past the first regular battle ground of the
Revolution, resting on our oars between the still visible
abutments of that “North Bridge,” over which in April, 1775,
rolled the first faint tide of that war, which ceased not, till,
as we read on the stone on our right, it “gave peace to these
United States.” As a Concord poet has sung:—

    “By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
      Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
    Here once the embattled farmers stood,
      And fired the shot heard round the world.
    “The foe long since in silence slept;
      Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
    And Time the ruined bridge has swept
      Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.”

Our reflections had already acquired a historical remoteness from
the scenes we had left, and we ourselves essayed to sing.

    Ah, ’t is in vain the peaceful din
      That wakes the ignoble town,
    Not thus did braver spirits win
      A patriot’s renown.
    There is one field beside this stream,
      Wherein no foot does fall,
    But yet it beareth in my dream
      A richer crop than all.
    Let me believe a dream so dear,
     Some heart beat high that day,
    Above the petty Province here,
     And Britain far away;
    Some hero of the ancient mould,
     Some arm of knightly worth,
    Of strength unbought, and faith unsold,
     Honored this spot of earth;
    Who sought the prize his heart described,
     And did not ask release,
    Whose free-born valor was not bribed
     By prospect of a peace.
    The men who stood on yonder height
     That day are long since gone;
    Not the same hand directs the fight
     And monumental stone.
    Ye were the Grecian cities then,
     The Romes of modern birth,
    Where the New England husbandmen
     Have shown a Roman worth.
    In vain I search a foreign land
     To find our Bunker Hill,
    And Lexington and Concord stand
     By no Laconian rill.

With such thoughts we swept gently by this now peaceful
pasture-ground, on waves of Concord, in which was long since
drowned the din of war.

    But since we sailed
    Some things have failed,
    And many a dream
    Gone down the stream.
    Here then an aged shepherd dwelt,
    Who to his flock his substance dealt,
    And ruled them with a vigorous crook,
    By precept of the sacred Book;
    But he the pierless bridge passed o’er,
    And solitary left the shore.
    Anon a youthful pastor came,
    Whose crook was not unknown to fame,
    His lambs he viewed with gentle glance,
    Spread o’er the country’s wide expanse,
    And fed with “Mosses from the Manse.”
    Here was our Hawthorne in the dale,
    And here the shepherd told his tale.

That slight shaft had now sunk behind the hills, and we had
floated round the neighboring bend, and under the new North
Bridge between Ponkawtasset and the Poplar Hill, into the Great
Meadows, which, like a broad moccason print, have levelled a
fertile and juicy place in nature.

     On Ponkawtasset, since, we took our way,
     Down this still stream to far Billericay,
     A poet wise has settled, whose fine ray
     Doth often shine on Concord’s twilight day.
     Like those first stars, whose silver beams on high,
     Shining more brightly as the day goes by,
     Most travellers cannot at first descry,
     But eyes that wont to range the evening sky,
     And know celestial lights, do plainly see,
     And gladly hail them, numbering two or three;
     For lore that’s deep must deeply studied be,
     As from deep wells men read star-poetry.
     These stars are never paled, though out of sight,
     But like the sun they shine forever bright;
     Ay, they are suns, though earth must in its flight
     Put out its eyes that it may see their light.
     Who would neglect the least celestial sound,
     Or faintest light that falls on earthly ground,
     If he could know it one day would be found
     That star in Cygnus whither we are bound,
     And pale our sun with heavenly radiance round?

Gradually the village murmur subsided, and we seemed to be
embarked on the placid current of our dreams, floating from past
to future as silently as one awakes to fresh morning or evening
thoughts.  We glided noiselessly down the stream, occasionally
driving a pickerel or a bream from the covert of the pads, and
the smaller bittern now and then sailed away on sluggish wings
from some recess in the shore, or the larger lifted itself out of
the long grass at our approach, and carried its precious legs
away to deposit them in a place of safety.  The tortoises also
rapidly dropped into the water, as our boat ruffled the surface
amid the willows, breaking the reflections of the trees.  The
banks had passed the height of their beauty, and some of the
brighter flowers showed by their faded tints that the season was
verging towards the afternoon of the year; but this sombre tinge
enhanced their sincerity, and in the still unabated heats they
seemed like the mossy brink of some cool well.  The narrow-leaved
willow (Salix Purshiana) lay along the surface of the water in
masses of light green foliage, interspersed with the large balls
of the button-bush.  The small rose- polygonum raised its
head proudly above the water on either hand, and flowering at
this season and in these localities, in front of dense fields of
the white species which skirted the sides of the stream, its
little streak of red looked very rare and precious.  The pure
white blossoms of the arrow-head stood in the shallower parts,
and a few cardinals on the margin still proudly surveyed
themselves reflected in the water, though the latter, as well
as the pickerel-weed, was now nearly out of blossom.  The
snake-head, Chelone glabra, grew close to the shore, while a
kind of coreopsis, turning its brazen face to the sun, full and
rank, and a tall dull red flower, Eupatorium purpureum, or
trumpet-weed, formed the rear rank of the fluvial array.  The
bright blue flowers of the soap-wort gentian were sprinkled here
and there in the adjacent meadows, like flowers which Proserpine
had dropped, and still farther in the fields or higher on the
bank were seen the purple Gerardia, the Virginian rhexia, and
drooping neottia or ladies’-tresses; while from the more distant
waysides which we occasionally passed, and banks where the sun
had lodged, was reflected still a dull yellow beam from the ranks
of tansy, now past its prime.  In short, Nature seemed to have
adorned herself for our departure with a profusion of fringes and
curls, mingled with the bright tints of flowers, reflected in the
water.  But we missed the white water-lily, which is the queen of
river flowers, its reign being over for this season.  He makes
his voyage too late, perhaps, by a true water clock who delays so
long.  Many of this species inhabit our Concord water.  I have
passed down the river before sunrise on a summer morning between
fields of lilies still shut in sleep; and when, at length, the
flakes of sunlight from over the bank fell on the surface of the
water, whole fields of white blossoms seemed to flash open before
me, as I floated along, like the unfolding of a banner, so
sensible is this flower to the influence of the sun’s rays.

As we were floating through the last of these familiar meadows,
we observed the large and conspicuous flowers of the hibiscus,
covering the dwarf willows, and mingled with the leaves of the
grape, and wished that we could inform one of our friends behind
of the locality of this somewhat rare and inaccessible flower
before it was too late to pluck it; but we were just gliding out
of sight of the village spire before it occurred to us that the
farmer in the adjacent meadow would go to church on the morrow,
and would carry this news for us; and so by the Monday, while we
should be floating on the Merrimack, our friend would be reaching
to pluck this blossom on the bank of the Concord.

After a pause at Ball’s Hill, the St. Ann’s of Concord voyageurs,
not to say any prayer for the success of our voyage, but to
gather the few berries which were still left on the hills,
hanging by very slender threads, we weighed anchor again, and
were soon out of sight of our native village.  The land seemed to
grow fairer as we withdrew from it.  Far away to the southwest
lay the quiet village, left alone under its elms and buttonwoods
in mid afternoon; and the hills, notwithstanding their blue,
ethereal faces, seemed to cast a saddened eye on their old
playfellows; but, turning short to the north, we bade adieu to
their familiar outlines, and addressed ourselves to new scenes
and adventures.  Naught was familiar but the heavens, from under
whose roof the voyageur never passes; but with their countenance,
and the acquaintance we had with river and wood, we trusted to
fare well under any circumstances.

From this point, the river runs perfectly straight for a mile or
more to Carlisle Bridge, which consists of twenty wooden piers,
and when we looked back over it, its surface was reduced to a
line’s breadth, and appeared like a cobweb gleaming in the sun.
Here and there might be seen a pole sticking up, to mark the
place where some fisherman had enjoyed unusual luck, and in
return had consecrated his rod to the deities who preside over
these shallows.  It was full twice as broad as before, deep and
tranquil, with a muddy bottom, and bordered with willows, beyond
which spread broad lagoons covered with pads, bulrushes, and
flags.

Late in the afternoon we passed a man on the shore fishing with a
long birch pole, its silvery bark left on, and a dog at his side,
rowing so near as to agitate his cork with our oars, and drive
away luck for a season; and when we had rowed a mile as straight
as an arrow, with our faces turned towards him, and the bubbles
in our wake still visible on the tranquil surface, there stood
the fisher still with his dog, like statues under the other side
of the heavens, the only objects to relieve the eye in the
extended meadow; and there would he stand abiding his luck, till
he took his way home through the fields at evening with his
fish.  Thus, by one bait or another, Nature allures inhabitants
into all her recesses.  This man was the last of our townsmen
whom we saw, and we silently through him bade adieu to our
friends.

The characteristics and pursuits of various ages and races of men
are always existing in epitome in every neighborhood.  The
pleasures of my earliest youth have become the inheritance of
other men.  This man is still a fisher, and belongs to an era in
which I myself have lived.  Perchance he is not confounded by many
knowledges, and has not sought out many inventions, but how to
take many fishes before the sun sets, with his slender birchen
pole and flaxen line, that is invention enough for him.  It is
good even to be a fisherman in summer and in winter.  Some men are
judges these August days, sitting on benches, even till the court
rises; they sit judging there honorably, between the seasons and
between meals, leading a civil politic life, arbitrating in the
case of Spaulding versus Cummings, it may be, from highest noon
till the red vesper sinks into the west.  The fisherman,
meanwhile, stands in three feet of water, under the same summer’s
sun, arbitrating in other cases between muckworm and shiner, amid
the fragrance of water-lilies, mint, and pontederia, leading his
life many rods from the dry land, within a pole’s length of where
the larger fishes swim.  Human life is to him very much like a
river,

   “renning aie downward to the sea.”

This was his observation.  His honor made a great discovery in
bailments.

I can just remember an old brown-coated man who was the Walton of
this stream, who had come over from Newcastle, England, with his
son,—the latter a stout and hearty man who had lifted an anchor
in his day.  A straight old man he was who took his way in silence
through the meadows, having passed the period of communication
with his fellows; his old experienced coat, hanging long and
straight and brown as the yellow-pine bark, glittering with so
much smothered sunlight, if you stood near enough, no work of art
but naturalized at length.  I often discovered him unexpectedly
amid the pads and the gray willows when he moved, fishing in some
old country method,—for youth and age then went a fishing
together,—full of incommunicable thoughts, perchance about his
own Tyne and Northumberland.  He was always to be seen in serene
afternoons haunting the river, and almost rustling with the
sedge; so many sunny hours in an old man’s life, entrapping silly
fish; almost grown to be the sun’s familiar; what need had he of
hat or raiment any, having served out his time, and seen through
such thin disguises?  I have seen how his coeval fates rewarded
him with the yellow perch, and yet I thought his luck was not in
proportion to his years; and I have seen when, with slow steps
and weighed down with aged thoughts, he disappeared with his fish
under his low-roofed house on the skirts of the village.  I think
nobody else saw him; nobody else remembers him now, for he soon
after died, and migrated to new Tyne streams.  His fishing was
not a sport, nor solely a means of subsistence, but a sort of
solemn sacrament and withdrawal from the world, just as the aged
read their Bibles.

Whether we live by the seaside, or by the lakes and rivers, or on
the prairie, it concerns us to attend to the nature of fishes,
since they are not phenomena confined to certain localities only,
but forms and phases of the life in nature universally dispersed.
The countless shoals which annually coast the shores of Europe
and America are not so interesting to the student of nature, as
the more fertile law itself, which deposits their spawn on the
tops of mountains, and on the interior plains; the fish principle
in nature, from which it results that they may be found in water
in so many places, in greater or less numbers.  The natural
historian is not a fisherman, who prays for cloudy days and good
luck merely, but as fishing has been styled “a contemplative
man’s recreation,” introducing him profitably to woods and water,
so the fruit of the naturalist’s observations is not in new
genera or species, but in new contemplations still, and science
is only a more contemplative man’s recreation.  The seeds of the
life of fishes are everywhere disseminated, whether the winds
waft them, or the waters float them, or the deep earth holds
them; wherever a pond is dug, straightway it is stocked with this
vivacious race.  They have a lease of nature, and it is not yet
out.  The Chinese are bribed to carry their ova from province to
province in jars or in hollow reeds, or the water-birds to
transport them to the mountain tarns and interior lakes.  There
are fishes wherever there is a fluid medium, and even in clouds
and in melted metals we detect their semblance.  Think how in
winter you can sink a line down straight in a pasture through
snow and through ice, and pull up a bright, slippery, dumb,
subterranean silver or golden fish!  It is curious, also, to
reflect how they make one family, from the largest to the
smallest.  The least minnow that lies on the ice as bait for
pickerel, looks like a huge sea-fish cast up on the shore.  In
the waters of this town there are about a dozen distinct species,
though the inexperienced would expect many more.

It enhances our sense of the grand security and serenity of
nature, to observe the still undisturbed economy and content of
the fishes of this century, their happiness a regular fruit of
the summer.  The Fresh-Water Sun-Fish, Bream, or Ruff, Pomotis
vulgaris, as it were, without ancestry, without posterity, still
represents the Fresh-Water Sun-Fish in nature.  It is the most
common of all, and seen on every urchin’s string; a simple and
inoffensive fish, whose nests are visible all along the shore,
hollowed in the sand, over which it is steadily poised through
the summer hours on waving fin.  Sometimes there are twenty or
thirty nests in the space of a few rods, two feet wide by half a
foot in depth, and made with no little labor, the weeds being
removed, and the sand shoved up on the sides, like a bowl.  Here
it may be seen early in summer assiduously brooding, and driving
away minnows and larger fishes, even its own species, which would
disturb its ova, pursuing them a few feet, and circling round
swiftly to its nest again: the minnows, like young sharks,
instantly entering the empty nests, meanwhile, and swallowing the
spawn, which is attached to the weeds and to the bottom, on the
sunny side.  The spawn is exposed to so many dangers, that a very
small proportion can ever become fishes, for beside being the
constant prey of birds and fishes, a great many nests are made so
near the shore, in shallow water, that they are left dry in a few
days, as the river goes down.  These and the lamprey’s are the
only fishes’ nests that I have observed, though the ova of some
species may be seen floating on the surface.  The breams are so
careful of their charge that you may stand close by in the water
and examine them at your leisure.  I have thus stood over them
half an hour at a time, and stroked them familiarly without
frightening them, suffering them to nibble my fingers harmlessly,
and seen them erect their dorsal fins in anger when my hand
approached their ova, and have even taken them gently out of the
water with my hand; though this cannot be accomplished by a
sudden movement, however dexterous, for instant warning is
conveyed to them through their denser element, but only by
letting the fingers gradually close about them as they are poised
over the palm, and with the utmost gentleness raising them slowly
to the surface.  Though stationary, they keep up a constant
sculling or waving motion with their fins, which is exceedingly
graceful, and expressive of their humble happiness; for unlike
ours, the element in which they live is a stream which must be
constantly resisted.  From time to time they nibble the weeds at
the bottom or overhanging their nests, or dart after a fly or a
worm.  The dorsal fin, besides answering the purpose of a keel,
with the anal, serves to keep the fish upright, for in shallow
water, where this is not covered, they fall on their sides.  As
you stand thus stooping over the bream in its nest, the edges of
the dorsal and caudal fins have a singular dusty golden
reflection, and its eyes, which stand out from the head, are
transparent and colorless.  Seen in its native element, it is a
very beautiful and compact fish, perfect in all its parts, and
looks like a brilliant coin fresh from the mint.  It is a perfect
jewel of the river, the green, red, coppery, and golden
reflections of its mottled sides being the concentration of such
rays as struggle through the floating pads and flowers to the
sandy bottom, and in harmony with the sunlit brown and yellow
pebbles.  Behind its watery shield it dwells far from many
accidents inevitable to human life.

There is also another species of bream found in our river,
without the red spot on the operculum, which, according to
M.  Agassiz, is undescribed.

The Common Perch, Perca flavescens, which name describes well the
gleaming, golden reflections of its scales as it is drawn out of
the water, its red gills standing out in vain in the thin
element, is one of the handsomest and most regularly formed of
our fishes, and at such a moment as this reminds us of the fish
in the picture which wished to be restored to its native element
until it had grown larger; and indeed most of this species that
are caught are not half grown.  In the ponds there is a
light- and slender kind, which swim in shoals of many
hundreds in the sunny water, in company with the shiner,
averaging not more than six or seven inches in length, while only
a few larger specimens are found in the deepest water, which prey
upon their weaker brethren.  I have often attracted these small
perch to the shore at evening, by rippling the water with my
fingers, and they may sometimes be caught while attempting to
pass inside your hands.  It is a tough and heedless fish, biting
from impulse, without nibbling, and from impulse refraining to
bite, and sculling indifferently past.  It rather prefers the
clear water and sandy bottoms, though here it has not much
choice.  It is a true fish, such as the angler loves to put into
his basket or hang at the top of his willow twig, in shady
afternoons along the banks of the stream.  So many unquestionable
fishes he counts, and so many shiners, which he counts and then
throws away.  Old Josselyn in his “New England’s Rarities,”
published in 1672, mentions the Perch or River Partridge.

The Chivin, Dace, Roach, Cousin Trout, or whatever else it is
called, Leuciscus pulchellus, white and red, always an unexpected
prize, which, however, any angler is glad to hook for its
rarity.  A name that reminds us of many an unsuccessful ramble by
swift streams, when the wind rose to disappoint the fisher.  It is
commonly a silvery soft-scaled fish, of graceful, scholarlike,
and classical look, like many a picture in an English book.  It
loves a swift current and a sandy bottom, and bites
inadvertently, yet not without appetite for the bait.  The
minnows are used as bait for pickerel in the winter.  The red
chivin, according to some, is still the same fish, only older, or
with its tints deepened as they think by the darker water it
inhabits, as the red clouds swim in the twilight atmosphere.  He
who has not hooked the red chivin is not yet a complete angler.
Other fishes, methinks, are slightly amphibious, but this is a
denizen of the water wholly.  The cork goes dancing down the
swift-rushing stream, amid the weeds and sands, when suddenly, by
a coincidence never to be remembered, emerges this fabulous
inhabitant of another element, a thing heard of but not seen, as
if it were the instant creation of an eddy, a true product of the
running stream.  And this bright cupreous dolphin was spawned and
has passed its life beneath the level of your feet in your native
fields.  Fishes too, as well as birds and clouds, derive their
armor from the mine.  I have heard of mackerel visiting the copper
banks at a particular season; this fish, perchance, has its
habitat in the Coppermine River.  I have caught white chivin of
great size in the Aboljacknagesic, where it empties into the
Penobscot, at the base of Mount Ktaadn, but no red ones
there.  The latter variety seems not to have been sufficiently
observed.

The Dace, Leuciscus argenteus, is a slight silvery minnow, found
generally in the middle of the stream, where the current is most
rapid, and frequently confounded with the last named.

The Shiner, Leuciscus crysoleucas, is a soft-scaled and tender
fish, the victim of its stronger neighbors, found in all places,
deep and shallow, clear and turbid; generally the first nibbler
at the bait, but, with its small mouth and nibbling propensities,
not easily caught.  It is a gold or silver bit that passes current
in the river, its limber tail dimpling the surface in sport or
flight.  I have seen the fry, when frightened by something thrown
into the water, leap out by dozens, together with the dace, and
wreck themselves upon a floating plank.  It is the little
light-infant of the river, with body armor of gold or silver
spangles, slipping, gliding its life through with a quirk of the
tail, half in the water, half in the air, upward and ever upward
with flitting fin to more crystalline tides, yet still abreast of
us dwellers on the bank.  It is almost dissolved by the summer
heats.  A slighter and lighter  shiner is found in one of
our ponds.

The Pickerel, Esox reticulatus, the swiftest, wariest, and most
ravenous of fishes, which Josselyn calls the Fresh-Water or River
Wolf, is very common in the shallow and weedy lagoons along the
sides of the stream.  It is a solemn, stately, ruminant fish,
lurking under the shadow of a pad at noon, with still,
circumspect, voracious eye, motionless as a jewel set in water,
or moving slowly along to take up its position, darting from time
to time at such unlucky fish or frog or insect as comes within
its range, and swallowing it at a gulp.  I have caught one which
had swallowed a brother pickerel half as large as itself, with
the tail still visible in its mouth, while the head was already
digested in its stomach.  Sometimes a striped snake, bound to
greener meadows across the stream, ends its undulatory progress
in the same receptacle.  They are so greedy and impetuous that
they are frequently caught by being entangled in the line the
moment it is cast.  Fishermen also distinguish the brook pickerel,
a shorter and thicker fish than the former.

The Horned Pout, Pimelodus nebulosus, sometimes called Minister,
from the peculiar squeaking noise it makes when drawn out of the
water, is a dull and blundering fellow, and like the eel
vespertinal in his habits, and fond of the mud.  It bites
deliberately as if about its business.  They are taken at night
with a mass of worms strung on a thread, which catches in their
teeth, sometimes three or four, with an eel, at one pull.  They
are extremely tenacious of life, opening and shutting their
mouths for half an hour after their heads have been cut off.  A
bloodthirsty and bullying race of rangers, inhabiting the fertile
river bottoms, with ever a lance in rest, and ready to do battle
with their nearest neighbor.  I have observed them in summer, when
every other one had a long and bloody scar upon his back, where
the skin was gone, the mark, perhaps, of some fierce
encounter.  Sometimes the fry, not an inch long, are seen
darkening the shore with their myriads.

The Suckers, Catostomi Bostonienses and tuberculati, Common and
Horned, perhaps on an average the largest of our fishes, may be
seen in shoals of a hundred or more, stemming the current in the
sun, on their mysterious migrations, and sometimes sucking in the
bait which the fisherman suffers to float toward them.  The
former, which sometimes grow to a large size, are frequently
caught by the hand in the brooks, or like the red chivin, are
jerked out by a hook fastened firmly to the end of a stick, and
placed under their jaws.  They are hardly known to the mere
angler, however, not often biting at his baits, though the
spearer carries home many a mess in the spring.  To our village
eyes, these shoals have a foreign and imposing aspect, realizing
the fertility of the seas.

The Common Eel, too, Muraena Bostoniensis, the only species of
eel known in the State, a slimy, squirming creature, informed of
mud, still squirming in the pan, is speared and hooked up with
various success.  Methinks it too occurs in picture, left after
the deluge, in many a meadow high and dry.

In the shallow parts of the river, where the current is rapid,
and the bottom pebbly, you may sometimes see the curious circular
nests of the Lamprey Eel, Petromyzon Americanus, the American
Stone-Sucker, as large as a cart-wheel, a foot or two in height,
and sometimes rising half a foot above the surface of the
water.  They collect these stones, of the size of a hen’s egg,
with their mouths, as their name implies, and are said to fashion
them into circles with their tails.  They ascend falls by clinging
to the stones, which may sometimes be raised, by lifting the fish
by the tail.  As they are not seen on their way down the streams,
it is thought by fishermen that they never return, but waste away
and die, clinging to rocks and stumps of trees for an indefinite
period; a tragic feature in the scenery of the river bottoms
worthy to be remembered with Shakespeare’s description of the
sea-floor.  They are rarely seen in our waters at present, on
account of the dams, though they are taken in great quantities at
the mouth of the river in Lowell.  Their nests, which are very
conspicuous, look more like art than anything in the river.

If we had leisure this afternoon, we might turn our prow up the
brooks in quest of the classical trout and the minnows.  Of the
last alone, according to M.  Agassiz, several of the species found
in this town are yet undescribed.  These would, perhaps, complete
the list of our finny contemporaries in the Concord waters.

Salmon, Shad, and Alewives were formerly abundant here, and taken
in weirs by the Indians, who taught this method to the whites, by
whom they were used as food and as manure, until the dam, and
afterward the canal at Billerica, and the factories at Lowell,
put an end to their migrations hitherward; though it is thought
that a few more enterprising shad may still occasionally be seen
in this part of the river.  It is said, to account for the
destruction of the fishery, that those who at that time
represented the interests of the fishermen and the fishes,
remembering between what dates they were accustomed to take the
grown shad, stipulated, that the dams should be left open for
that season only, and the fry, which go down a month later, were
consequently stopped and destroyed by myriads.  Others say that
the fish-ways were not properly constructed.  Perchance, after a
few thousands of years, if the fishes will be patient, and pass
their summers elsewhere, meanwhile, nature will have levelled the
Billerica dam, and the Lowell factories, and the Grass-ground
River run clear again, to be explored by new migratory shoals,
even as far as the Hopkinton pond and Westborough swamp.

One would like to know more of that race, now extinct, whose
seines lie rotting in the garrets of their children, who openly
professed the trade of fishermen, and even fed their townsmen
creditably, not skulking through the meadows to a rainy afternoon
sport.  Dim visions we still get of miraculous draughts of fishes,
and heaps uncountable by the river-side, from the tales of our
seniors sent on horseback in their childhood from the neighboring
towns, perched on saddle-bags, with instructions to get the one
bag filled with shad, the other with alewives.  At least one
memento of those days may still exist in the memory of this
generation, in the familiar appellation of a celebrated
train-band of this town, whose untrained ancestors stood
creditably at Concord North Bridge.  Their captain, a man of
piscatory tastes, having duly warned his company to turn out on a
certain day, they, like obedient soldiers, appeared promptly on
parade at the appointed time, but, unfortunately, they went
undrilled, except in the manœuvres of a soldier’s wit and
unlicensed jesting, that May day; for their captain, forgetting
his own appointment, and warned only by the favorable aspect of
the heavens, as he had often done before, went a-fishing that
afternoon, and his company thenceforth was known to old and
young, grave and gay, as “The Shad,” and by the youths of this
vicinity this was long regarded as the proper name of all the
irregular militia in Christendom.  But, alas! no record of these
fishers’ lives remains that we know, unless it be one brief page
of hard but unquestionable history, which occurs in Day Book
No.  4, of an old trader of this town, long since dead, which
shows pretty plainly what constituted a fisherman’s stock in
trade in those days.  It purports to be a Fisherman’s Account
Current, probably for the fishing season of the year 1805, during
which months he purchased daily rum and sugar, sugar and rum,
N. E.  and W. I., “one cod line,” “one brown mug,” and “a line for
the seine”; rum and sugar, sugar and rum, “good loaf sugar,” and
“good brown,” W. I.  and N. E., in short and uniform entries to
the bottom of the page, all carried out in pounds, shillings, and
pence, from March 25th to June 5th, and promptly settled by
receiving “cash in full” at the last date.  But perhaps not so
settled altogether.  These were the necessaries of life in those
days; with salmon, shad, and alewives, fresh and pickled, he was
thereafter independent on the groceries.  Rather a preponderance
of the fluid elements; but such is the fisherman’s nature.  I can
faintly remember to have seen this same fisher in my earliest
youth, still as near the river as he could get, with uncertain
undulatory step, after so many things had gone down stream,
swinging a scythe in the meadow, his bottle like a serpent hid in
the grass; himself as yet not cut down by the Great Mower.

Surely the fates are forever kind, though Nature’s laws are more
immutable than any despot’s, yet to man’s daily life they rarely
seem rigid, but permit him to relax with license in summer
weather.  He is not harshly reminded of the things he may not
do.  She is very kind and liberal to all men of vicious habits,
and certainly does not deny them quarter; they do not die without
priest.  Still they maintain life along the way, keeping this side
the Styx, still hearty, still resolute, “never better in their
lives”; and again, after a dozen years have elapsed, they start
up from behind a hedge, asking for work and wages for able-bodied
men.  Who has not met such

       “a beggar on the way,
   Who sturdily could gang? ….
   Who cared neither for wind nor wet,
   In lands where’er he past?”
   “That bold adopts each house he views, his own;
   Makes every pulse his checquer, and, at pleasure,
   Walks forth, and taxes all the world, like Cæsar”;—

as if consistency were the secret of health, while the poor
inconsistent aspirant man, seeking to live a pure life, feeding
on air, divided against himself, cannot stand, but pines and dies
after a life of sickness, on beds of down.

The unwise are accustomed to speak as if some were not sick; but
methinks the difference between men in respect to health is not
great enough to lay much stress upon.  Some are reputed sick and
some are not.  It often happens that the sicker man is the nurse
to the sounder.

Shad are still taken in the basin of Concord River at Lowell,
where they are said to be a month earlier than the Merrimack
shad, on account of the warmth of the water.  Still patiently,
almost pathetically, with instinct not to be discouraged, not to
be reasoned with, revisiting their old haunts, as if their
stern fates would relent, and still met by the Corporation with
its dam.  Poor shad!  where is thy redress?  When Nature gave thee
instinct, gave she thee the heart to bear thy fate?  Still
wandering the sea in thy scaly armor to inquire humbly at the
mouths of rivers if man has perchance left them free for thee to
enter.  By countless shoals loitering uncertain meanwhile, merely
stemming the tide there, in danger from sea foes in spite of thy
bright armor, awaiting new instructions, until the sands, until
the water itself, tell thee if it be so or not.  Thus by whole
migrating nations, full of instinct, which is thy faith, in this
backward spring, turned adrift, and perchance knowest not where
men do not dwell, where there are not factories, in these
days.  Armed with no sword, no electric shock, but mere Shad,
armed only with innocence and a just cause, with tender dumb
mouth only forward, and scales easy to be detached.  I for one am
with thee, and who knows what may avail a crow-bar against that
Billerica dam?—Not despairing when whole myriads have gone to
feed those sea monsters during thy suspense, but still brave,
indifferent, on easy fin there, like shad reserved for higher
destinies.  Willing to be decimated for man’s behoof after the
spawning season.  Away with the superficial and selfish
phil-anthropy of men,—who knows what admirable virtue of
fishes may be below low-water-mark, bearing up against a hard
destiny, not admired by that fellow-creature who alone can
appreciate it!  Who hears the fishes when they cry?  It will not
be forgotten by some memory that we were contemporaries.  Thou
shalt erelong have thy way up the rivers, up all the rivers of
the globe, if I am not mistaken.  Yea, even thy dull watery dream
shall be more than realized.  If it were not so, but thou wert to
be overlooked at first and at last, then would not I take their
heaven.  Yes, I say so, who think I know better than thou canst.
Keep a stiff fin then, and stem all the tides thou mayst meet.

At length it would seem that the interests, not of the fishes
only, but of the men of Wayland, of Sudbury, of Concord, demand
the levelling of that dam.  Innumerable acres of meadow are
waiting to be made dry land, wild native grass to give place to
English.  The farmers stand with scythes whet, waiting the
subsiding of the waters, by gravitation, by evaporation or
otherwise, but sometimes their eyes do not rest, their wheels do
not roll, on the quaking meadow ground during the haying season
at all.  So many sources of wealth inaccessible.  They rate the
loss hereby incurred in the single town of Wayland alone as equal
to the expense of keeping a hundred yoke of oxen the year
round.  One year, as I learn, not long ago, the farmers standing
ready to drive their teams afield as usual, the water gave no
signs of falling; without new attraction in the heavens, without
freshet or visible cause, still standing stagnant at an
unprecedented height.  All hydrometers were at fault; some
trembled for their English even.  But speedy emissaries revealed
the unnatural secret, in the new float-board, wholly a foot in
width, added to their already too high privileges by the dam
proprietors.  The hundred yoke of oxen, meanwhile, standing
patient, gazing wishfully meadowward, at that inaccessible waving
native grass, uncut but by the great mower Time, who cuts so
broad a swathe, without so much as a wisp to wind about their
horns.

That was a long pull from Ball’s Hill to Carlisle Bridge, sitting
with our faces to the south, a slight breeze rising from the
north, but nevertheless water still runs and grass grows, for
now, having passed the bridge between Carlisle and Bedford, we
see men haying far off in the meadow, their heads waving like the
grass which they cut.  In the distance the wind seemed to bend all
alike.  As the night stole over, such a freshness was wafted
across the meadow that every blade of cut grass seemed to teem
with life.  Faint purple clouds began to be reflected in the
water, and the cow-bells tinkled louder along the banks, while,
like sly water-rats, we stole along nearer the shore, looking for
a place to pitch our camp.

At length, when we had made about seven miles, as far as
Billerica, we moored our boat on the west side of a little rising
ground which in the spring forms an island in the river.  Here we
found huckleberries still hanging upon the bushes, where they
seemed to have slowly ripened for our especial use.  Bread and
sugar, and cocoa boiled in river water, made our repast, and as
we had drank in the fluvial prospect all day, so now we took a
draft of the water with our evening meal to propitiate the river
gods, and whet our vision for the sights it was to behold.  The
sun was setting on the one hand, while our eminence was
contributing its shadow to the night, on the other.  It seemed
insensibly to grow lighter as the night shut in, and a distant
and solitary farm-house was revealed, which before lurked in the
shadows of the noon.  There was no other house in sight, nor any
cultivated field.  To the right and left, as far as the horizon,
were straggling pine woods with their plumes against the sky, and
across the river were rugged hills, covered with shrub oaks,
tangled with grape-vines and ivy, with here and there a gray rock
jutting out from the maze.  The sides of these cliffs, though a
quarter of a mile distant, were almost heard to rustle while we
looked at them, it was such a leafy wilderness; a place for fauns
and satyrs, and where bats hung all day to the rocks, and at
evening flitted over the water, and fire-flies husbanded their
light under the grass and leaves against the night.  When we had
pitched our tent on the hillside, a few rods from the shore, we
sat looking through its triangular door in the twilight at our
lonely mast on the shore, just seen above the alders, and hardly
yet come to a stand-still from the swaying of the stream; the
first encroachment of commerce on this land.  There was our port,
our Ostia.  That straight geometrical line against the water and
the sky stood for the last refinements of civilized life, and
what of sublimity there is in history was there symbolized.

For the most part, there was no recognition of human life in the
night, no human breathing was heard, only the breathing of the
wind.  As we sat up, kept awake by the novelty of our situation,
we heard at intervals foxes stepping about over the dead leaves,
and brushing the dewy grass close to our tent, and once a
musquash fumbling among the potatoes and melons in our boat, but
when we hastened to the shore we could detect only a ripple in
the water ruffling the disk of a star.  At intervals we were
serenaded by the song of a dreaming sparrow or the throttled cry
of an owl, but after each sound which near at hand broke the
stillness of the night, each crackling of the twigs, or rustling
among the leaves, there was a sudden pause, and deeper and more
conscious silence, as if the intruder were aware that no life was
rightfully abroad at that hour.  There was a fire in Lowell, as
we judged, this night, and we saw the horizon blazing, and heard
the distant alarm-bells, as it were a faint tinkling music borne
to these woods.  But the most constant and memorable sound of a
summer’s night, which we did not fail to hear every night
afterward, though at no time so incessantly and so favorably as
now, was the barking of the house-dogs, from the loudest and
hoarsest bark to the faintest aerial palpitation under the eaves
of heaven, from the patient but anxious mastiff to the timid and
wakeful terrier, at first loud and rapid, then faint and slow, to
be imitated only in a whisper; wow-wow-wow-wow—wo—wo—w—w.
Even in a retired and uninhabited district like this, it was a
sufficiency of sound for the ear of night, and more impressive
than any music.  I have heard the voice of a hound, just before
daylight, while the stars were shining, from over the woods and
river, far in the horizon, when it sounded as sweet and melodious
as an instrument.  The hounding of a dog pursuing a fox or other
animal in the horizon, may have first suggested the notes of the
hunting-horn to alternate with and relieve the lungs of the dog.
This natural bugle long resounded in the woods of the ancient
world before the horn was invented.  The very dogs that sullenly
bay the moon from farm-yards in these nights excite more heroism
in our breasts than all the civil exhortations or war sermons of
the age.  “I would rather be a dog, and bay the moon,” than many
a Roman that I know.  The night is equally indebted to the
clarion of the cock, with wakeful hope, from the very setting of
the sun, prematurely ushering in the dawn.  All these sounds, the
crowing of cocks, the baying of dogs, and the hum of insects at
noon, are the evidence of nature’s health or sound state.  Such
is the never-failing beauty and accuracy of language, the most
perfect art in the world; the chisel of a thousand years
retouches it.

At length the antepenultimate and drowsy hours drew on, and all
sounds were denied entrance to our ears.

     Who sleeps by day and walks by night,
     Will meet no spirit but some sprite.

    
      
 
 
       
    
    
      


    

SUNDAY.

          “The river calmly flows,
        Through shining banks, through lonely glen,
     Where the owl shrieks, though ne’er the cheer of men
           Has stirred its mute repose,
     Still if you should walk there, you would go there again.”

                                          Channing.

   “The Indians tell us of a beautiful River lying far to the south,
   which they call Merrimack.”

           Sieur de Monts, Relations of the jesuits, 1604.

SUNDAY.


In the morning the river and adjacent country were covered with a
dense fog, through which the smoke of our fire curled up like a
still subtiler mist; but before we had rowed many rods, the sun
arose and the fog rapidly dispersed, leaving a slight steam only
to curl along the surface of the water.  It was a quiet Sunday
morning, with more of the auroral rosy and white than of the
yellow light in it, as if it dated from earlier than the fall of
man, and still preserved a heathenish integrity:—

     An early unconverted Saint,
     Free from noontide or evening taint,
     Heathen without reproach,
     That did upon the civil day encroach,
     And ever since its birth
     Had trod the outskirts of the earth.

But the impressions which the morning makes vanish with its dews,
and not even the most “persevering mortal” can preserve the
memory of its freshness to mid-day.  As we passed the various
islands, or what were islands in the spring, rowing with our
backs down stream, we gave names to them.  The one on which we had
camped we called Fox Island, and one fine densely wooded island
surrounded by deep water and overrun by grape-vines, which looked
like a mass of verdure and of flowers cast upon the waves, we
named Grape Island.  From Ball’s Hill to Billerica meeting-house,
the river was still twice as broad as in Concord, a deep, dark,
and dead stream, flowing between gentle hills and sometimes
cliffs, and well wooded all the way.  It was a long woodland lake
bordered with willows.  For long reaches we could see neither
house nor cultivated field, nor any sign of the vicinity of
man.  Now we coasted along some shallow shore by the edge of a
dense palisade of bulrushes, which straightly bounded the water
as if clipt by art, reminding us of the reed forts of the
East-Indians, of which we had read; and now the bank slightly
raised was overhung with graceful grasses and various species of
brake, whose downy stems stood closely grouped and naked as in a
vase, while their heads spread several feet on either side.  The
dead limbs of the willow were rounded and adorned by the climbing
mikania, Mikania scandens, which filled every crevice in the
leafy bank, contrasting agreeably with the gray bark of its
supporter and the balls of the button-bush.  The water willow,
Salix Purshiana, when it is of large size and entire, is the most
graceful and ethereal of our trees.  Its masses of light green
foliage, piled one upon another to the height of twenty or thirty
feet, seemed to float on the surface of the water, while the
slight gray stems and the shore were hardly visible between
them.  No tree is so wedded to the water, and harmonizes so well
with still streams.  It is even more graceful than the weeping
willow, or any pendulous trees, which dip their branches in the
stream instead of being buoyed up by it.  Its limbs curved outward
over the surface as if attracted by it.  It had not a New England
but an Oriental character, reminding us of trim Persian gardens,
of Haroun Alraschid, and the artificial lakes of the East.

As we thus dipped our way along between fresh masses of foliage
overrun with the grape and smaller flowering vines, the surface
was so calm, and both air and water so transparent, that the
flight of a kingfisher or robin over the river was as distinctly
seen reflected in the water below as in the air above.  The birds
seemed to flit through submerged groves, alighting on the
yielding sprays, and their clear notes to come up from below.  We
were uncertain whether the water floated the land, or the land
held the water in its bosom.  It was such a season, in short, as
that in which one of our Concord poets sailed on its stream, and
sung its quiet glories.

   “There is an inward voice, that in the stream
   Sends forth its spirit to the listening ear,
   And in a calm content it floweth on,
   Like wisdom, welcome with its own respect.
   Clear in its breast lie all these beauteous thoughts,
   It doth receive the green and graceful trees,
   And the gray rocks smile in its peaceful arms.”

And more he sung, but too serious for our page.  For every oak and
birch too growing on the hill-top, as well as for these elms and
willows, we knew that there was a graceful ethereal and ideal
tree making down from the roots, and sometimes Nature in high
tides brings her mirror to its foot and makes it visible.  The
stillness was intense and almost conscious, as if it were a
natural Sabbath, and we fancied that the morning was the evening
of a celestial day.  The air was so elastic and crystalline that
it had the same effect on the landscape that a glass has on a
picture, to give it an ideal remoteness and perfection.  The
landscape was clothed in a mild and quiet light, in which the
woods and fences checkered and partitioned it with new
regularity, and rough and uneven fields stretched away with
lawn-like smoothness to the horizon, and the clouds, finely
distinct and picturesque, seemed a fit drapery to hang over
fairy-land.  The world seemed decked for some holiday or prouder
pageantry, with silken streamers flying, and the course of our
lives to wind on before us like a green lane into a country maze,
at the season when fruit-trees are in blossom.

Why should not our whole life and its scenery be actually thus
fair and distinct?  All our lives want a suitable background.  They
should at least, like the life of the anchorite, be as impressive
to behold as objects in the desert, a broken shaft or crumbling
mound against a limitless horizon.  Character always secures for
itself this advantage, and is thus distinct and unrelated to near
or trivial objects, whether things or persons.  On this same
stream a maiden once sailed in my boat, thus unattended but by
invisible guardians, and as she sat in the prow there was nothing
but herself between the steersman and the sky.  I could then say
with the poet,—

         “Sweet falls the summer air
      Over her frame who sails with me;
      Her way like that is beautifully free,
         Her nature far more rare,
   And is her constant heart of virgin purity.”

At evening still the very stars seem but this maiden’s emissaries
and reporters of her progress.

   Low in the eastern sky
   Is set thy glancing eye;
   And though its gracious light
   Ne’er riseth to my sight,
   Yet every star that climbs
   Above the gnarled limbs
       Of yonder hill,
   Conveys thy gentle will.
   Believe I knew thy thought,
   And that the zephyrs brought
   Thy kindest wishes through,
   As mine they bear to you,
   That some attentive cloud
   Did pause amid the crowd
       Over my head,
   While gentle things were said.
   Believe the thrushes sung,
   And that the flower-bells rung,
   That herbs exhaled their scent,
   And beasts knew what was meant,
   The trees a welcome waved,
   And lakes their margins laved,
       When thy free mind
   To my retreat did wind.
   It was a summer eve,
   The air did gently heave
   While yet a low-hung cloud
   Thy eastern skies did shroud;
   The lightning’s silent gleam,
   Startling my drowsy dream,
       Seemed like the flash
   Under thy dark eyelash.
   Still will I strive to be
   As if thou wert with me;
   Whatever path I take,
   It shall be for thy sake,
   Of gentle <DW72> and wide,
   As thou wert by my side,
       Without a root
   To trip thy gentle foot.
   I’ll walk with gentle pace,
   And choose the smoothest place
   And careful dip the oar,
   And shun the winding shore,
   And gently steer my boat
   Where water-lilies float,
       And cardinal flowers
   Stand in their sylvan bowers.

It required some rudeness to disturb with our boat the
mirror-like surface of the water, in which every twig and blade
of grass was so faithfully reflected; too faithfully indeed for
art to imitate, for only Nature may exaggerate herself.  The
shallowest still water is unfathomable.  Wherever the trees and
skies are reflected, there is more than Atlantic depth, and no
danger of fancy running aground.  We notice that it required a
separate intention of the eye, a more free and abstracted vision,
to see the reflected trees and the sky, than to see the river
bottom merely; and so are there manifold visions in the direction
of every object, and even the most opaque reflect the heavens
from their surface.  Some men have their eyes naturally intended
to the one and some to the other object.

         “A man that looks on glass,
            On it may stay his eye,
          Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass,
            And the heavens espy.”

Two men in a skiff, whom we passed hereabouts, floating buoyantly
amid the reflections of the trees, like a feather in mid-air, or
a leaf which is wafted gently from its twig to the water without
turning over, seemed still in their element, and to have very
delicately availed themselves of the natural laws.  Their floating
there was a beautiful and successful experiment in natural
philosophy, and it served to ennoble in our eyes the art of
navigation; for as birds fly and fishes swim, so these men
sailed.  It reminded us how much fairer and nobler all the actions
of man might be, and that our life in its whole economy might be
as beautiful as the fairest works of art or nature.

The sun lodged on the old gray cliffs, and glanced from every
pad; the bulrushes and flags seemed to rejoice in the delicious
light and air; the meadows were a-drinking at their leisure; the
frogs sat meditating, all sabbath thoughts, summing up their
week, with one eye out on the golden sun, and one toe upon a
reed, eying the wondrous universe in which they act their part;
the fishes swam more staid and soberly, as maidens go to church;
shoals of golden and silver minnows rose to the surface to behold
the heavens, and then sheered off into more sombre aisles; they
swept by as if moved by one mind, continually gliding past each
other, and yet preserving the form of their battalion unchanged,
as if they were still embraced by the transparent membrane which
held the spawn; a young band of brethren and sisters trying their
new fins; now they wheeled, now shot ahead, and when we drove
them to the shore and cut them off, they dexterously tacked and
passed underneath the boat.  Over the old wooden bridges no
traveller crossed, and neither the river nor the fishes avoided
to glide between the abutments.

Here was a village not far off behind the woods, Billerica,
settled not long ago, and the children still bear the names of
the first settlers in this late “howling wilderness”; yet to all
intents and purposes it is as old as Fernay or as Mantua, an old
gray town where men grow old and sleep already under moss-grown
monuments,—outgrow their usefulness.  This is ancient Billerica,
(Villarica?) now in its dotage, named from the English
Billericay, and whose Indian name was Shawshine.  I never heard
that it was young.  See, is not nature here gone to decay, farms
all run out, meeting-house grown gray and racked with age?  If
you would know of its early youth, ask those old gray rocks in
the pasture.  It has a bell that sounds sometimes as far as
Concord woods; I have heard that,—ay, hear it now.  No wonder
that such a sound startled the dreaming Indian, and frightened
his game, when the first bells were swung on trees, and sounded
through the forest beyond the plantations of the white man.  But
to-day I like best the echo amid these cliffs and woods.  It is
no feeble imitation, but rather its original, or as if some rural
Orpheus played over the strain again to show how it should sound.

   Dong, sounds the brass in the east,
   As if to a funeral feast,
   But I like that sound the best
   Out of the fluttering west.
   The steeple ringeth a knell,
   But the fairies’ silvery bell
   Is the voice of that gentle folk,
   Or else the horizon that spoke.
   Its metal is not of brass,
   But air, and water, and glass,
   And under a cloud it is swung,
   And by the wind it is rung.
   When the steeple tolleth the noon,
   It soundeth not so soon,
   Yet it rings a far earlier hour,
   And the sun has not reached its tower.

On the other hand, the road runs up to Carlisle, city of the
woods, which, if it is less civil, is the more natural.  It does
well hold the earth together.  It gets laughed at because it is a
small town, I know, but nevertheless it is a place where great
men may be born any day, for fair winds and foul blow right on
over it without distinction.  It has a meeting-house and
horse-sheds, a tavern and a blacksmith’s shop, for centre, and a
good deal of wood to cut and cord yet.  And

     “Bedford, most noble Bedford,
     I shall not thee forget.”

History has remembered thee; especially that meek and humble
petition of thy old planters, like the wailing of the Lord’s own
people, “To the gentlemen, the selectmen” of Concord, praying to
be erected into a separate parish.  We can hardly credit that so
plaintive a psalm resounded but little more than a century ago
along these Babylonish waters.  “In the extreme difficult seasons
of heat and cold,” said they, “we were ready to say of the
Sabbath, Behold what a weariness is it.”—“Gentlemen, if our
seeking to draw off proceed from any disaffection to our present
Reverend Pastor, or the Christian Society with whom we have taken
such sweet counsel together, and walked unto the house of God in
company, then hear us not this day, but we greatly desire, if God
please, to be eased of our burden on the Sabbath, the travel and
fatigue thereof, that the word of God may be nigh to us, near to
our houses and in our hearts, that we and our little ones may
serve the Lord.  We hope that God, who stirred up the spirit of
Cyrus to set forward temple work, has stirred us up to ask, and
will stir you up to grant, the prayer of our petition; so shall
your humble petitioners ever pray, as in duty bound—” And so the
temple work went forward here to a happy conclusion.  Yonder in
Carlisle the building of the temple was many wearisome years
delayed, not that there was wanting of Shittim wood, or the gold
of Ophir, but a site therefor convenient to all the worshippers;
whether on “Buttrick’s Plain,” or rather on “Poplar Hill.”—It
was a tedious question.

In this Billerica solid men must have lived, select from year to
year; a series of town clerks, at least; and there are old
records that you may search.  Some spring the white man came,
built him a house, and made a clearing here, letting in the sun,
dried up a farm, piled up the old gray stones in fences, cut down
the pines around his dwelling, planted orchard seeds brought from
the old country, and persuaded the civil apple-tree to blossom
next to the wild pine and the juniper, shedding its perfume in
the wilderness.  Their old stocks still remain.  He culled the
graceful elm from out the woods and from the river-side, and so
refined and smoothed his village plot.  He rudely bridged the
stream, and drove his team afield into the river meadows, cut the
wild grass, and laid bare the homes of beaver, otter, muskrat,
and with the whetting of his scythe scared off the deer and bear.
He set up a mill, and fields of English grain sprang in the
virgin soil.  And with his grain he scattered the seeds of the
dandelion and the wild trefoil over the meadows, mingling his
English flowers with the wild native ones.  The bristling
burdock, the sweet-scented catnip, and the humble yarrow planted
themselves along his woodland road, they too seeking “freedom to
worship God” in their way.  And thus he plants a town.  The white
man’s mullein soon reigned in Indian cornfields, and
sweet-scented English grasses clothed the new soil.  Where, then,
could the Red Man set his foot?  The honey-bee hummed through the
Massachusetts woods, and sipped the wild-flowers round the
Indian’s wigwam, perchance unnoticed, when, with prophetic
warning, it stung the Red child’s hand, forerunner of that
industrious tribe that was to come and pluck the wild-flower of
his race up by the root.

The white man comes, pale as the dawn, with a load of thought,
with a slumbering intelligence as a fire raked up, knowing well
what he knows, not guessing but calculating; strong in community,
yielding obedience to authority; of experienced race; of
wonderful, wonderful common sense; dull but capable, slow but
persevering, severe but just, of little humor but genuine; a
laboring man, despising game and sport; building a house that
endures, a framed house.  He buys the Indian’s moccasins and
baskets, then buys his hunting-grounds, and at length forgets
where he is buried and ploughs up his bones.  And here town
records, old, tattered, time-worn, weather-stained chronicles,
contain the Indian sachem’s mark perchance, an arrow or a beaver,
and the few fatal words by which he deeded his hunting-grounds
away.  He comes with a list of ancient Saxon, Norman, and Celtic
names, and strews them up and down this river,—Framingham,
Sudbury, Bedford, Carlisle, Billerica, Chelmsford,—and this is
New Angle-land, and these are the New West Saxons whom the Red
Men call, not Angle-ish or English, but Yengeese, and so at last
they are known for Yankees.

When we were opposite to the middle of Billerica, the fields on
either hand had a soft and cultivated English aspect, the village
spire being seen over the copses which skirt the river, and
sometimes an orchard straggled down to the water-side, though,
generally, our course this forenoon was the wildest part of our
voyage.  It seemed that men led a quiet and very civil life
there.  The inhabitants were plainly cultivators of the earth,
and lived under an organized political government.  The
school-house stood with a meek aspect, entreating a long truce to
war and savage life.  Every one finds by his own experience, as
well as in history, that the era in which men cultivate the
apple, and the amenities of the garden, is essentially different
from that of the hunter and forest life, and neither can displace
the other without loss.  We have all had our day-dreams, as well
as more prophetic nocturnal vision; but as for farming, I am
convinced that my genius dates from an older era than the
agricultural.  I would at least strike my spade into the earth
with such careless freedom but accuracy as the woodpecker his
bill into a tree.  There is in my nature, methinks, a singular
yearning toward all wildness.  I know of no redeeming qualities
in myself but a sincere love for some things, and when I am
reproved I fall back on to this ground.  What have I to do with
ploughs?  I cut another furrow than you see.  Where the off ox
treads, there is it not, it is farther off; where the nigh ox
walks, it will not be, it is nigher still.  If corn fails, my
crop fails not, and what are drought and rain to me?  The rude
Saxon pioneer will sometimes pine for that refinement and
artificial beauty which are English, and love to hear the sound
of such sweet and classical names as the Pentland and Malvern
Hills, the Cliffs of Dover and the Trosachs, Richmond, Derwent,
and Winandermere, which are to him now instead of the Acropolis
and Parthenon, of Baiæ, and Athens with its sea-walls, and
Arcadia and Tempe.

     Greece, who am I that should remember thee,
     Thy Marathon and thy Thermopylæ?
     Is my life vulgar, my fate mean,
     Which on these golden memories can lean?

We are apt enough to be pleased with such books as Evelyn’s
Sylva, Acetarium, and Kalendarium Hortense, but they imply a
relaxed nerve in the reader.  Gardening is civil and social, but
it wants the vigor and freedom of the forest and the outlaw.
There may be an excess of cultivation as well as of anything
else, until civilization becomes pathetic.  A highly cultivated
man,—all whose bones can be bent!  whose heaven-born virtues are
but good manners!  The young pines springing up in the cornfields
from year to year are to me a refreshing fact.  We talk of
civilizing the Indian, but that is not the name for his
improvement.  By the wary independence and aloofness of his dim
forest life he preserves his intercourse with his native gods,
and is admitted from time to time to a rare and peculiar society
with Nature.  He has glances of starry recognition to which our
saloons are strangers.  The steady illumination of his genius,
dim only because distant, is like the faint but satisfying light
of the stars compared with the dazzling but ineffectual and
short-lived blaze of candles.  The Society-Islanders had their
day-born gods, but they were not supposed to be “of equal
antiquity with the atua fauau po, or night-born gods.”  It is
true, there are the innocent pleasures of country life, and it is
sometimes pleasant to make the earth yield her increase, and
gather the fruits in their season, but the heroic spirit will not
fail to dream of remoter retirements and more rugged paths.  It
will have its garden-plots and its parterres elsewhere than on
the earth, and gather nuts and berries by the way for its
subsistence, or orchard fruits with such heedlessness as berries.
We would not always be soothing and taming nature, breaking the
horse and the ox, but sometimes ride the horse wild and chase the
buffalo.  The Indian’s intercourse with Nature is at least such
as admits of the greatest independence of each.  If he is
somewhat of a stranger in her midst, the gardener is too much of
a familiar.  There is something vulgar and foul in the latter’s
closeness to his mistress, something noble and cleanly in the
former’s distance.  In civilization, as in a southern latitude,
man degenerates at length, and yields to the incursion of more
northern tribes,

     “Some nation yet shut in
        With hills of ice.”

There are other, savager, and more primeval aspects of nature
than our poets have sung.  It is only white man’s poetry.  Homer
and Ossian even can never revive in London or Boston.  And yet
behold how these cities are refreshed by the mere tradition, or
the imperfectly transmitted fragrance and flavor of these wild
fruits.  If we could listen but for an instant to the chant of the
Indian muse, we should understand why he will not exchange his
savageness for civilization.  Nations are not whimsical.  Steel
and blankets are strong temptations; but the Indian does well to
continue Indian.

After sitting in my chamber many days, reading the poets, I have
been out early on a foggy morning, and heard the cry of an owl in
a neighboring wood as from a nature behind the common, unexplored
by science or by literature.  None of the feathered race has yet
realized my youthful conceptions of the woodland depths.  I had
seen the red Election-bird brought from their recesses on my
comrades’ string, and fancied that their plumage would assume
stranger and more dazzling colors, like the tints of evening, in
proportion as I advanced farther into the darkness and solitude
of the forest.  Still less have I seen such strong and wilderness
tints on any poet’s string.

These modern ingenious sciences and arts do not affect me as
those more venerable arts of hunting and fishing, and even of
husbandry in its primitive and simple form; as ancient and
honorable trades as the sun and moon and winds pursue, coeval
with the faculties of man, and invented when these were invented.
We do not know their John Gutenberg, or Richard Arkwright, though
the poets would fain make them to have been gradually learned and
taught.  According to Gower,—

     “And Iadahel, as saith the boke,
       Firste made nette, and fishes toke.
     Of huntyng eke he fond the chace,
     Whiche nowe is knowe in many place;
     A tent of clothe, with corde and stake,
     He sette up first, and did it make.”

Also, Lydgate says:—

     “Jason first sayled, in story it is tolde,
     Toward Colchos, to wynne the flees of golde,
     Ceres the Goddess fond first the tilthe of londe;
           *        *       *       *      *
     Also, Aristeus fonde first the usage
     Of mylke, and cruddis, and of honey swote;
     Peryodes, for grete avauntage,
     From flyntes smote fuyre, daryng in the roote.”

We read that Aristeus “obtained of Jupiter and Neptune, that the
pestilential heat of the dog-days, wherein was great mortality,
should be mitigated with wind.” This is one of those dateless
benefits conferred on man, which have no record in our vulgar
day, though we still find some similitude to them in our dreams,
in which we have a more liberal and juster apprehension of
things, unconstrained by habit, which is then in some measure put
off, and divested of memory, which we call history.

According to fable, when the island of Ægina was depopulated by
sickness, at the instance of Æacus, Jupiter turned the ants into
men, that is, as some think, he made men of the inhabitants who
lived meanly like ants.  This is perhaps the fullest history of
those early days extant.

The fable which is naturally and truly composed, so as to satisfy
the imagination, ere it addresses the understanding, beautiful
though strange as a wild-flower, is to the wise man an apothegm,
and admits of his most generous interpretation.  When we read
that Bacchus made the Tyrrhenian mariners mad, so that they leapt
into the sea, mistaking it for a meadow full of flowers, and so
became dolphins, we are not concerned about the historical truth
of this, but rather a higher poetical truth.  We seem to hear the
music of a thought, and care not if the understanding be not
gratified.  For their beauty, consider the fables of Narcissus,
of Endymion, of Memnon son of Morning, the representative of all
promising youths who have died a premature death, and whose
memory is melodiously prolonged to the latest morning; the
beautiful stories of Phaeton, and of the Sirens whose isle shone
afar off white with the bones of unburied men; and the pregnant
ones of Pan, Prometheus, and the Sphinx; and that long list of
names which have already become part of the universal language of
civilized men, and from proper are becoming common names or
nouns,—the Sibyls, the Eumenides, the Parcæ, the Graces, the
Muses, Nemesis, &c.

It is interesting to observe with what singular unanimity the
farthest sundered nations and generations consent to give
completeness and roundness to an ancient fable, of which they
indistinctly appreciate the beauty or the truth.  By a faint and
dream-like effort, though it be only by the vote of a scientific
body, the dullest posterity slowly add some trait to the mythus.
As when astronomers call the lately discovered planet Neptune; or
the asteroid Astræa, that the Virgin who was driven from earth
to heaven at the end of the golden age, may have her local
habitation in the heavens more distinctly assigned her,—for the
slightest recognition of poetic worth is significant.  By such
slow aggregation has mythology grown from the first.  The very
nursery tales of this generation, were the nursery tales of
primeval races.  They migrate from east to west, and again from
west to east; now expanded into the “tale divine” of bards, now
shrunk into a popular rhyme.  This is an approach to that
universal language which men have sought in vain.  This fond
reiteration of the oldest expressions of truth by the latest
posterity, content with slightly and religiously retouching the
old material, is the most impressive proof of a common humanity.

All nations love the same jests and tales, Jews, Christians, and
Mahometans, and the same translated suffice for all.  All men are
children, and of one family.  The same tale sends them all to
bed, and wakes them in the morning.  Joseph Wolff, the
missionary, distributed copies of Robinson Crusoe, translated
into Arabic, among the Arabs, and they made a great sensation.
“Robinson Crusoe’s adventures and wisdom,” says he, “were read by
Mahometans in the market-places of Sanaa, Hodyeda, and Loheya,
and admired and believed!” On reading the book, the Arabians
exclaimed, “O, that Robinson Crusoe must have been a great
prophet!”

To some extent, mythology is only the most ancient history and
biography.  So far from being false or fabulous in the common
sense, it contains only enduring and essential truth, the I and
you, the here and there, the now and then, being omitted.  Either
time or rare wisdom writes it.  Before printing was discovered, a
century was equal to a thousand years.  The poet is he who can
write some pure mythology to-day without the aid of posterity.
In how few words, for instance, the Greeks would have told the
story of Abelard and Heloise, making but a sentence for our
classical dictionary,—and then, perchance, have stuck up their
names to shine in some corner of the firmament.  We moderns, on
the other hand, collect only the raw materials of biography and
history, “memoirs to serve for a history,” which itself is but
materials to serve for a mythology.  How many volumes folio would
the Life and Labors of Prometheus have filled, if perchance it
had fallen, as perchance it did first, in days of cheap printing!
Who knows what shape the fable of Columbus will at length assume,
to be confounded with that of Jason and the expedition of the
Argonauts.  And Franklin,—there may be a line for him in the
future classical dictionary, recording what that demigod did, and
referring him to some new genealogy.  “Son of——and——.  He
aided the Americans to gain their independence, instructed
mankind in economy, and drew down lightning from the clouds.”

The hidden significance of these fables which is sometimes
thought to have been detected, the ethics running parallel to the
poetry and history, are not so remarkable as the readiness with
which they may be made to express a variety of truths.  As if
they were the skeletons of still older and more universal truths
than any whose flesh and blood they are for the time made to
wear.  It is like striving to make the sun, or the wind, or the
sea symbols to signify exclusively the particular thoughts of our
day.  But what signifies it?  In the mythus a superhuman
intelligence uses the unconscious thoughts and dreams of men as
its hieroglyphics to address men unborn.  In the history of the
human mind, these glowing and ruddy fables precede the noonday
thoughts of men, as Aurora the sun’s rays.  The matutine
intellect of the poet, keeping in advance of the glare of
philosophy, always dwells in this auroral atmosphere.

As we said before, the Concord is a dead stream, but its scenery
is the more suggestive to the contemplative voyager, and this day
its water was fuller of reflections than our pages even.  Just
before it reaches the falls in Billerica, it is contracted, and
becomes swifter and shallower, with a yellow pebbly bottom,
hardly passable for a canal-boat, leaving the broader and more
stagnant portion above like a lake among the hills.  All through
the Concord, Bedford, and Billerica meadows we had heard no
murmur from its stream, except where some tributary runnel
tumbled in,—

     Some tumultuous little rill,
       Purling round its storied pebble,
     Tinkling to the selfsame tune,
     From September until June,
       Which no drought doth e’er enfeeble.
     Silent flows the parent stream,
       And if rocks do lie below,
     Smothers with her waves the din,
     As it were a youthful sin,
       Just as still, and just as slow.

But now at length we heard this staid and primitive river rushing
to her fall, like any rill.  We here left its channel, just above
the Billerica Falls, and entered the canal, which runs, or rather
is conducted, six miles through the woods to the Merrimack, at
Middlesex, and as we did not care to loiter in this part of our
voyage, while one ran along the tow-path drawing the boat by a
cord, the other kept it off the shore with a pole, so that we
accomplished the whole distance in little more than an hour.
This canal, which is the oldest in the country, and has even an
antique look beside the more modern railroads, is fed by the
Concord, so that we were still floating on its familiar waters.
It is so much water which the river lets for the advantage of
commerce.  There appeared some want of harmony in its scenery,
since it was not of equal date with the woods and meadows through
which it is led, and we missed the conciliatory influence of time
on land and water; but in the lapse of ages, Nature will recover
and indemnify herself, and gradually plant fit shrubs and flowers
along its borders.  Already the kingfisher sat upon a pine over
the water, and the bream and pickerel swam below.  Thus all works
pass directly out of the hands of the architect into the hands of
Nature, to be perfected.

It was a retired and pleasant route, without houses or
travellers, except some young men who were lounging upon a bridge
in Chelmsford, who leaned impudently over the rails to pry into
our concerns, but we caught the eye of the most forward, and
looked at him till he was visibly discomfited.  Not that there
was any peculiar efficacy in our look, but rather a sense of
shame left in him which disarmed him.

It is a very true and expressive phrase, “He looked daggers at
me,” for the first pattern and prototype of all daggers must have
been a glance of the eye.  First, there was the glance of Jove’s
eye, then his fiery bolt, then, the material gradually hardening,
tridents, spears, javelins, and finally, for the convenience of
private men, daggers, krisses, and so forth, were invented.  It
is wonderful how we get about the streets without being wounded
by these delicate and glancing weapons, a man can so nimbly whip
out his rapier, or without being noticed carry it unsheathed.
Yet it is rare that one gets seriously looked at.

As we passed under the last bridge over the canal, just before
reaching the Merrimack, the people coming out of church paused to
look at us from above, and apparently, so strong is custom,
indulged in some heathenish comparisons; but we were the truest
observers of this sunny day.  According to Hesiod,

              “The seventh is a holy day,
   For then Latona brought forth golden-rayed Apollo,”

and by our reckoning this was the seventh day of the week, and
not the first.  I find among the papers of an old Justice of the
Peace and Deacon of the town of Concord, this singular
memorandum, which is worth preserving as a relic of an ancient
custom.  After reforming the spelling and grammar, it runs as
follows: “Men that travelled with teams on the Sabbath,
Dec. 18th, 1803, were Jeremiah Richardson and Jonas Parker, both
of Shirley.  They had teams with rigging such as is used to carry
barrels, and they were travelling westward.  Richardson was
questioned by the Hon. Ephraim Wood, Esq., and he said that Jonas
Parker was his fellow-traveller, and he further said that a
Mr. Longley was his employer, who promised to bear him out.”  We
were the men that were gliding northward, this Sept. 1st, 1839,
with still team, and rigging not the most convenient to carry
barrels, unquestioned by any Squire or Church Deacon and ready to
bear ourselves out if need were.  In the latter part of the
seventeenth century, according to the historian of Dunstable,
“Towns were directed to erect ‘a cage’ near the meeting-house,
and in this all offenders against the sanctity of the Sabbath
were confined.”  Society has relaxed a little from its
strictness, one would say, but I presume that there is not less
religion than formerly.  If the ligature is found to be
loosened in one part, it is only drawn the tighter in another.

You can hardly convince a man of an error in a lifetime, but must
content yourself with the reflection that the progress of science
is slow.  If he is not convinced, his grandchildren may be.  The
geologists tell us that it took one hundred years to prove that
fossils are organic, and one hundred and fifty more, to prove
that they are not to be referred to the Noachian deluge.  I am
not sure but I should betake myself in extremities to the liberal
divinities of Greece, rather than to my country’s God.  Jehovah,
though with us he has acquired new attributes, is more absolute
and unapproachable, but hardly more divine, than Jove.  He is not
so much of a gentleman, not so gracious and catholic, he does not
exert so intimate and genial an influence on nature, as many a
god of the Greeks.  I should fear the infinite power and
inflexible justice of the almighty mortal, hardly as yet
apotheosized, so wholly masculine, with no Sister Juno, no
Apollo, no Venus, nor Minerva, to intercede for me, θυμῳ
φιλέουσά τε,
κηδομένη τε.
The Grecian are youthful and erring and fallen gods, with the vices of men, but
in many
important respects essentially of the divine race.  In my
Pantheon, Pan still reigns in his pristine glory, with his ruddy
face, his flowing beard, and his shaggy body, his pipe and his
crook, his nymph Echo, and his chosen daughter Iambe; for the
great god Pan is not dead, as was rumored.  No god ever dies.
Perhaps of all the gods of New England and of ancient Greece, I
am most constant at his shrine.

It seems to me that the god that is commonly worshipped in
civilized countries is not at all divine, though he bears a
divine name, but is the overwhelming authority and respectability
of mankind combined.  Men reverence one another, not yet God.  If
I thought that I could speak with discrimination and impartiality
of the nations of Christendom, I should praise them, but it tasks
me too much.  They seem to be the most civil and humane, but I
may be mistaken.  Every people have gods to suit their
circumstances; the Society Islanders had a god called Toahitu,
“in shape like a dog; he saved such as were in danger of falling
from rocks and trees.”  I think that we can do without him, as we
have not much climbing to do.  Among them a man could make
himself a god out of a piece of wood in a few minutes, which
would frighten him out of his wits.

I fancy that some indefatigable spinster of the old school, who
had the supreme felicity to be born in “days that tried men’s
souls,” hearing this, may say with Nestor, another of the old
school, “But you are younger than I.  For time was when I
conversed with greater men than you.  For not at any time have I
seen such men, nor shall see them, as Perithous, and Dryas, and
ποιμενα λαων,” that
is probably Washington, sole “Shepherd of
the People.” And when Apollo has now six times rolled westward,
or seemed to roll, and now for the seventh time shows his face in
the east, eyes wellnigh glazed, long glassed, which have
fluctuated only between lamb’s wool and worsted, explore
ceaselessly some good sermon book.  For six days shalt thou labor
and do all thy knitting, but on the seventh, forsooth, thy
reading.  Happy we who can bask in this warm September sun, which
illumines all creatures, as well when they rest as when they
toil, not without a feeling of gratitude; whose life is as
blameless, how blameworthy soever it may be, on the Lord’s
Mona-day as on his Suna-day.

There are various, nay, incredible faiths; why should we be
alarmed at any of them?  What man believes, God believes.  Long
as I have lived, and many blasphemers as I have heard and seen, I
have never yet heard or witnessed any direct and conscious
blasphemy or irreverence; but of indirect and habitual, enough.
Where is the man who is guilty of direct and personal insolence
to Him that made him?

One memorable addition to the old mythology is due to this
era,—the Christian fable.  With what pains, and tears, and blood
these centuries have woven this and added it to the mythology of
mankind.  The new Prometheus.  With what miraculous consent, and
patience, and persistency has this mythus been stamped on the
memory of the race!  It would seem as if it were in the progress
of our mythology to dethrone Jehovah, and crown Christ in his
stead.

If it is not a tragical life we live, then I know not what to
call it.  Such a story as that of Jesus Christ,—the history of
Jerusalem, say, being a part of the Universal History.  The
naked, the embalmed, unburied death of Jerusalem amid its
desolate hills,—think of it.  In Tasso’s poem I trust some
things are sweetly buried.  Consider the snappish tenacity with
which they preach Christianity still.  What are time and space to
Christianity, eighteen hundred years, and a new world?—that the
humble life of a Jewish peasant should have force to make a New
York bishop so bigoted.  Forty-four lamps, the gift of kings, now
burning in a place called the Holy Sepulchre;—a church-bell
ringing;—some unaffected tears shed by a pilgrim on Mount
Calvary within the week.—

“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, when I forget thee, may my right hand
forget her cunning.”

“By the waters of Babylon there we sat down, and we wept when we
remembered Zion.”

I trust that some may be as near and dear to Buddha, or Christ,
or Swedenborg, who are without the pale of their churches.  It is
necessary not to be Christian to appreciate the beauty and
significance of the life of Christ.  I know that some will have
hard thoughts of me, when they hear their Christ named beside my
Buddha, yet I am sure that I am willing they should love their
Christ more than my Buddha, for the love is the main thing, and I
like him too.  “God is the letter Ku, as well as Khu.”  Why need
Christians be still intolerant and superstitious?  The
simple-minded sailors were unwilling to cast overboard Jonah at
his own request.—

   “Where is this love become in later age?
   Alas! ’tis gone in endless pilgrimage
   From hence, and never to return, I doubt,
   Till revolution wheel those times about.”

One man says,—

   “The world’s a popular disease, that reigns
   Within the froward heart and frantic brains
   Of poor distempered mortals.”

Another, that

              “all the world’s a stage,
   And all the men and women merely players.”

The world is a strange place for a playhouse to stand within it.
Old Drayton thought that a man that lived here, and would be a
poet, for instance, should have in him certain “brave,
translunary things,” and a “fine madness” should possess his
brain.  Certainly it were as well, that he might be up to the
occasion.  That is a superfluous wonder, which Dr.  Johnson
expresses at the assertion of Sir Thomas Browne that “his life
has been a miracle of thirty years, which to relate, were not
history but a piece of poetry, and would sound like a fable.” The
wonder is, rather, that all men do not assert as much.  That
would be a rare praise, if it were true, which was addressed to
Francis Beaumont,—“Spectators sate part in your tragedies.”

Think what a mean and wretched place this world is; that half the
time we have to light a lamp that we may see to live in it.  This
is half our life.  Who would undertake the enterprise if it were
all?  And, pray, what more has day to offer?  A lamp that burns
more clear, a purer oil, say winter-strained, that so we may
pursue our idleness with less obstruction.  Bribed with a little
sunlight and a few prismatic tints, we bless our Maker, and stave
off his wrath with hymns.

   I make ye an offer,
   Ye gods, hear the scoffer,
   The scheme will not hurt you,
   If ye will find goodness, I will find virtue.
   Though I am your creature,
   And child of your nature,
   I have pride still unbended,
   And blood undescended,
   Some free independence,
   And my own descendants.
   I cannot toil blindly,
   Though ye behave kindly,
   And I swear by the rood,
   I’ll be slave to no God.
   If ye will deal plainly,
   I will strive mainly,
   If ye will discover,
   Great plans to your lover,
   And give him a sphere
   Somewhat larger than here.

“Verily, my angels! I was abashed on account of my servant, who
had no Providence but me; therefore did I pardon him.”—The
Gulistan of Sadi.

Most people with whom I talk, men and women even of some
originality and genius, have their scheme of the universe all cut
and dried,—very dry, I assure you, to hear, dry enough to
burn, dry-rotted and powder-post, methinks,—which they set up
between you and them in the shortest intercourse; an ancient and
tottering frame with all its boards blown off.  They do not walk
without their bed.  Some, to me, seemingly very unimportant and
unsubstantial things and relations, are for them everlastingly
settled,—as Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and the like.  These
are like the everlasting hills to them.  But in all my wanderings
I never came across the least vestige of authority for these
things.  They have not left so distinct a trace as the delicate
flower of a remote geological period on the coal in my grate.
The wisest man preaches no doctrines; he has no scheme; he sees
no rafter, not even a cobweb, against the heavens.  It is clear
sky.  If I ever see more clearly at one time than at another, the
medium through which I see is clearer.  To see from earth to
heaven, and see there standing, still a fixture, that old Jewish
scheme!  What right have you to hold up this obstacle to my
understanding you, to your understanding me!  You did not invent
it; it was imposed on you.  Examine your authority.  Even Christ,
we fear, had his scheme, his conformity to tradition, which
slightly vitiates his teaching.  He had not swallowed all
formulas.  He preached some mere doctrines.  As for me, Abraham,
Isaac, and Jacob are now only the subtilest imaginable essences,
which would not stain the morning sky.  Your scheme must be the
framework of the universe; all other schemes will soon be ruins.
The perfect God in his revelations of himself has never got to
the length of one such proposition as you, his prophets, state.
Have you learned the alphabet of heaven and can count three?  Do
you know the number of God’s family?  Can you put mysteries into
words?  Do you presume to fable of the ineffable?  Pray, what
geographer are you, that speak of heaven’s topography?  Whose
friend are you that speak of God’s personality?  Do you, Miles
Howard, think that he has made you his confidant?  Tell me of the
height of the mountains of the moon, or of the diameter of space,
and I may believe you, but of the secret history of the Almighty,
and I shall pronounce thee mad.  Yet we have a sort of family
history of our God,—so have the Tahitians of theirs,—and some
old poet’s grand imagination is imposed on us as adamantine
everlasting truth, and God’s own word!  Pythagoras says, truly
enough, “A true assertion respecting God, is an assertion of
God”; but we may well doubt if there is any example of this in
literature.

The New Testament is an invaluable book, though I confess to
having been slightly prejudiced against it in my very early days
by the church and the Sabbath school, so that it seemed, before I
read it, to be the yellowest book in the catalogue.  Yet I early
escaped from their meshes.  It was hard to get the commentaries
out of one’s head and taste its true flavor.—I think that
Pilgrim’s Progress is the best sermon which has been preached
from this text; almost all other sermons that I have heard, or
heard of, have been but poor imitations of this.—It would be a
poor story to be prejudiced against the Life of Christ because
the book has been edited by Christians.  In fact, I love this
book rarely, though it is a sort of castle in the air to me,
which I am permitted to dream.  Having come to it so recently and
freshly, it has the greater charm, so that I cannot find any to
talk with about it.  I never read a novel, they have so little
real life and thought in them.  The reading which I love best is
the scriptures of the several nations, though it happens that I
am better acquainted with those of the Hindoos, the Chinese, and
the Persians, than of the Hebrews, which I have come to last.
Give me one of these Bibles and you have silenced me for a while.
When I recover the use of my tongue, I am wont to worry my
neighbors with the new sentences; but commonly they cannot see
that there is any wit in them.  Such has been my experience with
the New Testament.  I have not yet got to the crucifixion, I have
read it over so many times.  I should love dearly to read it
aloud to my friends, some of whom are seriously inclined; it is
so good, and I am sure that they have never heard it, it fits
their case exactly, and we should enjoy it so much together,—but
I instinctively despair of getting their ears.  They soon show,
by signs not to be mistaken, that it is inexpressibly wearisome
to them.  I do not mean to imply that I am any better than my
neighbors; for, alas!  I know that I am only as good, though I
love better books than they.

It is remarkable that, notwithstanding the universal favor with
which the New Testament is outwardly received, and even the
bigotry with which it is defended, there is no hospitality shown
to, there is no appreciation of, the order of truth with which it
deals.  I know of no book that has so few readers.  There is none
so truly strange, and heretical, and unpopular.  To Christians,
no less than Greeks and Jews, it is foolishness and a
stumbling-block.  There are, indeed, severe things in it which no
man should read aloud more than once.—“Seek first the kingdom of
heaven.”—“Lay not up for yourselves treasures on earth.”—“If
thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give to the
poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven.”—“For what is a
man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own
soul?  or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?”—Think
of this, Yankees!—“Verily, I say unto you, if ye have faith as a
grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove
hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be
impossible unto you.”—Think of repeating these things to a New
England audience!  thirdly, fourthly, fifteenthly, till there are
three barrels of sermons!  Who, without cant, can read them
aloud?  Who, without cant, can hear them, and not go out of the
meeting-house?  They never were read, they never were heard.
Let but one of these sentences be rightly read, from any pulpit
in the land, and there would not be left one stone of that
meeting-house upon another.

Yet the New Testament treats of man and man’s so-called spiritual
affairs too exclusively, and is too constantly moral and
personal, to alone content me, who am not interested solely in
man’s religious or moral nature, or in man even.  I have not the
most definite designs on the future.  Absolutely speaking, Do
unto others as you would that they should do unto you, is by no
means a golden rule, but the best of current silver.  An honest
man would have but little occasion for it.  It is golden not to
have any rule at all in such a case.  The book has never been
written which is to be accepted without any allowance.  Christ
was a sublime actor on the stage of the world.  He knew what he
was thinking of when he said, “Heaven and earth shall pass away,
but my words shall not pass away.” I draw near to him at such a
time.  Yet he taught mankind but imperfectly how to live; his
thoughts were all directed toward another world.  There is
another kind of success than his.  Even here we have a sort of
living to get, and must buffet it somewhat longer.  There are
various tough problems yet to solve, and we must make shift to
live, betwixt spirit and matter, such a human life as we can.

A healthy man, with steady employment, as wood-chopping at fifty
cents a cord, and a camp in the woods, will not be a good subject
for Christianity.  The New Testament may be a choice book to him
on some, but not on all or most of his days.  He will rather go
a-fishing in his leisure hours.  The Apostles, though they were
fishers too, were of the solemn race of sea-fishers, and never
trolled for pickerel on inland streams.

Men have a singular desire to be good without being good for
anything, because, perchance, they think vaguely that so it will
be good for them in the end.  The sort of morality which the
priests inculcate is a very subtle policy, far finer than the
politicians, and the world is very successfully ruled by them as
the policemen.  It is not worth the while to let our imperfections
disturb us always.  The conscience really does not, and ought not
to monopolize the whole of our lives, any more than the heart or
the head.  It is as liable to disease as any other part.  I have
seen some whose consciences, owing undoubtedly to former
indulgence, had grown to be as irritable as spoilt children, and
at length gave them no peace.  They did not know when to swallow
their cud, and their lives of course yielded no milk.

    Conscience is instinct bred in the house,
    Feeling and Thinking propagate the sin
    By an unnatural breeding in and in.
    I say, Turn it out doors,
    Into the moors.
    I love a life whose plot is simple,
    And does not thicken with every pimple,
    A soul so sound no sickly conscience binds it,
    That makes the universe no worse than ’t finds it.
    I love an earnest soul,
    Whose mighty joy and sorrow
    Are not drowned in a bowl,
    And brought to life to-morrow;
    That lives one tragedy,
    And not seventy;
    A conscience worth keeping,
    Laughing not weeping;
    A conscience wise and steady,
    And forever ready;
    Not changing with events,
    Dealing in compliments;
    A conscience exercised about
    Large things, where one may doubt.
    I love a soul not all of wood,
    Predestinated to be good,
    But true to the backbone
    Unto itself alone,
    And false to none;
    Born to its own affairs,
    Its own joys and own cares;
    By whom the work which God begun
    Is finished, and not undone;
    Taken up where he left off,
    Whether to worship or to scoff;
    If not good, why then evil,
    If not good god, good devil.
    Goodness!—you hypocrite, come out of that,
    Live your life, do your work, then take your hat.
    I have no patience towards
    Such conscientious cowards.
    Give me simple laboring folk,
    Who love their work,
    Whose virtue is a song
    To cheer God along.

I was once reproved by a minister who was driving a poor beast to
some meeting-house horse-sheds among the hills of New Hampshire,
because I was bending my steps to a mountain-top on the Sabbath,
instead of a church, when I would have gone farther than he to
hear a true word spoken on that or any day.  He declared that I
was “breaking the Lord’s fourth commandment,” and proceeded to
enumerate, in a sepulchral tone, the disasters which had befallen
him whenever he had done any ordinary work on the Sabbath.  He
really thought that a god was on the watch to trip up those men
who followed any secular work on this day, and did not see that
it was the evil conscience of the workers that did it.  The
country is full of this superstition, so that when one enters a
village, the church, not only really but from association, is the
ugliest looking building in it, because it is the one in which
human nature stoops the lowest and is most disgraced.  Certainly,
such temples as these shall erelong cease to deform the
landscape.  There are few things more disheartening and disgusting
than when you are walking the streets of a strange village on the
Sabbath, to hear a preacher shouting like a boatswain in a gale
of wind, and thus harshly profaning the quiet atmosphere of the
day.  You fancy him to have taken off his coat, as when men are
about to do hot and dirty work.

If I should ask the minister of Middlesex to let me speak in his
pulpit on a Sunday, he would object, because I do not pray as
he does, or because I am not ordained.  What under the sun are
these things?

Really, there is no infidelity, now-a-days, so great as that
which prays, and keeps the Sabbath, and rebuilds the churches.
The sealer of the South Pacific preaches a truer doctrine.  The
church is a sort of hospital for men’s souls, and as full of
quackery as the hospital for their bodies.  Those who are taken
into it live like pensioners in their Retreat or Sailor’s Sung
Harbor, where you may see a row of religious <DW36>s sitting
outside in sunny weather.  Let not the apprehension that he may
one day have to occupy a ward therein, discourage the cheerful
labors of the able-souled man.  While he remembers the sick in
their extremities, let him not look thither as to his goal.  One
is sick at heart of this pagoda worship.  It is like the beating
of gongs in a Hindoo subterranean temple.  In dark places and
dungeons the preacher’s words might perhaps strike root and grow,
but not in broad daylight in any part of the world that I know.
The sound of the Sabbath bell far away, now breaking on these
shores, does not awaken pleasing associations, but melancholy and
sombre ones rather.  One involuntarily rests on his oar, to humor
his unusually meditative mood.  It is as the sound of many
catechisms and religious books twanging a canting peal round the
earth, seeming to issue from some Egyptian temple and echo along
the shore of the Nile, right opposite to Pharaoh’s palace and
Moses in the bulrushes, startling a multitude of storks and
alligators basking in the sun.

Everywhere “good men” sound a retreat, and the word has gone
forth to fall back on innocence.  Fall forward rather on to
whatever there is there.  Christianity only hopes.  It has hung
its harp on the willows, and cannot sing a song in a strange
land.  It has dreamed a sad dream, and does not yet welcome the
morning with joy.  The mother tells her falsehoods to her child,
but, thank Heaven, the child does not grow up in its parent’s
shadow.  Our mother’s faith has not grown with her experience.
Her experience has been too much for her.  The lesson of life was
too hard for her to learn.

It is remarkable, that almost all speakers and writers feel it to
be incumbent on them, sooner or later, to prove or to acknowledge
the personality of God.  Some Earl of Bridgewater, thinking it
better late than never, has provided for it in his will.  It is a
sad mistake.  In reading a work on agriculture, we have to skip
the author’s moral reflections, and the words “Providence” and
“He” scattered along the page, to come at the profitable level of
what he has to say.  What he calls his religion is for the most
part offensive to the nostrils.  He should know better than
expose himself, and keep his foul sores covered till they are
quite healed.  There is more religion in men’s science than there
is science in their religion.  Let us make haste to the report of
the committee on swine.

A man’s real faith is never contained in his creed, nor is his
creed an article of his faith.  The last is never adopted.  This
it is that permits him to smile ever, and to live even as bravely
as he does.  And yet he clings anxiously to his creed, as to a
straw, thinking that that does him good service because his sheet
anchor does not drag.

In most men’s religion, the ligature, which should be its
umbilical cord connecting them with divinity, is rather like that
thread which the accomplices of Cylon held in their hands when
they went abroad from the temple of Minerva, the other end being
attached to the statue of the goddess.  But frequently, as in
their case, the thread breaks, being stretched, and they are left
without an asylum.

  “A good and pious man reclined his head on the bosom of
  contemplation, and was absorbed in the ocean of a revery.  At
  the instant when he awaked from his vision, one of his friends,
  by way of pleasantry, said, What rare gift have you brought us
  from that garden, where you have been recreating?  He replied,
  I fancied to myself and said, when I can reach the rose-bower,
  I will fill my lap with the flowers, and bring them as a
  present to my friends; but when I got there, the fragrance of
  the roses so intoxicated me, that the skirt dropped from my
  hands.——‘O bird of dawn! learn the warmth of affection from
  the moth; for that scorched creature gave up the ghost, and
  uttered not a groan: These vain pretenders are ignorant of him
  they seek after; for of him that knew him we never heard
  again:—O thou! who towerest above the flights of conjecture,
  opinion, and comprehension; whatever has been reported of thee
  we have heard and read; the congregation is dismissed, and life
  drawn to a close; and we still rest at our first encomium of
  thee!’”—Sadi.

By noon we were let down into the Merrimack through the locks at
Middlesex, just above Pawtucket Falls, by a serene and
liberal-minded man, who came quietly from his book, though his
duties, we supposed, did not require him to open the locks on
Sundays.  With him we had a just and equal encounter of the eyes,
as between two honest men.

The movements of the eyes express the perpetual and unconscious
courtesy of the parties.  It is said, that a rogue does not look
you in the face, neither does an honest man look at you as if he
had his reputation to establish.  I have seen some who did not
know when to turn aside their eyes in meeting yours.  A truly
confident and magnanimous spirit is wiser than to contend for the
mastery in such encounters.  Serpents alone conquer by the
steadiness of their gaze.  My friend looks me in the face and
sees me, that is all.

The best relations were at once established between us and this
man, and though few words were spoken, he could not conceal a
visible interest in us and our excursion.  He was a lover of the
higher mathematics, as we found, and in the midst of some vast
sunny problem, when we overtook him and whispered our conjectures.
By this man we were presented with the freedom of the Merrimack.
We now felt as if we were fairly launched on the ocean-stream of
our voyage, and were pleased to find that our boat would float on
Merrimack water.  We began again busily to put in practice those
old arts of rowing, steering, and paddling.  It seemed a strange
phenomenon to us that the two rivers should mingle their waters
so readily, since we had never associated them in our thoughts.

As we glided over the broad bosom of the Merrimack, between
Chelmsford and Dracut, at noon, here a quarter of a mile wide,
the rattling of our oars was echoed over the water to those
villages, and their slight sounds to us.  Their harbors lay as
smooth and fairy-like as the Lido, or Syracuse, or Rhodes, in our
imagination, while, like some strange roving craft, we flitted
past what seemed the dwellings of noble home-staying men, seemingly
as conspicuous as if on an eminence, or floating upon a tide
which came up to those villagers’ breasts.  At a third of a mile
over the water we heard distinctly some children repeating their
catechism in a cottage near the shore, while in the broad
shallows between, a herd of cows stood lashing their sides, and
waging war with the flies.

Two hundred years ago other catechizing than this was going on
here; for here came the Sachem Wannalancet, and his people, and
sometimes Tahatawan, our Concord Sachem, who afterwards had a
church at home, to catch fish at the falls; and here also came
John Eliot, with the Bible and Catechism, and Baxter’s Call to
the Unconverted, and other tracts, done into the Massachusetts
tongue, and taught them Christianity meanwhile.  “This place,”
says Gookin, referring to Wamesit,

  “being an ancient and capital seat of Indians, they come to
  fish; and this good man takes this opportunity to spread the
  net of the gospel, to fish for their souls.”—“May 5th, 1674,”
  he continues, “according to our usual custom, Mr. Eliot and
  myself took our journey to Wamesit, or Pawtuckett; and arriving
  there that evening, Mr. Eliot preached to as many of them as
  could be got together, out of Matt.  xxii.  1-14, the parable
  of the marriage of the king’s son.  We met at the wigwam of one
  called Wannalancet, about two miles from the town, near
  Pawtuckett falls, and bordering upon Merrimak river.  This
  person, Wannalancet, is the eldest son of old Pasaconaway, the
  chiefest sachem of Pawtuckett.  He is a sober and grave person,
  and of years, between fifty and sixty.  He hath been always
  loving and friendly to the English.”  As yet, however, they had
  not prevailed on him to embrace the Christian religion.  “But
  at this time,” says Gookin, “May 6, 1674,”—“after some
  deliberation and serious pause, he stood up, and made a speech
  to this effect:—‘I must acknowledge I have, all my days, used
  to pass in an old canoe, (alluding to his frequent custom to
  pass in a canoe upon the river,) and now you exhort me to
  change and leave my old canoe, and embark in a new canoe, to
  which I have hitherto been unwilling; but now I yield up myself
  to your advice, and enter into a new canoe, and do engage to
  pray to God hereafter.’”  One “Mr. Richard Daniel, a gentleman
  that lived in Billerica,” who with other “persons of quality”
  was present, “desired brother Eliot to tell the sachem from
  him, that it may be, while he went in his old canoe, he passed
  in a quiet stream; but the end thereof was death and
  destruction to soul and body.  But now he went into a new
  canoe, perhaps he would meet with storms and trials, but yet he
  should be encouraged to persevere, for the end of his voyage
  would be everlasting rest.”—“Since that time, I hear this
  sachem doth persevere, and is a constant and diligent hearer of
  God’s word, and sanctifieth the Sabbath, though he doth travel
  to Wamesit meeting every Sabbath, which is above two miles; and
  though sundry of his people have deserted him, since he
  subjected to the gospel, yet he continues and   persists.”—
  Gookin’s Hist. Coll. of the Indians in New England, 1674.

Already, as appears from the records, “At a General Court
held at Boston in New England, the 7th of the first month,
1643-4.”—“Wassamequin, Nashoonon, Kutchamaquin, Massaconomet,
and Squaw Sachem, did voluntarily submit themselves” to the
English; and among other things did “promise to be willing from
time to time to be instructed in the knowledge of God.” Being
asked “Not to do any unnecessary work on the Sabbath day,
especially within the gates of Christian towns,” they answered,
“It is easy to them; they have not much to do on any day, and
they can well take their rest on that day.”—“So,” says Winthrop,
in his Journal, “we causing them to understand the articles, and
all the ten commandments of God, and they freely assenting to
all, they were solemnly received, and then presented the Court
with twenty-six fathom more of wampom; and the Court gave each of
them a coat of two yards of cloth, and their dinner; and to them
and their men, every of them, a cup of sack at their departure;
so they took leave and went away.”

What journeyings on foot and on horseback through the wilderness,
to preach the Gospel to these minks and muskrats! who first, no
doubt, listened with their red ears out of a natural hospitality
and courtesy, and afterward from curiosity or even interest, till
at length there were “praying Indians,” and, as the General Court
wrote to Cromwell, the “work is brought to this perfection, that
some of the Indians themselves can pray and prophesy in a
comfortable manner.”

It was in fact an old battle and hunting ground through which we
had been floating, the ancient dwelling-place of a race of
hunters and warriors.  Their weirs of stone, their arrowheads and
hatchets, their pestles, and the mortars in which they pounded
Indian corn before the white man had tasted it, lay concealed in
the mud of the river bottom.  Tradition still points out the
spots where they took fish in the greatest numbers, by such arts
as they possessed.  It is a rapid story the historian will have
to put together.  Miantonimo,—Winthrop,—Webster.  Soon he comes
from Montaup to Bunker Hill, from bear-skins, parched corn, bows
and arrows, to tiled roofs, wheat-fields, guns and swords.
Pawtucket and Wamesit, where the Indians resorted in the fishing
season, are now Lowell, the city of spindles and Manchester of
America, which sends its cotton cloth round the globe.  Even we
youthful voyagers had spent a part of our lives in the village of
Chelmsford, when the present city, whose bells we heard, was its
obscure north district only, and the giant weaver was not yet
fairly born.  So old are we; so young is it.

We were thus entering the State of New Hampshire on the bosom of
the flood formed by the tribute of its innumerable valleys.  The
river was the only key which could unlock its maze, presenting
its hills and valleys, its lakes and streams, in their natural
order and position.  The  Merrimack, or Sturgeon River, is formed
by the confluence of the Pemigewasset, which rises near the Notch
of the White Mountains, and the Winnipiseogee, which drains the
lake of the same name, signifying “The Smile of the Great
Spirit.” From their junction it runs south seventy-eight miles to
Massachusetts, and thence east thirty-five miles to the sea.  I
have traced its stream from where it bubbles out of the rocks of
the White Mountains above the clouds, to where it is lost amid
the salt billows of the ocean on Plum Island beach.  At first it
comes on murmuring to itself by the base of stately and retired
mountains, through moist primitive woods whose juices it
receives, where the bear still drinks it, and the cabins of
settlers are far between, and there are few to cross its stream;
enjoying in solitude its cascades still unknown to fame; by long
ranges of mountains of Sandwich and of Squam, slumbering like
tumuli of Titans, with the peaks of Moosehillock, the Haystack,
and Kearsarge reflected in its waters; where the maple and the
raspberry, those lovers of the hills, flourish amid temperate
dews;—flowing long and full of meaning, but untranslatable as
its name Pemigewasset, by many a pastured Pelion and Ossa, where
unnamed muses haunt, tended by Oreads, Dryads, Naiads, and
receiving the tribute of many an untasted Hippocrene.  There are
earth, air, fire, and water,—very well, this is water, and down
it comes.

   Such water do the gods distil,
   And pour down every hill
      For their New England men;
   A draught of this wild nectar bring,
   And I’ll not taste the spring
      Of Helicon again.

Falling all the way, and yet not discouraged by the lowest fall.
By the law of its birth never to become stagnant, for it has come
out of the clouds, and down the sides of precipices worn in the
flood, through beaver-dams broke loose, not splitting but
splicing and mending itself, until it found a breathing-place in
this low land.  There is no danger now that the sun will steal it
back to heaven again before it reach the sea, for it has a
warrant even to recover its own dews into its bosom again with
interest at every eve.

It was already the water of Squam and Newfound Lake and
Winnipiseogee, and White Mountain snow dissolved, on which we
were floating, and Smith’s and Baker’s and Mad Rivers, and Nashua
and Souhegan and Piscataquoag, and Suncook and Soucook and
Contoocook, mingled in incalculable proportions, still fluid,
yellowish, restless all, with an ancient, ineradicable
inclination to the sea.

So it flows on down by Lowell and Haverhill, at which last place
it first suffers a sea change, and a few masts betray the
vicinity of the ocean.  Between the towns of Amesbury and Newbury
it is a broad commercial river, from a third to half a mile in
width, no longer skirted with yellow and crumbling banks, but
backed by high green hills and pastures, with frequent white
beaches on which the fishermen draw up their nets.  I have passed
down this portion of the river in a steamboat, and it was a
pleasant sight to watch from its deck the fishermen dragging
their seines on the distant shore, as in pictures of a foreign
strand.  At intervals you may meet with a schooner laden with
lumber, standing up to Haverhill, or else lying at anchor or
aground, waiting for wind or tide; until, at last, you glide
under the famous Chain Bridge, and are landed at Newburyport.
Thus she who at first was “poore of waters, naked of renowne,”
having received so many fair tributaries, as was said of the
Forth,

   “Doth grow the greater still, the further downe;
      Till that abounding both in power and fame,
      She long doth strive to give the sea her name”;

or if not her name, in this case, at least the impulse of her
stream.  From the steeples of Newburyport you may review this
river stretching far up into the country, with many a white sail
glancing over it like an inland sea, and behold, as one wrote who
was born on its head-waters, “Down out at its mouth, the dark
inky main blending with the blue above.  Plum Island, its sand
ridges scolloping along the horizon like the sea-serpent, and the
distant outline broken by many a tall ship, leaning, still,
against the sky.”

Rising at an equal height with the Connecticut, the Merrimack
reaches the sea by a course only half as long, and hence has no
leisure to form broad and fertile meadows, like the former, but
is hurried along rapids, and down numerous falls, without long
delay.  The banks are generally steep and high, with a narrow
interval reaching back to the hills, which is only rarely or
partially overflown at present, and is much valued by the
farmers.  Between Chelmsford and Concord, in New Hampshire, it
varies from twenty to seventy-five rods in width.  It is probably
wider than it was formerly, in many places, owing to the trees
having been cut down, and the consequent wasting away of its
banks.  The influence of the Pawtucket Dam is felt as far up as
Cromwell’s Falls, and many think that the banks are being abraded
and the river filled up again by this cause.  Like all our
rivers, it is liable to freshets, and the Pemigewasset has been
known to rise twenty-five feet in a few hours.  It is navigable
for vessels of burden about twenty miles; for canal-boats, by
means of locks, as far as Concord in New Hampshire, about
seventy-five miles from its mouth; and for smaller boats to
Plymouth, one hundred and thirteen miles.  A small steamboat once
plied between Lowell and Nashua, before the railroad was built,
and one now runs from Newburyport to Haverhill.

Unfitted to some extent for the purposes of commerce by the
sand-bar at its mouth, see how this river was devoted from the
first to the service of manufactures.  Issuing from the iron
region of Franconia, and flowing through still uncut forests, by
inexhaustible ledges of granite, with Squam, and Winnipiseogee,
and Newfound, and Massabesic Lakes for its mill-ponds, it falls
over a succession of natural dams, where it has been offering its
privileges in vain for ages, until at last the Yankee race came
to improve them.  Standing at its mouth, look up its sparkling
stream to its source,—a silver cascade which falls all the way
from the White Mountains to the sea,—and behold a city on each
successive plateau, a busy colony of human beaver around every
fall.  Not to mention Newburyport and Haverhill, see Lawrence,
and Lowell, and Nashua, and Manchester, and Concord, gleaming one
above the other.  When at length it has escaped from under the
last of the factories, it has a level and unmolested passage to
the sea, a mere waste water, as it were, bearing little with it
but its fame; its pleasant course revealed by the morning fog
which hangs over it, and the sails of the few small vessels which
transact the commerce of Haverhill and Newburyport.  But its real
vessels are railroad cars, and its true and main stream, flowing
by an iron channel farther south, may be traced by a long line of
vapor amid the hills, which no morning wind ever disperses, to
where it empties into the sea at Boston.  This side is the louder
murmur now.  Instead of the scream of a fish-hawk scaring the
fishes, is heard the whistle of the steam-engine, arousing a
country to its progress.

This river too was at length discovered by the white man,
“trending up into the land,” he knew not how far, possibly an
inlet to the South Sea.  Its valley, as far as the Winnipiseogee,
was first surveyed in 1652.  The first settlers of Massachusetts
supposed that the Connecticut, in one part of its course, ran
northwest, “so near the great lake as the Indians do pass their
canoes into it over land.”  From which lake and the “hideous
swamps” about it, as they supposed, came all the beaver that was
traded between Virginia and Canada,—and the Potomac was thought
to come out of or from very near it.  Afterward the Connecticut
came so near the course of the Merrimack that, with a little
pains, they expected to divert the current of the trade into the
latter river, and its profits from their Dutch neighbors into
their own pockets.

Unlike the Concord, the Merrimack is not a dead but a living
stream, though it has less life within its waters and on its
banks.  It has a swift current, and, in this part of its course,
a clayey bottom, almost no weeds, and comparatively few fishes.
We looked down into its yellow water with the more curiosity, who
were accustomed to the Nile-like blackness of the former river.
Shad and alewives are taken here in their season, but salmon,
though at one time more numerous than shad, are now more rare.
Bass, also, are taken occasionally; but locks and dams have
proved more or less destructive to the fisheries.  The shad make
their appearance early in May, at the same time with the blossoms
of the pyrus, one of the most conspicuous early flowers, which is
for this reason called the shad-blossom.  An insect called the
shad-fly also appears at the same time, covering the houses and
fences.  We are told that “their greatest run is when the
apple-trees are in full blossom.  The old shad return in August;
the young, three or four inches long, in September.  These are
very fond of flies.” A rather picturesque and luxurious mode of
fishing was formerly practised on the Connecticut, at Bellows
Falls, where a large rock divides the stream.  “On the steep
sides of the island rock,” says Belknap, “hang several
arm-chairs, fastened to ladders, and secured by a counterpoise,
in which fishermen sit to catch salmon and shad with dipping
nets.” The remains of Indian weirs, made of large stones, are
still to be seen in the Winnipiseogee, one of the head-waters of
this river.

It cannot but affect our philosophy favorably to be reminded of
these shoals of migratory fishes, of salmon, shad, alewives,
marsh-bankers, and others, which penetrate up the innumerable
rivers of our coast in the spring, even to the interior lakes,
their scales gleaming in the sun; and again, of the fry which in
still greater numbers wend their way downward to the sea.  “And
is it not pretty sport,” wrote Captain John Smith, who was on
this coast as early as 1614, “to pull up twopence, sixpence, and
twelvepence, as fast as you can haul and veer a line?”—“And what
sport doth yield a more pleasing content, and less hurt or
charge, than angling with a hook, and crossing the sweet air from
isle to isle, over the silent streams of a calm sea.”

On the sandy shore, opposite the Glass-house village in
Chelmsford, at the Great Bend where we landed to rest us and
gather a few wild plums, we discovered the Campanula
rotundifolia, a new flower to us, the harebell of the poets,
which is common to both hemispheres, growing close to the water.
Here, in the shady branches of an apple-tree on the sand, we took
our nooning, where there was not a zephyr to disturb the repose
of this glorious Sabbath day, and we reflected serenely on the
long past and successful labors of Latona.

     “So silent is the cessile air,
        That every cry and call,
     The hills, and dales, and forest fair
        Again repeats them all.
    “The herds beneath some leafy trees,
        Amidst the flowers they lie,
     The stable ships upon the seas
        Tend up their sails to dry.”

As we thus rested in the shade, or rowed leisurely along, we had
recourse, from time to time, to the Gazetteer, which was our
Navigator, and from its bald natural facts extracted the pleasure
of poetry.  Beaver River comes in a little lower down, draining
the meadows of Pelham, Windham, and Londonderry.  The Scotch-Irish
settlers of the latter town, according to this authority, were
the first to introduce the potato into New England, as well as
the manufacture of linen cloth.

Everything that is printed and bound in a book contains some echo
at least of the best that is in literature.  Indeed, the best
books have a use, like sticks and stones, which is above or
beside their design, not anticipated in the preface, nor
concluded in the appendix.  Even Virgil’s poetry serves a very
different use to me to-day from what it did to his contemporaries.
It has often an acquired and accidental value merely, proving
that man is still man in the world.  It is pleasant to meet with
such still lines as,

    “Jam læto turgent in palmite gemmæ”;
     Now the buds swell on the joyful stem.
    “Strata jacent passim sua quæque sub arbore poma”;
     The apples lie scattered everywhere, each under its tree.

In an ancient and dead language, any recognition of living nature
attracts us.  These are such sentences as were written while grass
grew and water ran.  It is no small recommendation when a book
will stand the test of mere unobstructed sunshine and daylight.

What would we not give for some great poem to read now, which
would be in harmony with the scenery,—for if men read aright,
methinks they would never read anything but poems.  No history nor
philosophy can supply their place.

The wisest definition of poetry the poet will instantly prove
false by setting aside its requisitions.  We can, therefore,
publish only our advertisement of it.

There is no doubt that the loftiest written wisdom is either
rhymed, or in some way musically measured,—is, in form as well
as substance, poetry; and a volume which should contain the
condensed wisdom of mankind need not have one rhythmless line.

Yet poetry, though the last and finest result, is a natural
fruit.  As naturally as the oak bears an acorn, and the vine a
gourd, man bears a poem, either spoken or done.  It is the chief
and most memorable success, for history is but a prose narrative
of poetic deeds.  What else have the Hindoos, the Persians, the
Babylonians, the Egyptians done, that can be told?  It is the
simplest relation of phenomena, and describes the commonest
sensations with more truth than science does, and the latter at a
distance slowly mimics its style and methods.  The poet sings how
the blood flows in his veins.  He performs his functions, and is
so well that he needs such stimulus to sing only as plants to put
forth leaves and blossoms.  He would strive in vain to modulate
the remote and transient music which he sometimes hears, since
his song is a vital function like breathing, and an integral
result like weight.  It is not the overflowing of life but its
subsidence rather, and is drawn from under the feet of the poet.
It is enough if Homer but say the sun sets.  He is as serene as
nature, and we can hardly detect the enthusiasm of the bard.  It
is as if nature spoke.  He presents to us the simplest pictures
of human life, so the child itself can understand them, and the
man must not think twice to appreciate his naturalness.  Each
reader discovers for himself that, with respect to the simpler
features of nature, succeeding poets have done little else than
copy his similes.  His more memorable passages are as naturally
bright as gleams of sunshine in misty weather.  Nature furnishes
him not only with words, but with stereotyped lines and sentences
from her mint.

   “As from the clouds appears the full moon,
   All shining, and then again it goes behind the shadowy clouds,
   So Hector, at one time appeared among the foremost,
   And at another in the rear, commanding; and all with brass
   He shone, like to the lightning of ægis-bearing Zeus.”

He conveys the least information, even the hour of the day, with
such magnificence and vast expense of natural imagery, as if it
were a message from the gods.

   “While it was dawn, and sacred day was advancing,
   For that space the weapons of both flew fast, and the people fell;
   But when now the woodcutter was preparing his morning meal,
   In the recesses of the mountain, and had wearied his hands
   With cutting lofty trees, and satiety came to his mind,
   And the desire of sweet food took possession of his thoughts;
   Then the Danaans, by their valor, broke the phalanxes,
   Shouting to their companions from rank to rank.”

When the army of the Trojans passed the night under arms, keeping
watch lest the enemy should re-embark under cover of the dark,

   “They, thinking great things, upon the neutral ground of war
   Sat all the night; and many fires burned for them.
   As when in the heavens the stars round the bright moon
   Appear beautiful, and the air is without wind;
   And all the heights, and the extreme summits,
   And the wooded sides of the mountains appear; and from the
        heavens an infinite ether is diffused,
   And all the stars are seen, and the shepherd rejoices in his heart;
   So between the ships and the streams of Xanthus
   Appeared the fires of the Trojans before Ilium.
   A thousand fires burned on the plain, and by each
   Sat fifty, in the light of the blazing fire;
   And horses eating white barley and corn,
   Standing by the chariots, awaited fair-throned Aurora.”

The “white-armed goddess Juno,” sent by the Father of gods and
men for Iris and Apollo,

   “Went down the Idæan mountains to far Olympus,
   As when the mind of a man, who has come over much earth,
   Sallies forth, and he reflects with rapid thoughts,
   There was I, and there, and remembers many things;
   So swiftly the august Juno hastening flew through the air,
   And came to high Olympus.”

His scenery is always true, and not invented.  He does not leap in
imagination from Asia to Greece, through mid air,

         ἐπειὴ μάλα πολλὰ μεταξύ
    Ὄυρεά τε σκιοέντα, θαλάσσα τε ἠχήεσσα.
        for there are very many
   Shady mountains and resounding seas between.

If his messengers repair but to the tent of Achilles, we do not
wonder how they got there, but accompany them step by step along
the shore of the resounding sea.  Nestor’s account of the march
of the Pylians against the Epeians is extremely lifelike:—

   “Then rose up to them sweet-worded Nestor, the shrill orator
       of the Pylians,
   And words sweeter than honey flowed from his tongue.”

This time, however, he addresses Patroclus alone: “A certain
river, Minyas by name, leaps seaward near to Arene, where we
Pylians wait the dawn, both horse and foot.  Thence with all
haste we sped us on the morrow ere ’t was noonday, accoutred for
the fight, even to Alpheus’s sacred source,” &c.  We fancy that
we hear the subdued murmuring of the Minyas discharging its
waters into the main the livelong night, and the hollow sound of
the waves breaking on the shore,—until at length we are cheered
at the close of a toilsome march by the gurgling fountains of
Alpheus.

There are few books which are fit to be remembered in our wisest
hours, but the Iliad is brightest in the serenest days, and
embodies still all the sunlight that fell on Asia Minor.  No
modern joy or ecstasy of ours can lower its height or dim its
lustre, but there it lies in the east of literature, as it were
the earliest and latest production of the mind.  The ruins of
Egypt oppress and stifle us with their dust, foulness preserved
in cassia and pitch, and swathed in linen; the death of that
which never lived.  But the rays of Greek poetry struggle down to
us, and mingle with the sunbeams of the recent day.  The statue
of Memnon is cast down, but the shaft of the Iliad still meets
the sun in his rising.

     “Homer is gone; and where is Jove? and where
      The rival cities seven?  His song outlives
      Time, tower, and god,—all that then was, save Heaven.”

So too, no doubt, Homer had his Homer, and Orpheus his Orpheus,
in the dim antiquity which preceded them.  The mythological
system of the ancients, and it is still the mythology of the
moderns, the poem of mankind, interwoven so wonderfully with
their astronomy, and matching in grandeur and harmony the
architecture of the heavens themselves, seems to point to a time
when a mightier genius inhabited the earth.  But, after all, man
is the great poet, and not Homer nor Shakespeare; and our
language itself, and the common arts of life, are his work.
Poetry is so universally true and independent of experience, that
it does not need any particular biography to illustrate it, but
we refer it sooner or later to some Orpheus or Linus, and after
ages to the genius of humanity and the gods themselves.

It would be worth the while to select our reading, for books are
the society we keep; to read only the serenely true; never
statistics, nor fiction, nor news, nor reports, nor periodicals,
but only great poems, and when they failed, read them again, or
perchance write more.  Instead of other sacrifice, we might offer
up our perfect (τελεία) thoughts to the gods daily,
in hymns or psalms.  For we should be at the helm at least once a day.  The
whole of the day should not be daytime; there should be one hour,
if no more, which the day did not bring forth.  Scholars are wont
to sell their birthright for a mess of learning.  But is it
necessary to know what the speculator prints, or the thoughtless
study, or the idle read, the literature of the Russians and the
Chinese, or even French philosophy and much of German criticism.
Read the best books first, or you may not have a chance to read
them at all.  “There are the worshippers with offerings, and the
worshippers with mortifications; and again the worshippers with
enthusiastic devotion; so there are those the wisdom of whose
reading is their worship, men of subdued passions and severe
manners;—This world is not for him who doth not worship; and
where, O Arjoon, is there another?”  Certainly, we do not need to
be soothed and entertained always like children.  He who resorts
to the easy novel, because he is languid, does no better than if
he took a nap.  The front aspect of great thoughts can only be
enjoyed by those who stand on the side whence they arrive.
Books, not which afford us a cowering enjoyment, but in which
each thought is of unusual daring; such as an idle man cannot
read, and a timid one would not be entertained by, which even
make us dangerous to existing institutions,—such call I good
books.

All that are printed and bound are not books; they do not
necessarily belong to letters, but are oftener to be ranked with
the other luxuries and appendages of civilized life.  Base wares
are palmed off under a thousand disguises.  “The way to trade,”
as a pedler once told me, “is to put it right through,” no
matter what it is, anything that is agreed on.

    “You grov’ling worldlings, you whose wisdom trades
     Where light ne’er shot his golden ray.”

By dint of able writing and pen-craft, books are cunningly
compiled, and have their run and success even among the learned,
as if they were the result of a new man’s thinking, and their
birth were attended with some natural throes.  But in a little
while their covers fall off, for no binding will avail, and it
appears that they are not Books or Bibles at all.  There are new
and patented inventions in this shape, purporting to be for the
elevation of the race, which many a pure scholar and genius who
has learned to read is for a moment deceived by, and finds
himself reading a horse-rake, or spinning-jenny, or wooden
nutmeg, or oak-leaf cigar, or steam-power press, or kitchen
range, perchance, when he was seeking serene and biblical truths.

                          “Merchants, arise,
     And mingle conscience with your merchandise.”

Paper is cheap, and authors need not now erase one book before
they write another.  Instead of cultivating the earth for wheat
and potatoes, they cultivate literature, and fill a place in the
Republic of Letters.  Or they would fain write for fame merely,
as others actually raise crops of grain to be distilled into
brandy.  Books are for the most part wilfully and hastily
written, as parts of a system, to supply a want real or imagined.
Books of natural history aim commonly to be hasty schedules, or
inventories of God’s property, by some clerk.  They do not in the
least teach the divine view of nature, but the popular view, or
rather the popular method of studying nature, and make haste to
conduct the persevering pupil only into that dilemma where the
professors always dwell.

    “To Athens gowned he goes, and from that school
     Returns unsped, a more instructed fool.”

They teach the elements really of ignorance, not of knowledge,
for, to speak deliberately and in view of the highest truths, it
is not easy to distinguish elementary knowledge.  There is a
chasm between knowledge and ignorance which the arches of science
can never span.  A book should contain pure discoveries, glimpses
of terra firma, though by shipwrecked mariners, and not the art
of navigation by those who have never been out of sight of land.
They must not yield wheat and potatoes, but must themselves be
the unconstrained and natural harvest of their author’s lives.

    “What I have learned is mine; I’ve had my thought,
     And me the Muses noble truths have taught.”

We do not learn much from learned books, but from true, sincere,
human books, from frank and honest biographies.  The life of a
good man will hardly improve us more than the life of a
freebooter, for the inevitable laws appear as plainly in the
infringement as in the observance, and our lives are sustained by
a nearly equal expense of virtue of some kind.  The decaying
tree, while yet it lives, demands sun, wind, and rain no less
than the green one.  It secretes sap and performs the functions
of health.  If we choose, we may study the alburnum only.  The
gnarled stump has as tender a bud as the sapling.

At least let us have healthy books, a stout horse-rake or a
kitchen range which is not cracked.  Let not the poet shed tears
only for the public weal.  He should be as vigorous as a
sugar-maple, with sap enough to maintain his own verdure, beside
what runs into the troughs, and not like a vine, which being cut
in the spring bears no fruit, but bleeds to death in the endeavor
to heal its wounds.  The poet is he that hath fat enough, like
bears and marmots, to suck his claws all winter.  He hibernates
in this world, and feeds on his own marrow.  We love to think in
winter, as we walk over the snowy pastures, of those happy
dreamers that lie under the sod, of dormice and all that race of
dormant creatures, which have such a superfluity of life
enveloped in thick folds of fur, impervious to cold.  Alas, the
poet too is, in one sense, a sort of dormouse gone into winter
quarters of deep and serene thoughts, insensible to surrounding
circumstances; his words are the relation of his oldest and
finest memory, a wisdom drawn from the remotest experience.
Other men lead a starved existence, meanwhile, like hawks, that
would fain keep on the wing, and trust to pick up a sparrow now
and then.

There are already essays and poems, the growth of this land,
which are not in vain, all which, however, we could conveniently
have stowed in the till of our chest.  If the gods permitted
their own inspiration to be breathed in vain, these might be
overlooked in the crowd, but the accents of truth are as sure to
be heard at last on earth as in heaven.  They already seem
ancient, and in some measure have lost the traces of their modern
birth.  Here are they who

   “ask for that which is our whole life’s light,
   For the perpetual, true and clear insight.”

I remember a few sentences which spring like the sward in its
native pasture, where its roots were never disturbed, and not as
if spread over a sandy embankment; answering to the poet’s
prayer,

                “Let us set so just
   A rate on knowledge, that the world may trust
   The poet’s sentence, and not still aver
   Each art is to itself a flatterer.”

But, above all, in our native port, did we not frequent the
peaceful games of the Lyceum, from which a new era will be dated
to New England, as from the games of Greece.  For if Herodotus
carried his history to Olympia to read, after the cestus and the
race, have we not heard such histories recited there, which since
our countrymen have read, as made Greece sometimes to be
forgotten?—Philosophy, too, has there her grove and portico, not
wholly unfrequented in these days.

Lately the victor, whom all Pindars praised, has won another
palm, contending with

   “Olympian bards who sung
   Divine ideas below,
   Which always find us young,
   And always keep us so.”

What earth or sea, mountain or stream, or Muses’ spring or grove,
is safe from his all-searching ardent eye, who drives off Phœbus’ beaten track,
visits unwonted zones, makes the gelid Hyperboreans glow, and the old polar
serpent
writhe, and many a Nile flow back and hide his head!

   That Phaeton of our day,
   Who’d make another milky way,
   And burn the world up with his ray;
   By us an undisputed seer,—
   Who’d drive his flaming car so near
   Unto our shuddering mortal sphere,
   Disgracing all our slender worth,
   And scorching up the living earth,
   To prove his heavenly birth.
   The silver spokes, the golden tire,
   Are glowing with unwonted fire,
   And ever nigher roll and nigher;
   The pins and axle melted are,
   The silver radii fly afar,
   Ah, he will spoil his Father’s car!
   Who let him have the steeds he cannot steer?
   Henceforth the sun will not shine for a year;
   And we shall Ethiops all appear.

From his

           “lips of cunning fell
   The thrilling Delphic oracle.”

And yet, sometimes,

   We should not mind if on our ear there fell
   Some less of cunning, more of oracle.

It is Apollo shining in your face.  O rare Contemporary, let us
have far-off heats.  Give us the subtler, the heavenlier though
fleeting beauty, which passes through and through, and dwells not
in the verse; even pure water, which but reflects those tints
which wine wears in its grain.  Let epic trade-winds blow, and
cease this waltz of inspirations.  Let us oftener feel even the
gentle southwest wind upon our cheeks blowing from the Indian’s
heaven.  What though we lose a thousand meteors from the sky, if
skyey depths, if star-dust and undissolvable nebulæ remain?
What though we lose a thousand wise responses of the oracle, if
we may have instead some natural acres of Ionian earth?

Though we know well,

   “That’t is not in the power of kings [or presidents] to raise
    A spirit for verse that is not born thereto,
    Nor are they born in every prince’s days”;

yet spite of all they sang in praise of their “Eliza’s reign,” we
have evidence that poets may be born and sing in our day, in
the presidency of James K.  Polk,

    “And that the utmost powers of English rhyme,”
    Were not “within her peaceful reign confined.”

The prophecy of the poet Daniel is already how much more than
fulfilled!

    “And who in time knows whither we may vent
    The treasure of our tongue?  To what strange shores
    This gain of our best glory shall be sent,
    T’ enrich unknowing nations with our stores?
    What worlds in th’ yet unformed occident,
    May come refined with the accents that are ours.”

Enough has been said in these days of the charm of fluent
writing.  We hear it complained of some works of genius, that
they have fine thoughts, but are irregular and have no flow.  But
even the mountain peaks in the horizon are, to the eye of
science, parts of one range.  We should consider that the flow of
thought is more like a tidal wave than a prone river, and is the
result of a celestial influence, not of any declivity in its
channel.  The river flows because it runs down hill, and flows
the faster the faster it descends.  The reader who expects to
float down stream for the whole voyage, may well complain of
nauseating swells and choppings of the sea when his frail
shore-craft gets amidst the billows of the ocean stream, which
flows as much to sun and moon as lesser streams to it.  But if we
would appreciate the flow that is in these books, we must expect
to feel it rise from the page like an exhalation, and wash away
our critical brains like burr millstones, flowing to higher
levels above and behind ourselves.  There is many a book which
ripples on like a freshet, and flows as glibly as a mill-stream
sucking under a causeway; and when their authors are in the full
tide of their discourse, Pythagoras and Plato and Jamblichus halt
beside them.  Their long, stringy, slimy sentences are of that
consistency that they naturally flow and run together.  They read
as if written for military men, for men of business, there is
such a despatch in them.  Compared with these, the grave thinkers
and philosophers seem not to have got their swaddling-clothes
off; they are slower than a Roman army in its march, the rear
camping to-night where the van camped last night.  The wise
Jamblichus eddies and gleams like a watery slough.

    “How many thousands never heard the name
    Of Sidney, or of Spenser, or their books?
    And yet brave fellows, and presume of fame,
    And seem to bear down all the world with looks.”

The ready writer seizes the pen, and shouts, Forward!  Alamo and
Fanning!  and after rolls the tide of war.  The very walls and
fences seem to travel.  But the most rapid trot is no flow after
all; and thither, reader, you and I, at least, will not follow.

A perfectly healthy sentence, it is true, is extremely rare.  For
the most part we miss the hue and fragrance of the thought; as if
we could be satisfied with the dews of the morning or evening
without their colors, or the heavens without their azure.  The
most attractive sentences are, perhaps, not the wisest, but the
surest and roundest.  They are spoken firmly and conclusively, as
if the speaker had a right to know what he says, and if not wise,
they have at least been well learned.  Sir Walter Raleigh might
well be studied if only for the excellence of his style, for he
is remarkable in the midst of so many masters.  There is a
natural emphasis in his style, like a man’s tread, and a
breathing space between the sentences, which the best of modern
writing does not furnish.  His chapters are like English parks,
or say rather like a Western forest, where the larger growth
keeps down the underwood, and one may ride on horseback through
the openings.  All the distinguished writers of that period
possess a greater vigor and naturalness than the more
modern,—for it is allowed to slander our own time,—and when we
read a quotation from one of them in the midst of a modern
author, we seem to have come suddenly upon a greener ground, a
greater depth and strength of soil.  It is as if a green bough
were laid across the page, and we are refreshed as by the sight
of fresh grass in midwinter or early spring.  You have constantly
the warrant of life and experience in what you read.  The little
that is said is eked out by implication of the much that was
done.  The sentences are verdurous and blooming as evergreen and
flowers, because they are rooted in fact and experience, but our
false and florid sentence have only the tints of flowers without
their sap or roots.  All men are really most attracted by the
beauty of plain speech, and they even write in a florid style in
imitation of this.  They prefer to be misunderstood rather than
to come short of its exuberance.  Hussein Effendi praised the
epistolary style of Ibrahim Pasha to the French traveller Botta,
because of “the difficulty of understanding it; there was,” he
said, “but one person at Jidda, who was capable of understanding
and explaining the Pasha’s correspondence.” A man’s whole life is
taxed for the least thing well done.  It is its net result.
Every sentence is the result of a long probation.  Where shall we
look for standard English, but to the words of a standard man?
The word which is best said came nearest to not being spoken at
all, for it is cousin to a deed which the speaker could have
better done.  Nay, almost it must have taken the place of a deed
by some urgent necessity, even by some misfortune, so that the
truest writer will be some captive knight, after all.  And
perhaps the fates had such a design, when, having stored Raleigh
so richly with the substance of life and experience, they made
him a fast prisoner, and compelled him to make his words his
deeds, and transfer to his expression the emphasis and sincerity
of his action.

Men have a respect for scholarship and learning greatly out of
proportion to the use they commonly serve.  We are amused to read
how Ben Jonson engaged, that the dull masks with which the royal
family and nobility were to be entertained should be “grounded
upon antiquity and solid learning.” Can there be any greater
reproach than an idle learning?  Learn to split wood, at least.
The necessity of labor and conversation with many men and things,
to the scholar is rarely well remembered; steady labor with the
hands, which engrosses the attention also, is unquestionably the
best method of removing palaver and sentimentality out of one’s
style, both of speaking and writing.  If he has worked hard from
morning till night, though he may have grieved that he could not
be watching the train of his thoughts during that time, yet the
few hasty lines which at evening record his day’s experience will
be more musical and true than his freest but idle fancy could
have furnished.  Surely the writer is to address a world of
laborers, and such therefore must be his own discipline.  He will
not idly dance at his work who has wood to cut and cord before
nightfall in the short days of winter; but every stroke will be
husbanded, and ring soberly through the wood; and so will the
strokes of that scholar’s pen, which at evening record the story
of the day, ring soberly, yet cheerily, on the ear of the reader,
long after the echoes of his axe have died away.  The scholar may
be sure that he writes the tougher truth for the calluses on his
palms.  They give firmness to the sentence.  Indeed, the mind
never makes a great and successful effort, without a
corresponding energy of the body.  We are often struck by the
force and precision of style to which hard-working men,
unpractised in writing, easily attain when required to make the
effort.  As if plainness, and vigor, and sincerity, the ornaments
of style, were better learned on the farm and in the workshop,
than in the schools.  The sentences written by such rude hands
are nervous and tough, like hardened thongs, the sinews of the
deer, or the roots of the pine.  As for the graces of expression,
a great thought is never found in a mean dress; but though it
proceed from the lips of the Woloffs, the nine Muses and the
three Graces will have conspired to clothe it in fit phrase.  Its
education has always been liberal, and its implied wit can endow
a college.  The world, which the Greeks called Beauty, has been
made such by being gradually divested of every ornament which was
not fitted to endure.  The Sibyl, “speaking with inspired mouth,
smileless, inornate, and unperfumed, pierces through centuries by
the power of the god.”  The scholar might frequently emulate the
propriety and emphasis of the farmer’s call to his team, and
confess that if that were written it would surpass his labored
sentences.  Whose are the truly labored sentences?  From the
weak and flimsy periods of the politician and literary man, we
are glad to turn even to the description of work, the simple
record of the month’s labor in the farmer’s almanac, to restore
our tone and spirits.  A sentence should read as if its author,
had he held a plough instead of a pen, could have drawn a furrow
deep and straight to the end.  The scholar requires hard and
serious labor to give an impetus to his thought.  He will learn
to grasp the pen firmly so, and wield it gracefully and
effectively, as an axe or a sword.  When we consider the weak and
nerveless periods of some literary men, who perchance in feet and
inches come up to the standard of their race, and are not
deficient in girth also, we are amazed at the immense sacrifice
of thews and sinews.  What! these proportions,—these bones,—and
this their work!  Hands which could have felled an ox have hewed
this fragile matter which would not have tasked a lady’s fingers!
Can this be a stalwart man’s work, who has a marrow in his back
and a tendon Achilles in his heel?  They who set up the blocks of
Stonehenge did somewhat, if they only laid out their strength for
once, and stretched themselves.

Yet, after all, the truly efficient laborer will not crowd his
day with work, but will saunter to his task surrounded by a wide
halo of ease and leisure, and then do but what he loves best.  He
is anxious only about the fruitful kernels of time.  Though the
hen should sit all day, she could lay only one egg, and, besides,
would not have picked up materials for another.  Let a man take
time enough for the most trivial deed, though it be but the
paring of his nails.  The buds swell imperceptibly, without hurry
or confusion, as if the short spring days were an eternity.

     Then spend an age in whetting thy desire,
     Thou needs’t not hasten if thou dost stand fast.

Some hours seem not to be occasion for any deed, but for resolves
to draw breath in.  We do not directly go about the execution of
the purpose that thrills us, but shut our doors behind us and
ramble with prepared mind, as if the half were already done.  Our
resolution is taking root or hold on the earth then, as seeds
first send a shoot downward which is fed by their own albumen,
ere they send one upward to the light.

There is a sort of homely truth and naturalness in some books
which is very rare to find, and yet looks cheap enough.  There
may be nothing lofty in the sentiment, or fine in the expression,
but it is careless country talk.  Homeliness is almost as great a
merit in a book as in a house, if the reader would abide there.
It is next to beauty, and a very high art.  Some have this merit
only.  The scholar is not apt to make his most familiar
experience come gracefully to the aid of his expression.  Very
few men can speak of Nature, for instance, with any truth.  They
overstep her modesty, somehow or other, and confer no favor.
They do not speak a good word for her.  Most cry better than they
speak, and you can get more nature out of them by pinching than
by addressing them.  The surliness with which the woodchopper
speaks of his woods, handling them as indifferently as his axe,
is better than the mealy-mouthed enthusiasm of the lover of
nature.  Better that the primrose by the river’s brim be a yellow
primrose, and nothing more, than that it be something less.
Aubrey relates of Thomas Fuller that his was “a very working
head, insomuch that, walking and meditating before dinner, he
would eat up a penny loaf, not knowing that he did it.  His
natural memory was very great, to which he added the art of
memory.  He would repeat to you forwards and backwards all the
signs from Ludgate to Charing Cross.” He says of Mr. John Hales,
that, “He loved Canarie,” and was buried “under an altar monument
of black marble————with a too long epitaph”; of Edmund
Halley, that he “at sixteen could make a dial, and then, he said,
he thought himself a brave fellow”; of William Holder, who wrote
a book upon his curing one Popham who was deaf and dumb, “he was
beholding to no author; did only consult with nature.” For the
most part, an author consults only with all who have written
before him upon a subject, and his book is but the advice of so
many.  But a good book will never have been forestalled, but the
topic itself will in one sense be new, and its author, by
consulting with nature, will consult not only with those who have
gone before, but with those who may come after.  There is always
room and occasion enough for a true book on any subject; as there
is room for more light the brightest day and more rays will not
interfere with the first.

We thus worked our way up this river, gradually adjusting our
thoughts to novelties, beholding from its placid bosom a new
nature and new works of men, and, as it were with increasing
confidence, finding nature still habitable, genial, and
propitious to us; not following any beaten path, but the windings
of the river, as ever the nearest way for us.  Fortunately we had
no business in this country.  The Concord had rarely been a
river, or rivus, but barely fluvius, or between fluvius and
lacus.  This Merrimack was neither rivus nor fluvius nor
lacus, but rather amnis here, a gently swelling and stately
rolling flood approaching the sea.  We could even sympathize with
its buoyant tide, going to seek its fortune in the ocean, and,
anticipating the time when “being received within the plain of
its freer water,” it should “beat the shores for banks,”—

   “campoque recepta
   Liberioris aquæ, pro ripis litora pulsant.”

At length we doubled a low shrubby islet, called Rabbit Island,
subjected alternately to the sun and to the waves, as desolate as
if it lay some leagues within the icy sea, and found ourselves in
a narrower part of the river, near the sheds and yards for
picking the stone known as the Chelmsford granite, which is
quarried in Westford and the neighboring towns.  We passed
Wicasuck Island, which contains seventy acres or more, on our
right, between Chelmsford and Tyngsborough.  This was a favorite
residence of the Indians.  According to the History of Dunstable,
“About 1663, the eldest son of Passaconaway [Chief of the
Penacooks] was thrown into jail for a debt of £45, due to John
Tinker, by one of his tribe, and which he had promised verbally
should be paid.  To relieve him from his imprisonment, his
brother Wannalancet and others, who owned Wicasuck Island, sold
it and paid the debt.” It was, however, restored to the Indians
by the General Court in 1665.  After the departure of the Indians
in 1683, it was granted to Jonathan Tyng in payment for his
services to the colony, in maintaining a garrison at his house.
Tyng’s house stood not far from Wicasuck Falls.  Gookin, who, in
his Epistle Dedicatory to Robert Boyle, apologizes for presenting
his “matter clothed in a wilderness dress,” says that on the
breaking out of Philip’s war in 1675, there were taken up by the
Christian Indians and the English in Marlborough, and sent to
Cambridge, seven “Indians belonging to Narragansett, Long Island,
and Pequod, who had all been at work about seven weeks with one
Mr. Jonathan Tyng, of Dunstable, upon Merrimack River; and,
hearing of the war, they reckoned with their master, and getting
their wages, conveyed themselves away without his privity, and,
being afraid, marched secretly through the woods, designing to go
to their own country.” However, they were released soon after.
Such were the hired men in those days.  Tyng was the first
permanent settler of Dunstable, which then embraced what is now
Tyngsborough and many other towns.  In the winter of 1675, in
Philip’s war, every other settler left the town, but “he,” says
the historian of Dunstable, “fortified his house; and, although
‘obliged to send to Boston for his food,’ sat himself down in the
midst of his savage enemies, alone, in the wilderness, to defend
his home.  Deeming his position an important one for the defence
of the frontiers, in February, 1676, he petitioned the Colony for
aid,” humbly showing, as his petition runs, that, as he lived “in
the uppermost house on Merrimac river, lying open to ye enemy,
yet being so seated that it is, as it were, a watch-house to the
neighboring towns,” he could render important service to his
country if only he had some assistance, “there being,” he said,
“never an inhabitant left in the town but myself.” Wherefore he
requests that their “Honors would be pleased to order him three
or four men to help garrison his said house,” which they did.
But methinks that such a garrison would be weakened by the
addition of a man.

    “Make bandog thy scout watch to bark at a thief,
     Make courage for life, to be capitain chief;
     Make trap-door thy bulwark, make bell to begin,
     Make gunstone and arrow show who is within.”

Thus he earned the title of first permanent settler.  In 1694 a
law was passed “that every settler who deserted a town for fear
of the Indians should forfeit all his rights therein.” But now,
at any rate, as I have frequently observed, a man may desert the
fertile frontier territories of truth and justice, which are the
State’s best lands, for fear of far more insignificant foes,
without forfeiting any of his civil rights therein.  Nay,
townships are granted to deserters, and the General Court, as I
am sometimes inclined to regard it, is but a deserters’ camp
itself.

As we rowed along near the shore of Wicasuck Island, which was
then covered with wood, in order to avoid the current, two men,
who looked as if they had just run out of Lowell, where they had
been waylaid by the Sabbath, meaning to go to Nashua, and who now
found themselves in the strange, natural, uncultivated, and
unsettled part of the globe which intervenes, full of walls and
barriers, a rough and uncivil place to them, seeing our boat
moving so smoothly up the stream, called out from the high bank
above our heads to know if we would take them as passengers, as
if this were the street they had missed; that they might sit and
chat and drive away the time, and so at last find themselves in
Nashua.  This smooth way they much preferred.  But our boat was
crowded with necessary furniture, and sunk low in the water, and
moreover required to be worked, for even it did not progress
against the stream without effort; so we were obliged to deny
them passage.  As we glided away with even sweeps, while the
fates scattered oil in our course, the sun now sinking behind the
alders on the distant shore, we could still see them far off over
the water, running along the shore and climbing over the rocks
and fallen trees like insects,—for they did not know any better
than we that they were on an island,—the unsympathizing river
ever flowing in an opposite direction; until, having reached the
entrance of the island brook, which they had probably crossed
upon the locks below, they found a more effectual barrier to
their progress.  They seemed to be learning much in a little
time.  They ran about like ants on a burning brand, and once more
they tried the river here, and once more there, to see if water
still indeed was not to be walked on, as if a new thought
inspired them, and by some peculiar disposition of the limbs they
could accomplish it.  At length sober common sense seemed to have
resumed its sway, and they concluded that what they had so long
heard must be true, and resolved to ford the shallower stream.
When nearly a mile distant we could see them stripping off their
clothes and preparing for this experiment; yet it seemed likely
that a new dilemma would arise, they were so thoughtlessly
throwing away their clothes on the wrong side of the stream, as
in the case of the countryman with his corn, his fox, and his
goose, which had to be transported one at a time.  Whether they
got safely through, or went round by the locks, we never learned.
We could not help being struck by the seeming, though innocent
indifference of Nature to these men’s necessities, while
elsewhere she was equally serving others.  Like a true
benefactress, the secret of her service is unchangeableness.
Thus is the busiest merchant, though within sight of his Lowell,
put to pilgrim’s shifts, and soon comes to staff and scrip and
scallop shell.

We, too, who held the middle of the stream, came near
experiencing a pilgrim’s fate, being tempted to pursue what
seemed a sturgeon or larger fish, for we remembered that this was
the Sturgeon River, its dark and monstrous back alternately
rising and sinking in mid-stream.  We kept falling behind, but
the fish kept his back well out, and did not dive, and seemed to
prefer to swim against the stream, so, at any rate, he would not
escape us by going out to sea.  At length, having got as near as
was convenient, and looking out not to get a blow from his tail,
now the bow-gunner delivered his charge, while the stern-man held
his ground.  But the halibut-skinned monster, in one of these
swift-gliding pregnant moments, without ever ceasing his bobbing
up and down, saw fit, without a chuckle or other prelude, to
proclaim himself a huge imprisoned spar, placed there as a buoy,
to warn sailors of sunken rocks.  So, each casting some blame
upon the other, we withdrew quickly to safer waters.

The Scene-shifter saw fit here to close the drama, of this day,
without regard to any unities which we mortals prize.  Whether it
might have proved tragedy, or comedy, or tragi-comedy, or
pastoral, we cannot tell.  This Sunday ended by the going down of
the sun, leaving us still on the waves.  But they who are on the
water enjoy a longer and brighter twilight than they who are on
the land, for here the water, as well as the atmosphere, absorbs
and reflects the light, and some of the day seems to have sunk
down into the waves.  The light gradually forsook the deep water,
as well as the deeper air, and the gloaming came to the fishes as
well as to us, and more dim and gloomy to them, whose day is a
perpetual twilight, though sufficiently bright for their weak and
watery eyes.  Vespers had already rung in many a dim and watery
chapel down below, where the shadows of the weeds were extended
in length over the sandy floor.  The vespertinal pout had already
begun to flit on leathern fin, and the finny gossips withdrew
from the fluvial street to creeks and coves, and other private
haunts, excepting a few of stronger fin, which anchored in the
stream, stemming the tide even in their dreams.  Meanwhile, like
a dark evening cloud, we were wafted over the cope of their sky,
deepening the shadows on their deluged fields.

Having reached a retired part of the river where it spread out to
sixty rods in width, we pitched our tent on the east side, in
Tyngsborough, just above some patches of the beach plum, which
was now nearly ripe, where the sloping bank was a sufficient
pillow, and with the bustle of sailors making the land, we
transferred such stores as were required from boat to tent, and
hung a lantern to the tent-pole, and so our house was ready.
With a buffalo spread on the grass, and a blanket for our
covering our bed was soon made.  A fire crackled merrily before
the entrance, so near that we could tend it without stepping
abroad, and when we had supped, we put out the blaze, and closed
the door, and with the semblance of domestic comfort, sat up to
read the Gazetteer, to learn our latitude and longitude, and
write the journal of the voyage, or listened to the wind and the
rippling of the river till sleep overtook us.  There we lay under
an oak on the bank of the stream, near to some farmer’s
cornfield, getting sleep, and forgetting where we were; a great
blessing, that we are obliged to forget our enterprises every
twelve hours.  Minks, muskrats, meadow-mice, woodchucks,
squirrels, skunks, rabbits, foxes, and weasels, all inhabit near,
but keep very close while you are there.  The river sucking and
eddying away all night down toward the marts and the seaboard, a
great wash and freshet, and no small enterprise to reflect on.
Instead of the Scythian vastness of the Billerica night, and its
wild musical sounds, we were kept awake by the boisterous sport
of some Irish laborers on the railroad, wafted to us over the
water, still unwearied and unresting on this seventh day, who
would not have done with whirling up and down the track with ever
increasing velocity and still reviving shouts, till late in the
night.

One sailor was visited in his dreams this night by the Evil
Destinies, and all those powers that are hostile to human life,
which constrain and oppress the minds of men, and make their path
seem difficult and narrow, and beset with dangers, so that the
most innocent and worthy enterprises appear insolent and a
tempting of fate, and the gods go not with us.  But the other
happily passed a serene and even ambrosial or immortal night, and
his sleep was dreamless, or only the atmosphere of pleasant
dreams remained, a happy natural sleep until the morning; and his
cheerful spirit soothed and reassured his brother, for whenever
they meet, the Good Genius is sure to prevail.

    
      
 
 
       
    
    
      


    

MONDAY.

       “I thynke for to touche also
       The worlde whiche neweth everie daie,
       So as I can, so as I maie.”

                          Gower.

          “The hye sheryfe of Notynghame,
            Hym holde in your mynd.”

                       Robin Hood Ballads.

            “His shoote it was but loosely shott,
              Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,
             For it mett one of the sheriffe’s men,
              And William a Trent was slaine.”
                                     Robin Hood Ballads

    “Gazed on the heavens for what he missed on Earth.”
                                   Britania’s Pastorale

MONDAY.


When the first light dawned on the earth and the birds, awoke,
and the brave river was heard rippling confidently seaward, and
the nimble early rising wind rustled the oak leaves about our
tent, all men having reinforced their bodies and their souls with
sleep, and cast aside doubt and fear, were invited to unattempted
adventures.

     “All courageous knichtis
      Agains the day dichtis
      The breest-plate that bricht is,
           To feght with their foue.
      The stoned steed stampis
      Throw curage and crampis,
      Syne on the land lampis;
           The night is neir gone.”

One of us took the boat over to the opposite shore, which was
flat and accessible, a quarter of a mile distant, to empty it of
water and wash out the clay, while the other kindled a fire and
got breakfast ready.  At an early hour we were again on our way,
rowing through the fog as before, the river already awake, and a
million crisped waves come forth to meet the sun when he should
show himself.  The countrymen, recruited by their day of rest,
were already stirring, and had begun to cross the ferry on the
business of the week.  This ferry was as busy as a beaver dam,
and all the world seemed anxious to get across the Merrimack
River at this particular point, waiting to get set over,—children
 with their two cents done up in paper, jail-birds broke loose
and constable with warrant, travellers from distant lands to
distant lands, men and women to whom the Merrimack River was a
bar.  There stands a gig in the gray morning, in the mist, the
impatient traveller pacing the wet shore with whip in hand, and
shouting through the fog after the regardless Charon and his
retreating ark, as if he might throw that passenger overboard and
return forthwith for himself; he will compensate him.  He is to
break his fast at some unseen place on the opposite side.  It may
be Ledyard or the Wandering Jew.  Whence, pray, did he come out
of the foggy night?  and whither through the sunny day will he
go?  We observe only his transit; important to us, forgotten by
him, transiting all day.  There are two of them.  May be, they
are Virgil and Dante.  But when they crossed the Styx, none were
seen bound up or down the stream, that I remember.  It is only a
transjectus, a transitory voyage, like life itself, none but
the long-lived gods bound up or down the stream.  Many of these
Monday men are ministers, no doubt, reseeking their parishes with
hired horses, with sermons in their valises all read and gutted,
the day after never with them.  They cross each other’s routes
all the country over like woof and warp, making a garment of
loose texture; vacation now for six days.  They stop to pick nuts
and berries, and gather apples by the wayside at their leisure.
Good religious men, with the love of men in their hearts, and the
means to pay their toll in their pockets.  We got over this ferry
chain without scraping, rowing athwart the tide of travel,—no
toll for us that day.

The fog dispersed and we rowed leisurely along through
Tyngsborough, with a clear sky and a mild atmosphere, leaving
the habitations of men behind and penetrating yet farther into
the territory of ancient Dunstable.  It was from Dunstable, then
a frontier town, that the famous Captain Lovewell, with his
company, marched in quest of the Indians on the 18th of April,
1725.  He was the son of “an ensign in the army of Oliver
Cromwell, who came to this country, and settled at Dunstable,
where he died at the great age of one hundred and twenty years.”
In the words of the old nursery tale, sung about a hundred years
ago,—

    “He and his valiant soldiers did range the woods full wide,
      And hardships they endured to quell the Indian’s pride.”

In the shaggy pine forest of Pequawket they met the “rebel
Indians,” and prevailed, after a bloody fight, and a remnant
returned home to enjoy the fame of their victory.  A township
called Lovewell’s Town, but now, for some reason, or perhaps
without reason, Pembroke, was granted them by the State.

     “Of all our valiant English, there were but thirty-four,
      And of the rebel Indians, there were about four-score;
      And sixteen of our English did safely home return,
      The rest were killed and wounded, for which we all must mourn.
     “Our worthy Capt.  Lovewell among them there did die,
      They killed Lieut.  Robbins, and wounded good young Frye,
      Who was our English Chaplin; he many Indians slew,
      And some of them he scalped while bullets round him flew.”

Our brave forefathers have exterminated all the Indians, and
their degenerate children no longer dwell in garrisoned houses
nor hear any war-whoop in their path.  It would be well,
perchance, if many an “English Chaplin” in these days could
exhibit as unquestionable trophies of his valor as did “good
young Frye.”  We have need to be as sturdy pioneers still as
Miles Standish, or Church, or Lovewell.  We are to follow on
another trail, it is true, but one as convenient for ambushes.
What if the Indians are exterminated, are not savages as grim
prowling about the clearings to-day?—

     “And braving many dangers and hardships in the way,
     They safe arrived at Dunstable the thirteenth (?) day of May.”

But they did not all “safe arrive in Dunstable the thirteenth,”
or the fifteenth, or the thirtieth “day of May.”  Eleazer Davis
and Josiah Jones, both of Concord, for our native town had seven
men in this fight, Lieutenant Farwell, of Dunstable, and Jonathan
Frye, of Andover, who were all wounded, were left behind,
creeping toward the settlements.  “After travelling several
miles, Frye was left and lost,” though a more recent poet has
assigned him company in his last hours.

     “A man he was of comely form,
       Polished and brave, well learned and kind;
     Old Harvard’s learned halls he left
       Far in the wilds a grave to find.
     “Ah! now his blood-red arm he lifts;
       His closing lids he tries to raise;
     And speak once more before he dies,
       In supplication and in praise.
     “He prays kind Heaven to grant success,
       Brave Lovewell’s men to guide and bless,
     And when they’ve shed their heart-blood true,
       To raise them all to happiness.”
           *   *   *   *   *
     “Lieutenant Farwell took his hand,
       His arm around his neck he threw,
     And said, ‘Brave Chaplain, I could wish
       That Heaven had made me die for you.’”
           *   *   *   *   *

Farwell held out eleven days.  “A tradition says,” as we learn
from the History of Concord, “that arriving at a pond with
Lieut. Farwell, Davis pulled off one of his moccasins, cut it in
strings, on which he fastened a hook, caught some fish, fried and
ate them.  They refreshed him, but were injurious to Farwell, who
died soon after.”  Davis had a ball lodged in his body, and his
right hand shot off; but on the whole, he seems to have been less
damaged than his companion.  He came into Berwick after being out
fourteen days.  Jones also had a ball lodged in his body, but he
likewise got into Saco after fourteen days, though not in the
best condition imaginable.  “He had subsisted,” says an old
journal, “on the spontaneous vegetables of the forest; and
cranberries which he had eaten came out of wounds he had received
in his body.”  This was also the case with Davis.  The last two
reached home at length, safe if not sound, and lived many years
in a crippled state to enjoy their pension.

But alas! of the crippled Indians, and their adventures in the
woods,—

     “For as we are informed, so thick and fast they fell,
     Scarce twenty of their number at night did get home well,”—

how many balls lodged with them, how fared their cranberries,
what Berwick or Saco they got into, and finally what pension or
township was granted them, there is no journal to tell.

It is stated in the History of Dunstable, that just before his
last march, Lovewell was warned to beware of the ambuscades of
the enemy, but “he replied, ‘that he did not care for them,’ and
bending down a small elm beside which he was standing into a bow,
declared ‘that he would treat the Indians in the same way.’ This
elm is still standing [in Nashua], a venerable and magnificent
tree.”

Meanwhile, having passed the Horseshoe Interval in Tyngsborough,
where the river makes a sudden bend to the northwest,—for our
reflections have anticipated our progress somewhat,—we were
advancing farther into the country and into the day, which last
proved almost as golden as the preceding, though the slight
bustle and activity of the Monday seemed to penetrate even to
this scenery.  Now and then we had to muster all our energy to get
round a point, where the river broke rippling over rocks, and the
maples trailed their branches in the stream, but there was
generally a backwater or eddy on the side, of which we took
advantage.  The river was here about forty rods wide and fifteen
feet deep.  Occasionally one ran along the shore, examining the
country, and visiting the nearest farm-houses, while the other
followed the windings of the stream alone, to meet his companion
at some distant point, and hear the report of his adventures; how
the farmer praised the coolness of his well, and his wife offered
the stranger a draught of milk, or the children quarrelled for
the only transparency in the window that they might get sight of
the man at the well.  For though the country seemed so new, and no
house was observed by us, shut in between the banks that sunny
day, we did not have to travel far to find where men inhabited,
like wild bees, and had sunk wells in the loose sand and loam of
the Merrimack.  There dwelt the subject of the Hebrew scriptures,
and the Esprit des Lois, where a thin vaporous smoke curled up
through the noon.  All that is told of mankind, of the inhabitants
of the Upper Nile, and the Sunderbunds, and Timbuctoo, and the
Orinoko, was experience here.  Every race and class of men was
represented.  According to Belknap, the historian of New Hampshire,
who wrote sixty years ago, here too, perchance, dwelt “new lights,”
and free thinking men even then.  “The people in general throughout
the State,” it is written, “are professors of the Christian
religion in some form or other.  There is, however, a sort of
wise men who pretend to reject it; but they have not yet been
able to substitute a better in its place.”

The other voyageur, perhaps, would in the mean while have seen
a brown hawk, or a woodchuck, or a musquash creeping under the
alders.

We occasionally rested in the shade of a maple or a willow, and
drew forth a melon for our refreshment, while we contemplated at
our leisure the lapse of the river and of human life; and as that
current, with its floating twigs and leaves, so did all things
pass in review before us, while far away in cities and marts on
this very stream, the old routine was proceeding still.  There
is, indeed, a tide in the affairs of men, as the poet says, and
yet as things flow they circulate, and the ebb always balances
the flow.  All streams are but tributary to the ocean, which
itself does not stream, and the shores are unchanged, but in
longer periods than man can measure.  Go where we will, we
discover infinite change in particulars only, not in generals.
When I go into a museum and see the mummies wrapped in their
linen bandages, I see that the lives of men began to need reform
as long ago as when they walked the earth.  I come out into the
streets, and meet men who declare that the time is near at hand
for the redemption of the race.  But as men lived in Thebes, so
do they live in Dunstable to-day.  “Time drinketh up the essence
of every great and noble action which ought to be performed, and
is delayed in the execution.” So says Veeshnoo Sarma; and we
perceive that the schemers return again and again to common sense
and labor.  Such is the evidence of history.

   “Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs,
   And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the Suns.”

There are secret articles in our treaties with the gods, of more
importance than all the rest, which the historian can never know.

There are many skilful apprentices, but few master workmen.  On
every hand we observe a truly wise practice, in education, in
morals, and in the arts of life, the embodied wisdom of many an
ancient philosopher.  Who does not see that heresies have some
time prevailed, that reforms have already taken place?  All this
worldly wisdom might be regarded as the once unamiable heresy of
some wise man.  Some interests have got a footing on the earth
which we have not made sufficient allowance for.  Even they who
first built these barns and cleared the land thus, had some
valor.  The abrupt epochs and chasms are smoothed down in history
as the inequalities of the plain are concealed by distance.  But
unless we do more than simply learn the trade of our time, we are
but apprentices, and not yet masters of the art of life.

Now that we are casting away these melon seeds, how can we help
feeling reproach?  He who eats the fruit, should at least plant
the seed; aye, if possible, a better seed than that whose fruit
he has enjoyed.  Seeds!  there are seeds enough which need only
to be stirred in with the soil where they lie, by an inspired
voice or pen, to bear fruit of a divine flavor.  O thou
spendthrift!  Defray thy debt to the world; eat not the seed of
institutions, as the luxurious do, but plant it rather, while
thou devourest the pulp and tuber for thy subsistence; that so,
perchance, one variety may at last be found worthy of
preservation.

There are moments when all anxiety and stated toil are becalmed
in the infinite leisure and repose of nature.  All laborers must
have their nooning, and at this season of the day, we are all,
more or less, Asiatics, and give over all work and reform.  While
lying thus on our oars by the side of the stream, in the heat of
the day, our boat held by an osier put through the staple in its
prow, and slicing the melons, which are a fruit of the East, our
thoughts reverted to Arabia, Persia, and Hindostan, the lands of
contemplation and dwelling-places of the ruminant nations.  In
the experience of this noontide we could find some apology even
for the instinct of the opium, betel, and tobacco chewers.  Mount
Sabér, according to the French traveller and naturalist, Botta,
is celebrated for producing the Kát-tree, of which “the soft tops
of the twigs and tender leaves are eaten,” says his reviewer,
“and produce an agreeable soothing excitement, restoring from
fatigue, banishing sleep, and disposing to the enjoyment of
conversation.”  We thought that we might lead a dignified
Oriental life along this stream as well, and the maple and alders
would be our Kát-trees.

It is a great pleasure to escape sometimes from the restless
class of Reformers.  What if these grievances exist?  So do you
and I.  Think you that sitting hens are troubled with ennui these
long summer days, sitting on and on in the crevice of a hay-loft,
without active employment?  By the faint cackling in distant
barns, I judge that dame Nature is interested still to know how
many eggs her hens lay.  The Universal Soul, as it is called, has
an interest in the stacking of hay, the foddering of cattle, and
the draining of peat-meadows.  Away in Scythia, away in India, it
makes butter and cheese.  Suppose that all farms are run out,
and we youths must buy old land and bring it to, still everywhere
the relentless opponents of reform bear a strange resemblance to
ourselves; or, perchance, they are a few old maids and bachelors,
who sit round the kitchen hearth and listen to the singing of the
kettle.  “The oracles often give victory to our choice, and not
to the order alone of the mundane periods.  As, for instance,
when they say that our voluntary sorrows germinate in us as the
growth of the particular life we lead.” The reform which you talk
about can be undertaken any morning before unbarring our doors.
We need not call any convention.  When two neighbors begin to eat
corn bread, who before ate wheat, then the gods smile from ear to
ear, for it is very pleasant to them.  Why do you not try it?
Don’t let me hinder you.

There are theoretical reformers at all times, and all the world
over, living on anticipation.  Wolff, travelling in the deserts
of Bokhara, says, “Another party of derveeshes came to me and
observed, ‘The time will come when there shall be no difference
between rich and poor, between high and low, when property will
be in common, even wives and children.’” But forever I ask of
such, What then?  The derveeshes in the deserts of Bokhara and
the reformers in Marlboro’ Chapel sing the same song.  “There’s a
good time coming, boys,” but, asked one of the audience, in good
faith, “Can you fix the date?” Said I, “Will you help it along?”

The nonchalance and dolce-far-niente air of nature and society
hint at infinite periods in the progress of mankind.  The States
have leisure to laugh from Maine to Texas at some newspaper joke,
and New England shakes at the double-entendres of Australian
circles, while the poor reformer cannot get a hearing.

Men do not fail commonly for want of knowledge, but for want of
prudence to give wisdom the preference.  What we need to know in
any case is very simple.  It is but too easy to establish another
durable and harmonious routine.  Immediately all parts of nature
consent to it.  Only make something to take the place of something,
and men will behave as if it was the very thing they wanted.
They must behave, at any rate, and will work up any material.
There is always a present and extant life, be it better or worse,
which all combine to uphold.  We should be slow to mend, my
friends, as slow to require mending, “Not hurling, according to
the oracle, a transcendent foot towards piety.”  The language of
excitement is at best picturesque merely.  You must be calm
before you can utter oracles.  What was the excitement of the
Delphic priestess compared with the calm wisdom of Socrates?—or
whoever it was that was wise.—Enthusiasm is a supernatural
serenity.

     “Men find that action is another thing
       Than what they in discoursing papers read;
     The world’s affairs require in managing
       More arts than those wherein you clerks proceed.”

As in geology, so in social institutions, we may discover the
causes of all past change in the present invariable order of
society.  The greatest appreciable physical revolutions are the
work of the light-footed air, the stealthy-paced water, and the
subterranean fire.  Aristotle said, “As time never fails, and the
universe is eternal, neither the Tanais nor the Nile can have
flowed forever.” We are independent of the change we detect.
The longer the lever the less perceptible its motion.  It is the
slowest pulsation which is the most vital.  The hero then will
know how to wait, as well as to make haste.  All good abides with
him who waiteth wisely; we shall sooner overtake the dawn by
remaining here than by hurrying over the hills of the west.  Be
assured that every man’s success is in proportion to his
average ability.  The meadow flowers spring and bloom where the
waters annually deposit their slime, not where they reach in some
freshet only.  A man is not his hope, nor his despair, nor yet
his past deed.  We know not yet what we have done, still less
what we are doing.  Wait till evening, and other parts of our
day’s work will shine than we had thought at noon, and we shall
discover the real purport of our toil.  As when the farmer has
reached the end of the furrow and looks back, he can tell best
where the pressed earth shines most.

To one who habitually endeavors to contemplate the true state
of things, the political state can hardly be said to have any
existence whatever.  It is unreal, incredible, and insignificant
to him, and for him to endeavor to extract the truth from such
lean material is like making sugar from linen rags, when
sugar-cane may be had.  Generally speaking, the political news,
whether domestic or foreign, might be written to-day for the next
ten years, with sufficient accuracy.  Most revolutions in society
have not power to interest, still less alarm us; but tell me that
our rivers are drying up, or the genus pine dying out in the
country, and I might attend.  Most events recorded in history are
more remarkable than important, like eclipses of the sun and
moon, by which all are attracted, but whose effects no one takes
the trouble to calculate.

But will the government never be so well administered, inquired
one, that we private men shall hear nothing about it?  “The king
answered: At all events, I require a prudent and able man, who
is capable of managing the state affairs of my kingdom.  The
ex-minister said: The criterion, O Sire! of a wise and competent
man is, that he will not meddle with such like matters.”  Alas
that the ex-minister should have been so nearly right!

In my short experience of human life, the outward obstacles,
if there were any such, have not been living men, but the
institutions of the dead.  It is grateful to make one’s way
through this latest generation as through dewy grass.  Men are
as innocent as the morning to the unsuspicious.

     “And round about good morrows fly,
     As if day taught humanity.”

Not being Reve of this Shire,

     “The early pilgrim blithe he hailed,
     That o’er the hills did stray,
     And many an early husbandman,
     That he met on the way”;—

thieves and robbers all, nevertheless.  I have not so surely
foreseen that any Cossack or Chippeway would come to disturb the
honest and simple commonwealth, as that some monster institution
would at length embrace and crush its free members in its scaly
folds; for it is not to be forgotten, that while the law holds
fast the thief and murderer, it lets itself go loose.  When I
have not paid the tax which the State demanded for that
protection which I did not want, itself has robbed me; when I
have asserted the liberty it presumed to declare, itself has
imprisoned me.  Poor creature! if it knows no better I will not
blame it.  If it cannot live but by these means, I can.  I do not
wish, it happens, to be associated with Massachusetts, either in
holding slaves or in conquering Mexico.  I am a little better
than herself in these respects.—As for Massachusetts, that huge
she Briareus, Argus and Colchian Dragon conjoined, set to watch
the Heifer of the Constitution and the Golden Fleece, we would
not warrant our respect for her, like some compositions, to
preserve its qualities through all weathers.—Thus it has
happened, that not the Arch Fiend himself has been in my way, but
these toils which tradition says were originally spun to obstruct
him.  They are cobwebs and trifling obstacles in an earnest man’s
path, it is true, and at length one even becomes attached to his
unswept and undusted garret.  I love man—kind, but I hate the
institutions of the dead un-kind.  Men execute nothing so
faithfully as the wills of the dead, to the last codicil and
letter.  They rule this world, and the living are but their
executors.  Such foundation too have our lectures and our
sermons, commonly.  They are all Dudleian; and piety derives
its origin still from that exploit of pius Æneas, who bore his
father, Anchises, on his shoulders from the ruins of Troy.  Or
rather, like some Indian tribes, we bear about with us the
mouldering relics of our ancestors on our shoulders.  If, for
instance, a man asserts the value of individual liberty over the
merely political commonweal, his neighbor still tolerates him,
that he who is living near him, sometimes even sustains him,
but never the State.  Its officer, as a living man, may have
human virtues and a thought in his brain, but as the tool of an
institution, a jailer or constable it may be, he is not a whit
superior to his prison key or his staff.  Herein is the tragedy;
that men doing outrage to their proper natures, even those called
wise and good, lend themselves to perform the office of inferior
and brutal ones.  Hence come war and slavery in; and what else
may not come in by this opening?  But certainly there are modes
by which a man may put bread into his mouth which will not
prejudice him as a companion and neighbor.

     “Now turn again, turn again, said the pindèr,
     For a wrong way you have gone,
     For you have forsaken the king’s highway,
     And made a path over the corn.”

Undoubtedly, countless reforms are called for, because society is
not animated, or instinct enough with life, but in the condition
of some snakes which I have seen in early spring, with alternate
portions of their bodies torpid and flexible, so that they could
wriggle neither way.  All men are partially buried in the grave
of custom, and of some we see only the crown of the head above
ground.  Better are the physically dead, for they more lively
rot.  Even virtue is no longer such if it be stagnant.  A man’s
life should be constantly as fresh as this river.  It should be
the same channel, but a new water every instant.

               “Virtues as rivers pass,
     But still remains that virtuous man there was.”

Most men have no inclination, no rapids, no cascades, but
marshes, and alligators, and miasma instead.  We read that when
in the expedition of Alexander, Onesicritus was sent forward to
meet certain of the Indian sect of Gymnosophists, and he had told
them of those new philosophers of the West, Pythagoras, Socrates,
and Diogenes, and their doctrines, one of them named Dandamis
answered, that “They appeared to him to have been men of genius,
but to have lived with too passive a regard for the laws.” The
philosophers of the West are liable to this rebuke still.  “They
say that Lieou-hia-hoei, and Chao-lien did not sustain to the end
their resolutions, and that they dishonored their character.
Their language was in harmony with reason and justice; while
their acts were in harmony with the sentiments of men.”

Chateaubriand said: “There are two things which grow stronger in
the breast of man, in proportion as he advances in years: the
love of country and religion.  Let them be never so much
forgotten in youth, they sooner or later present themselves to us
arrayed in all their charms, and excite in the recesses of our
hearts an attachment justly due to their beauty.” It may be so.
But even this infirmity of noble minds marks the gradual decay of
youthful hope and faith.  It is the allowed infidelity of age.
There is a saying of the Yoloffs, “He who was born first has the
greatest number of old clothes,” consequently M.  Chateaubriand
has more old clothes than I have.  It is comparatively a faint
and reflected beauty that is admired, not an essential and
intrinsic one.  It is because the old are weak, feel their
mortality, and think that they have measured the strength of man.
They will not boast; they will be frank and humble.  Well, let
them have the few poor comforts they can keep.  Humility is still
a very human virtue.  They look back on life, and so see not into
the future.  The prospect of the young is forward and unbounded,
mingling the future with the present.  In the declining day the
thoughts make haste to rest in darkness, and hardly look forward
to the ensuing morning.  The thoughts of the old prepare for
night and slumber.  The same hopes and prospects are not for him
who stands upon the rosy mountain-tops of life, and him who
expects the setting of his earthly day.

I must conclude that Conscience, if that be the name of it, was
not given us for no purpose, or for a hinderance.  However
flattering order and expediency may look, it is but the repose of
a lethargy, and we will choose rather to be awake, though it be
stormy, and maintain ourselves on this earth and in this life, as
we may, without signing our death-warrant.  Let us see if we
cannot stay here, where He has put us, on his own
conditions.  Does not his law reach as far as his light?  The
expedients of the nations clash with one another, only the
absolutely right is expedient for all.

There are some passages in the Antigone of Sophocles, well known
to scholars, of which I am reminded in this connection.  Antigone
has resolved to sprinkle sand on the dead body of her brother
Polynices, notwithstanding the edict of King Creon condemning to
death that one who should perform this service, which the Greeks
deemed so important, for the enemy of his country; but Ismene,
who is of a less resolute and noble spirit, declines taking part
with her sister in this work, and says,—

“I, therefore, asking those under the earth to consider me, that
I am compelled to do thus, will obey those who are placed in
office; for to do extreme things is not wise.”

                           ANTIGONE

“I would not ask you, nor would you, if you still wished, do it
joyfully with me.  Be such as seems good to you.  But I will bury
him.  It is glorious for me doing this to die.  I beloved will
lie with him beloved, having, like a criminal, done what is holy;
since the time is longer which it is necessary for me to please
those below, than those here, for there I shall always lie.  But
if it seems good to you, hold in dishonor things which are
honored by the gods.”

                            ISMENE

“I indeed do not hold them in dishonor; but to act in opposition
to the citizens I am by nature unable.”

Antigone being at length brought before King Creon, he asks,—

“Did you then dare to transgress these laws?”

                            ANTIGONE

“For it was not Zeus who proclaimed these to me, nor Justice who
dwells with the gods below; it was not they who established these
laws among men.  Nor did I think that your proclamations were so
strong, as, being a mortal, to be able to transcend the unwritten
and immovable laws of the gods.  For not something now and
yesterday, but forever these live, and no one knows from what
time they appeared.  I was not about to pay the penalty of
violating these to the gods, fearing the presumption of any man.
For I well knew that I should die, and why not? even if you had
not proclaimed it.”

This was concerning the burial of a dead body.

The wisest conservatism is that of the Hindoos.  “Immemorial
custom is transcendent law,” says Menu.  That is, it was the
custom of the gods before men used it.  The fault of our New
England custom is that it is memorial.  What is morality but
immemorial custom?  Conscience is the chief of conservatives.
“Perform the settled functions,” says Kreeshna in the
Bhagvat-Geeta; “action is preferable to inaction.  The journey of
thy mortal frame may not succeed from inaction.”—“A man’s own
calling with all its faults, ought not to be forsaken.  Every
undertaking is involved in its faults as the fire in its
smoke.”—“The man who is acquainted with the whole, should not
drive those from their works who are slow of comprehension, and
less experienced than himself.”—“Wherefore, O Arjoon, resolve to
fight,” is the advice of the God to the irresolute soldier who
fears to slay his best friends.  It is a sublime conservatism; as
wide as the world, and as unwearied as time; preserving the
universe with Asiatic anxiety, in that state in which it appeared
to their minds.  These philosophers dwell on the inevitability
and unchangeableness of laws, on the power of temperament and
constitution, the three goon or qualities, and the circumstances
of birth and affinity.  The end is an immense consolation;
eternal absorption in Brahma.  Their speculations never venture
beyond their own table-lands, though they are high and vast as
they.  Buoyancy, freedom, flexibility, variety, possibility,
which also are qualities of the Unnamed, they deal not with.  The
undeserved reward is to be earned by an everlasting moral
drudgery; the incalculable promise of the morrow is, as it were,
weighed.  And who will say that their conservatism has not been
effectual?  “Assuredly,” says a French translator, speaking of
the antiquity and durability of the Chinese and Indian nations,
and of the wisdom of their legislators, “there are there some
vestiges of the eternal laws which govern the world.”

Christianity, on the other hand, is humane, practical, and, in a
large sense, radical.  So many years and ages of the gods those
Eastern sages sat contemplating Brahm, uttering in silence the
mystic “Om,” being absorbed into the essence of the Supreme
Being, never going out of themselves, but subsiding farther and
deeper within; so infinitely wise, yet infinitely stagnant;
until, at last, in that same Asia, but in the western part of it,
appeared a youth, wholly unforetold by them,—not being absorbed
into Brahm, but bringing Brahm down to earth and to mankind; in
whom Brahm had awaked from his long sleep, and exerted himself,
and the day began,—a new avatar.  The Brahman had never thought
to be a brother of mankind as well as a child of God.  Christ is
the prince of Reformers and Radicals.  Many expressions in the
New Testament come naturally to the lips of all Protestants, and
it furnishes the most pregnant and practical texts.  There is no
harmless dreaming, no wise speculation in it, but everywhere a
substratum of good sense.  It never reflects, but it repents.
There is no poetry in it, we may say nothing regarded in the
light of beauty merely, but moral truth is its object.  All
mortals are convicted by its conscience.

The New Testament is remarkable for its pure morality; the best
of the Hindo Scripture, for its pure intellectuality.  The reader
is nowhere raised into and sustained in a higher, purer, or rarer
region of thought than in the Bhagvat-Geeta.  Warren Hastings, in
his sensible letter recommending the translation of this book to
the Chairman of the East India Company, declares the original to
be “of a sublimity of conception, reasoning, and diction almost
unequalled,” and that the writings of the Indian philosophers
“will survive when the British dominion in India shall have long
ceased to exist, and when the sources which it once yielded of
wealth and power are lost to remembrance.” It is unquestionably
one of the noblest and most sacred scriptures which have come
down to us.  Books are to be distinguished by the grandeur of
their topics, even more than by the manner in which they are
treated.  The Oriental philosophy approaches, easily, loftier
themes than the modern aspires to; and no wonder if it sometimes
prattle about them.  It only assigns their due rank respectively
to Action and Contemplation, or rather does full justice to the
latter.  Western philosophers have not conceived of the
significance of Contemplation in their sense.  Speaking of the
spiritual discipline to which the Brahmans subjected themselves,
and the wonderful power of abstraction to which they attained,
instances of which had come under his notice, Hastings says:—

  “To those who have never been accustomed to the separation of
  the mind from the notices of the senses, it may not be easy to
  conceive by what means such a power is to be attained; since
  even the most studious men of our hemisphere will find it
  difficult so to restrain their attention, but that it will
  wander to some object of present sense or recollection; and
  even the buzzing of a fly will sometimes have the power to
  disturb it.  But if we are told that there have been men who
  were successively, for ages past, in the daily habit of
  abstracted contemplation, begun in the earliest period of
  youth, and continued in many to the maturity of age, each
  adding some portion of knowledge to the store accumulated by
  his predecessors; it is not assuming too much to conclude, that
  as the mind ever gathers strength, like the body, by exercise,
  so in such an exercise it may in each have acquired the faculty
  to which they aspired, and that their collective studies may
  have led them to the discovery of new tracts and combinations
  of sentiment, totally different from the doctrines with which
  the learned of other nations are acquainted; doctrines which,
  however speculative and subtle, still as they possess the
  advantage of being derived from a source so free from every
  adventitious mixture, may be equally founded in truth with the
  most simple of our own.”

“The forsaking of works” was taught by Kreeshna to the most
ancient of men, and handed down from age to age,

  “until at length, in the course of time, the mighty art was lost.

  “In wisdom is to be found every work without exception,” says

  Kreeshna.

  “Although thou wert the greatest of all offenders, thou shalt

  be able to cross the gulf of sin with the bark of wisdom.”

  “There is not anything in this world to be compared with wisdom

  for purity.”

  “The action stands at a distance inferior to the application of

  wisdom.”

  The wisdom of a Moonee “is confirmed, when, like the tortoise,
  he can draw in all his members, and restrain them from their
  wonted purposes.”

  “Children only, and not the learned, speak of the speculative
  and the practical doctrines as two.  They are but one.  For
  both obtain the selfsame end, and the place which is gained by
  the followers of the one is gained by the followers of the
  other.”

  “The man enjoyeth not freedom from action, from the
  non-commencement of that which he hath to do; nor doth he
  obtain happiness from a total inactivity.  No one ever resteth
  a moment inactive.  Every man is involuntarily urged to act by
  those principles which are inherent in his nature.  The man who
  restraineth his active faculties, and sitteth down with his
  mind attentive to the objects of his senses, is called one of
  an astrayed soul, and the practiser of deceit.  So the man is
  praised, who, having subdued all his passions, performeth with
  his active faculties all the functions of life, unconcerned
  about the event.”

  “Let the motive be in the deed and not in the event.  Be not
  one whose motive for action is the hope of reward.  Let not thy
  life be spent in inaction.”

  “For the man who doeth that which he hath to do, without
  affection, obtaineth the Supreme.”

  “He who may behold, as it were inaction in action, and action
  in inaction, is wise amongst mankind.  He is a perfect
  performer of all duty.”

  “Wise men call him a Pandeet, whose every undertaking is free
  from the idea of desire, and whose actions are consumed by the
  fire of wisdom.  He abandoneth the desire of a reward of his
  actions; he is always contented and independent; and although
  he may be engaged in a work, he, as it were, doeth nothing.”

  “He is both a Yogee and a Sannyasee who performeth that which
  he hath to do independent of the fruit thereof; not he who
  liveth without the sacrificial fire and without action.”

  “He who enjoyeth but the Amreeta which is left of his
  offerings, obtaineth the eternal spirit of Brahm, the Supreme.”

What, after all, does the practicalness of life amount to?  The
things immediate to be done are very trivial.  I could postpone
them all to hear this locust sing.  The most glorious fact in my
experience is not anything that I have done or may hope to do,
but a transient thought, or vision, or dream, which I have had.
I would give all the wealth of the world, and all the deeds of
all the heroes, for one true vision.  But how can I communicate
with the gods who am a pencil-maker on the earth, and not be
insane?

  “I am the same to all mankind,” says Kreeshna; “there is not
  one who is worthy of my love or hatred.”

This teaching is not practical in the sense in which the New
Testament is.  It is not always sound sense in practice.  The
Brahman never proposes courageously to assault evil, but
patiently to starve it out.  His active faculties are paralyzed
by the idea of cast, of impassable limits, of destiny and the
tyranny of time.  Kreeshna’s argument, it must be allowed, is
defective.  No sufficient reason is given why Arjoon should
fight.  Arjoon may be convinced, but the reader is not, for his
judgment is not “formed upon the speculative doctrines of the
Sankhya Sastra.”  “Seek an asylum in wisdom alone”; but what is
wisdom to a Western mind?  The duty of which he speaks is an
arbitrary one.  When was it established?  The Brahman’s virtue
consists in doing, not right, but arbitrary things.  What is that
which a man “hath to do”?  What is “action”?  What are the
“settled functions”?  What is “a man’s own religion,” which is so
much better than another’s?  What is “a man’s own particular
calling”?  What are the duties which are appointed by one’s
birth?  It is a defence of the institution of casts, of what is
called the “natural duty” of the Kshetree, or soldier, “to attach
himself to the discipline,” “not to flee from the field,” and the
like.  But they who are unconcerned about the consequences of
their actions are not therefore unconcerned about their actions.

Behold the difference between the Oriental and the Occidental.
The former has nothing to do in this world; the latter is full of
activity.  The one looks in the sun till his eyes are put out;
the other follows him prone in his westward course.  There is
such a thing as caste, even in the West; but it is comparatively
faint; it is conservatism here.  It says, forsake not your
calling, outrage no institution, use no violence, rend no bonds;
the State is thy parent.  Its virtue or manhood is wholly filial.
There is a struggle between the Oriental and Occidental in every
nation; some who would be forever contemplating the sun, and some
who are hastening toward the sunset.  The former class says to
the latter, When you have reached the sunset, you will be no
nearer to the sun.  To which the latter replies, But we so
prolong the day.  The former “walketh but in that night, when all
things go to rest the night of time.  The contemplative Moonee
sleepeth but in the day of time, when all things wake.”

To conclude these extracts, I can say, in the words of Sanjay,
“As, O mighty Prince!  I recollect again and again this holy and
wonderful dialogue of Kreeshna and Arjoon, I continue more and
more to rejoice; and as I recall to my memory the more than
miraculous form of Haree, my astonishment is great, and I marvel
and rejoice again and again!  Wherever Kreeshna the God of
devotion may be, wherever Arjoon the mighty bowman may be, there
too, without doubt, are fortune, riches, victory, and good
conduct.  This is my firm belief.”

I would say to the readers of Scriptures, if they wish for a good
book, read the Bhagvat-Geeta, an episode to the Mahabharat, said
to have been written by Kreeshna Dwypayen Veias,—known to have
been written by——, more than four thousand years ago,—it
matters not whether three or four, or when,—translated by
Charles Wilkins.  It deserves to be read with reverence even by
Yankees, as a part of the sacred writings of a devout people; and
the intelligent Hebrew will rejoice to find in it a moral
grandeur and sublimity akin to those of his own Scriptures.

To an American reader, who, by the advantage of his position, can
see over that strip of Atlantic coast to Asia and the Pacific,
who, as it were, sees the shore <DW72> upward over the Alps to the
Himmaleh Mountains, the comparatively recent literature of Europe
often appears partial and clannish, and, notwithstanding the
limited range of his own sympathies and studies, the European
writer who presumes that he is speaking for the world, is
perceived by him to speak only for that corner of it which he
inhabits.  One of the rarest of England’s scholars and critics,
in his classification of the worthies of the world, betrays the
narrowness of his European culture and the exclusiveness of his
reading.  None of her children has done justice to the poets and
philosophers of Persia or of India.  They have even been better
known to her merchant scholars than to her poets and thinkers by
profession.  You may look in vain through English poetry for a
single memorable verse inspired by these themes.  Nor is Germany
to be excepted, though her philological industry is indirectly
serving the cause of philosophy and poetry.  Even Goethe wanted
that universality of genius which could have appreciated the
philosophy of India, if he had more nearly approached it.  His
genius was more practical, dwelling much more in the regions of
the understanding, and was less native to contemplation than the
genius of those sages.  It is remarkable that Homer and a few
Hebrews are the most Oriental names which modern Europe, whose
literature has taken its rise since the decline of the Persian,
has admitted into her list of Worthies, and perhaps the worthiest
of mankind, and the fathers of modern thinking,—for the
contemplations of those Indian sages have influenced, and still
influence, the intellectual development of mankind,—whose works
even yet survive in wonderful completeness, are, for the most
part, not recognized as ever having existed.  If the lions had
been the painters it would have been otherwise.  In every one’s
youthful dreams philosophy is still vaguely but inseparably, and
with singular truth, associated with the East, nor do after years
discover its local habitation in the Western world.  In comparison
with the philosophers of the East, we may say that modern Europe
has yet given birth to none.  Beside the vast and cosmogonal
philosophy of the Bhagvat-Geeta, even our Shakespeare seems
sometimes youthfully green and practical merely.  Some of these
sublime sentences, as the Chaldaean oracles of Zoroaster, still
surviving after a thousand revolutions and translations, alone
make us doubt if the poetic form and dress are not transitory,
and not essential to the most effective and enduring expression
of thought.  Ex oriente lux may still be the motto of scholars,
for the Western world has not yet derived from the East all the
light which it is destined to receive thence.

It would be worthy of the age to print together the collected
Scriptures or Sacred Writings of the several nations, the
Chinese, the Hindoos, the Persians, the Hebrews, and others, as
the Scripture of mankind.  The New Testament is still, perhaps,
too much on the lips and in the hearts of men to be called a
Scripture in this sense.  Such a juxtaposition and comparison
might help to liberalize the faith of men.  This is a work which
Time will surely edit, reserved to crown the labors of the
printing-press.  This would be the Bible, or Book of Books, which
let the missionaries carry to the uttermost parts of the earth.

While engaged in these reflections, thinking ourselves the only
navigators of these waters, suddenly a canal-boat, with its sail
set, glided round a point before us, like some huge river beast,
and changed the scene in an instant; and then another and another
glided into sight, and we found ourselves in the current of
commerce once more.  So we threw our rinds in the water for the
fishes to nibble, and added our breath to the life of living men.
Little did we think, in the distant garden in which we had
planted the seed and reared this fruit, where it would be eaten.
Our melons lay at home on the sandy bottom of the Merrimack, and
our potatoes in the sun and water at the bottom of the boat
looked like a fruit of the country.  Soon, however, we were
delivered from this fleet of junks, and possessed the river in
solitude, once more rowing steadily upward through the noon,
between the territories of Nashua on the one hand, and Hudson,
once Nottingham, on the other.  From time to time we scared up a
kingfisher or a summer duck, the former flying rather by vigorous
impulses than by steady and patient steering with that short
rudder of his, sounding his rattle along the fluvial street.

Erelong another scow hove in sight, creeping down the river; and
hailing it, we attached ourselves to its side, and floated back
in company, chatting with the boatmen, and obtaining a draught of
cooler water from their jug.  They appeared to be green hands
from far among the hills, who had taken this means to get to the
seaboard, and see the world; and would possibly visit the
Falkland Isles, and the China seas, before they again saw the
waters of the Merrimack, or, perchance, they would not return
this way forever.  They had already embarked the private
interests of the landsman in the larger venture of the race, and
were ready to mess with mankind, reserving only the till of a
chest to themselves.  But they too were soon lost behind a point,
and we went croaking on our way alone.  What grievance has its
root among the New Hampshire hills? we asked; what is wanting to
human life here, that these men should make such haste to the
antipodes?  We prayed that their bright anticipations might not
be rudely disappointed.

    Though all the fates should prove unkind,
     Leave not your native land behind.
     The ship, becalmed, at length stands still;
     The steed must rest beneath the hill;
     But swiftly still our fortunes pace
     To find us out in every place.
     The vessel, though her masts be firm,
     Beneath her copper bears a worm;
     Around the cape, across the line,
     Till fields of ice her course confine;
     It matters not how smooth the breeze,
     How shallow or how deep the seas,
     Whether she bears Manilla twine,
     Or in her hold Madeira wine,
     Or China teas, or Spanish hides,
     In port or quarantine she rides;
     Far from New England’s blustering shore,
     New England’s worm her hulk shall bore,
     And sink her in the Indian seas,
     Twine, wine, and hides, and China teas.

We passed a small desert here on the east bank, between
Tyngsborough and Hudson, which was interesting and even
refreshing to our eyes in the midst of the almost universal
greenness.  This sand was indeed somewhat impressive and
beautiful to us.  A very old inhabitant, who was at work in a
field on the Nashua side, told us that he remembered when corn
and grain grew there, and it was a cultivated field.  But at
length the fishermen, for this was a fishing place, pulled up the
bushes on the shore, for greater convenience in hauling their
seines, and when the bank was thus broken, the wind began to blow
up the sand from the shore, until at length it had covered about
fifteen acres several feet deep.  We saw near the river, where
the sand was blown off down to some ancient surface, the
foundation of an Indian wigwam exposed, a perfect circle of burnt
stones, four or five feet in diameter, mingled with fine
charcoal, and the bones of small animals which had been preserved
in the sand.  The surrounding sand was sprinkled with other burnt
stones on which their fires had been built, as well as with
flakes of arrow-head stone, and we found one perfect arrow-head.
In one place we noticed where an Indian had sat to manufacture
arrow-heads out of quartz, and the sand was sprinkled with a
quart of small glass-like chips about as big as a fourpence,
which he had broken off in his work.  Here, then, the Indians
must have fished before the whites arrived.  There was another
similar sandy tract about half a mile above this.

Still the noon prevailed, and we turned the prow aside to bathe,
and recline ourselves under some buttonwoods, by a ledge of
rocks, in a retired pasture sloping to the water’s edge, and
skirted with pines and hazels, in the town of Hudson.  Still had
India, and that old noontide philosophy, the better part of our
thoughts.

It is always singular, but encouraging, to meet with common sense
in very old books, as the Heetopades of Veeshnoo Sarma; a playful
wisdom which has eyes behind as well as before, and oversees
itself.  It asserts their health and independence of the
experience of later times.  This pledge of sanity cannot be
spared in a book, that it sometimes pleasantly reflect upon
itself.  The story and fabulous portion of this book winds
loosely from sentence to sentence as so many oases in a desert,
and is as indistinct as a camel’s track between Mourzouk and
Darfour.  It is a comment on the flow and freshet of modern
books.  The reader leaps from sentence to sentence, as from one
stepping-stone to another, while the stream of the story rushes
past unregarded.  The Bhagvat-Geeta is less sententious and
poetic, perhaps, but still more wonderfully sustained and
developed.  Its sanity and sublimity have impressed the minds
even of soldiers and merchants.  It is the characteristic of
great poems that they will yield of their sense in due proportion
to the hasty and the deliberate reader.  To the practical they
will be common sense, and to the wise wisdom; as either the
traveller may wet his lips, or an army may fill its water-casks
at a full stream.

One of the most attractive of those ancient books that I have met
with is the Laws of Menu.  According to Sir William Jones,
“Vyasa, the son of Parasara, has decided that the Veda, with its
Angas, or the six compositions deduced from it, the revealed
system of medicine, the Puranas or sacred histories, and the code
of Menu, were four works of supreme authority, which ought never
to be shaken by arguments merely human.” The last is believed by
the Hindoos “to have been promulged in the beginning of time, by
Menu, son or grandson of Brahma,” and “first of created beings”;
and Brahma is said to have “taught his laws to Menu in a hundred
thousand verses, which Menu explained to the primitive world in
the very words of the book now translated.” Others affirm that
they have undergone successive abridgments for the convenience of
mortals, “while the gods of the lower heaven and the band of
celestial musicians are engaged in studying the primary
code.”—“A number of glosses or comments on Menu were composed by
the Munis, or old philosophers, whose treatises, together with
that before us, constitute the Dherma Sastra, in a collective
sense, or Body of Law.” Culluca Bhatta was one of the more modern
of these.

Every sacred book, successively, has been accepted in the faith
that it was to be the final resting-place of the sojourning soul;
but after all, it was but a caravansary which supplied refreshment
to the traveller, and directed him farther on his way to Isphahan
or Bagdat.  Thank God, no Hindoo tyranny prevailed at the framing
of the world, but we are freemen of the universe, and not
sentenced to any caste.

I know of no book which has come down to us with grander
pretensions than this, and it is so impersonal and sincere that
it is never offensive nor ridiculous.  Compare the modes in which
modern literature is advertised with the prospectus of this book,
and think what a reading public it addresses, what criticism it
expects.  It seems to have been uttered from some eastern summit,
with a sober morning prescience in the dawn of time, and you
cannot read a sentence without being elevated as upon the
table-land of the Ghauts.  It has such a rhythm as the winds of
the desert, such a tide as the Ganges, and is as superior to
criticism as the Himmaleh Mountains.  Its tone is of such
unrelaxed fibre, that even at this late day, unworn by time, it
wears the English and the Sanscrit dress indifferently; and its
fixed sentences keep up their distant fires still, like the
stars, by whose dissipated rays this lower world is illumined.
The whole book by noble gestures and inclinations renders many
words unnecessary.  English sense has toiled, but Hindoo wisdom
never perspired.  Though the sentences open as we read them,
unexpensively, and at first almost unmeaningly, as the petals of
a flower, they sometimes startle us with that rare kind of wisdom
which could only have been learned from the most trivial
experience; but it comes to us as refined as the porcelain earth
which subsides to the bottom of the ocean.  They are clean and
dry as fossil truths, which have been exposed to the elements for
thousands of years, so impersonally and scientifically true that
they are the ornament of the parlor and the cabinet.  Any moral
philosophy is exceedingly rare.  This of Menu addresses our
privacy more than most.  It is a more private and familiar, and,
at the same time, a more public and universal word, than is
spoken in parlor or pulpit now-a-days.  As our domestic fowls are
said to have their original in the wild pheasant of India, so our
domestic thoughts have their prototypes in the thoughts of her
philosophers.  We are dabbling in the very elements of our
present conventional and actual life; as if it were the primeval
conventicle where how to eat, and to drink, and to sleep, and
maintain life with adequate dignity and sincerity, were the
questions to be decided.  It is later and more intimate with us
even than the advice of our nearest friends.  And yet it is true
for the widest horizon, and read out of doors has relation to the
dim mountain line, and is native and aboriginal there.  Most
books belong to the house and street only, and in the fields
their leaves feel very thin.  They are bare and obvious, and have
no halo nor haze about them.  Nature lies far and fair behind
them all.  But this, as it proceeds from, so it addresses, what
is deepest and most abiding in man.  It belongs to the noontide
of the day, the midsummer of the year, and after the snows have
melted, and the waters evaporated in the spring, still its truth
speaks freshly to our experience.  It helps the sun to shine, and
his rays fall on its page to illustrate it.  It spends the
mornings and the evenings, and makes such an impression on us
overnight as to awaken us before dawn, and its influence lingers
around us like a fragrance late into the day.  It conveys a new
gloss to the meadows and the depths of the wood, and its spirit,
like a more subtile ether, sweeps along with the prevailing winds
of a country.  The very locusts and crickets of a summer day are
but later or earlier glosses on the Dherma Sastra of the Hindoos,
a continuation of the sacred code.  As we have said, there is an
orientalism in the most restless pioneer, and the farthest west
is but the farthest east.  While we are reading these sentences,
this fair modern world seems only a reprint of the Laws of Menu
with the gloss of Culluca.  Tried by a New England eye, or the
mere practical wisdom of modern times, they are the oracles of a
race already in its dotage, but held up to the sky, which is the
only impartial and incorruptible ordeal, they are of a piece with
its depth and serenity, and I am assured that they will have a
place and significance as long as there is a sky to test them by.

Give me a sentence which no intelligence can understand.  There
must be a kind of life and palpitation to it, and under its words
a kind of blood must circulate forever.  It is wonderful that
this sound should have come down to us from so far, when the
voice of man can be heard so little way, and we are not now
within ear-shot of any contemporary.  The woodcutters have here
felled an ancient pine forest, and brought to light to these
distant hills a fair lake in the southwest; and now in an instant
it is distinctly shown to these woods as if its image had
travelled hither from eternity.  Perhaps these old stumps upon
the knoll remember when anciently this lake gleamed in the
horizon.  One wonders if the bare earth itself did not experience
emotion at beholding again so fair a prospect.  That fair water
lies there in the sun thus revealed, so much the prouder and
fairer because its beauty needed not to be seen.  It seems yet
lonely, sufficient to itself, and superior to observation.—So
are these old sentences like serene lakes in the southwest, at
length revealed to us, which have so long been reflecting our own
sky in their bosom.

The great plain of India lies as in a cup between the Himmaleh and
the ocean on the north and south, and the Brahmapootra and Indus,
on the east and west, wherein the primeval race was received.
We will not dispute the story.  We are pleased to read in the
natural history of the country, of the “pine, larch, spruce, and
silver fir,” which cover the southern face of the Himmaleh range;
of the “gooseberry, raspberry, strawberry,” which from an
imminent temperate zone overlook the torrid plains.  So did this
active modern life have even then a foothold and lurking-place in
the midst of the stateliness and contemplativeness of those
Eastern plains.  In another era the “lily of the valley, cowslip,
dandelion,” were to work their way down into the plain, and bloom
in a level zone of their own reaching round the earth.  Already
has the era of the temperate zone arrived, the era of the pine
and the oak, for the palm and the banian do not supply the wants
of this age.  The lichens on the summits of the rocks will
perchance find their level erelong.

As for the tenets of the Brahmans, we are not so much concerned
to know what doctrines they held, as that they were held by any.
We can tolerate all philosophies, Atomists, Pneumatologists,
Atheists, Theists,—Plato, Aristotle, Leucippus, Democritus,
Pythagoras, Zoroaster, and Confucius.  It is the attitude of
these men, more than any communication which they make, that
attracts us.  Between them and their commentators, it is true,
there is an endless dispute.  But if it comes to this, that you
compare notes, then you are all wrong.  As it is, each takes us
up into the serene heavens, whither the smallest bubble rises as
surely as the largest, and paints earth and sky for us.  Any
sincere thought is irresistible.  The very austerity of the
Brahmans is tempting to the devotional soul, as a more refined
and nobler luxury.  Wants so easily and gracefully satisfied seem
like a more refined pleasure.  Their conception of creation is
peaceful as a dream.  “When that power awakes, then has this
world its full expansion; but when he slumbers with a tranquil
spirit, then the whole system fades away.”  In the very
indistinctness of their theogony a sublime truth is implied.  It
hardly allows the reader to rest in any supreme first cause, but
directly it hints at a supremer still which created the last, and
the Creator is still behind increate.

Nor will we disturb the antiquity of this Scripture; “From fire,
from air, and from the sun,” it was “milked out.” One might as
well investigate the chronology of light and heat.  Let the sun
shine.  Menu understood this matter best, when he said, “Those
best know the divisions of days and nights who understand that
the day of Brahma, which endures to the end of a thousand such
ages, [infinite ages, nevertheless, according to mortal
reckoning,] gives rise to virtuous exertions; and that his night
endures as long as his day.” Indeed, the Mussulman and Tartar
dynasties are beyond all dating.  Methinks I have lived under
them myself.  In every man’s brain is the Sanscrit.  The Vedas
and their Angas are not so ancient as serene contemplation.  Why
will we be imposed on by antiquity?  Is the babe young?  When I
behold it, it seems more venerable than the oldest man; it is
more ancient than Nestor or the Sibyls, and bears the wrinkles of
father Saturn himself.  And do we live but in the present?  How
broad a line is that?  I sit now on a stump whose rings number
centuries of growth.  If I look around I see that the soil is
composed of the remains of just such stumps, ancestors to this.
The earth is covered with mould.  I thrust this stick many æons
deep into its surface, and with my heel make a deeper furrow than
the elements have ploughed here for a thousand years.  If I
listen, I hear the peep of frogs which is older than the slime of
Egypt, and the distant drumming of a partridge on a log, as if it
were the pulse-beat of the summer air.  I raise my fairest and
freshest flowers in the old mould.  Why, what we would fain call
new is not skin deep; the earth is not yet stained by it.  It is
not the fertile ground which we walk on, but the leaves which
flutter over our heads.  The newest is but the oldest made
visible to our senses.  When we dig up the soil from a thousand
feet below the surface, we call it new, and the plants which
spring from it; and when our vision pierces deeper into space,
and detects a remoter star, we call that new also.  The place
where we sit is called Hudson,—once it was Nottingham,—once —

We should read history as little critically as we consider the
landscape, and be more interested by the atmospheric tints and
various lights and shades which the intervening spaces create,
than by its groundwork and composition.  It is the morning now
turned evening and seen in the west,—the same sun, but a new
light and atmosphere.  Its beauty is like the sunset; not a
fresco painting on a wall, flat and bounded, but atmospheric and
roving or free.  In reality, history fluctuates as the face of
the landscape from morning to evening.  What is of moment is its
hue and color.  Time hides no treasures; we want not its then,
but its now.  We do not complain that the mountains in the
horizon are blue and indistinct; they are the more like the
heavens.

Of what moment are facts that can be lost,—which need to be
commemorated?  The monument of death will outlast the memory of
the dead.  The pyramids do not tell the tale which was confided
to them; the living fact commemorates itself.  Why look in the
dark for light?  Strictly speaking, the historical societies have
not recovered one fact from oblivion, but are themselves, instead
of the fact, that is lost.  The researcher is more memorable than
the researched.  The crowd stood admiring the mist and the dim
outlines of the trees seen through it, when one of their number
advanced to explore the phenomenon, and with fresh admiration all
eyes were turned on his dimly retreating figure.  It is astonishing
with how little co-operation of the societies the past is remembered.
Its story has indeed had another muse than has been assigned it.
There is a good instance of the manner in which all history
began, in Alwákidis’ Arabian Chronicle: “I was informed by Ahmed
Almatin Aljorhami, who had it from Rephâa Ebn Kais Alámiri,
who had it from Saiph Ebn Fabalah Alchâtquarmi, who had it from
Thabet Ebn Alkamah, who said he was present at the action.”
These fathers of history were not anxious to preserve, but to
learn the fact; and hence it was not forgotten.  Critical acumen
is exerted in vain to uncover the past; the past cannot be
presented; we cannot know what we are not.  But one veil hangs
over past, present, and future, and it is the province of the
historian to find out, not what was, but what is.  Where a battle
has been fought, you will find nothing but the bones of men and
beasts; where a battle is being fought, there are hearts beating.
We will sit on a mound and muse, and not try to make these
skeletons stand on their legs again.  Does Nature remember, think
you, that they were men, or not rather that they are bones?

Ancient history has an air of antiquity.  It should be more
modern.  It is written as if the spectator should be thinking of
the backside of the picture on the wall, or as if the author
expected that the dead would be his readers, and wished to detail
to them their own experience.  Men seem anxious to accomplish an
orderly retreat through the centuries, earnestly rebuilding the
works behind, as they are battered down by the encroachments of
time; but while they loiter, they and their works both fall a
prey to the arch enemy.  History has neither the venerableness of
antiquity, nor the freshness of the modern.  It does as if it
would go to the beginning of things, which natural history might
with reason assume to do; but consider the Universal History, and
then tell us,—when did burdock and plantain sprout first?  It
has been so written for the most part, that the times it
describes are with remarkable propriety called dark ages.  They
are dark, as one has observed, because we are so in the dark
about them.  The sun rarely shines in history, what with the dust
and confusion; and when we meet with any cheering fact which
implies the presence of this luminary, we excerpt and modernize
it.  As when we read in the history of the Saxons that Edwin of
Northumbria “caused stakes to be fixed in the highways where he
had seen a clear spring,” and “brazen dishes were chained to them
to refresh the weary sojourner, whose fatigues Edwin had himself
experienced.”  This is worth all Arthur’s twelve battles.

   “Through the shadow of the world we sweep into the younger day:
    Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.”
    Than fifty years of Europe better one New England ray!

Biography, too, is liable to the same objection; it should be
autobiography.  Let us not, as the Germans advise, endeavor to go
abroad and vex our bowels that we may be somebody else to explain
him.  If I am not I, who will be?

But it is fit that the Past should be dark; though the darkness
is not so much a quality of the past as of tradition.  It is not
a distance of time, but a distance of relation, which makes thus
dusky its memorials.  What is near to the heart of this
generation is fair and bright still.  Greece lies outspread fair
and sunshiny in floods of light, for there is the sun and
daylight in her literature and art.  Homer does not allow us to
forget that the sun shone,—nor Phidias, nor the Parthenon.  Yet
no era has been wholly dark, nor will we too hastily submit to
the historian, and congratulate ourselves on a blaze of light.
If we could pierce the obscurity of those remote years, we should
find it light enough; only there is not our day.  Some
creatures are made to see in the dark.  There has always been the
same amount of light in the world.  The new and missing stars,
the comets and eclipses, do not affect the general illumination,
for only our glasses appreciate them.  The eyes of the oldest
fossil remains, they tell us, indicate that the same laws of
light prevailed then as now.  Always the laws of light are the
same, but the modes and degrees of seeing vary.  The gods are
partial to no era, but steadily shines their light in the
heavens, while the eye of the beholder is turned to stone.  There
was but the sun and the eye from the first.  The ages have not
added a new ray to the one, nor altered a fibre of the other.

If we will admit time into our thoughts at all, the mythologies,
those vestiges of ancient poems, wrecks of poems, so to speak,
the world’s inheritance, still reflecting some of their original
splendor, like the fragments of clouds tinted by the rays of the
departed sun; reaching into the latest summer day, and allying
this hour to the morning of creation; as the poet sings:—

     “Fragments of the lofty strain
       Float down the tide of years,
     As buoyant on the stormy main
       A parted wreck appears.”

These are the materials and hints for a history of the rise and
progress of the race; how, from the condition of ants, it arrived
at the condition of men, and arts were gradually invented.  Let a
thousand surmises shed some light on this story.  We will not be
confined by historical, even geological periods which would allow
us to doubt of a progress in human affairs.  If we rise above
this wisdom for the day, we shall expect that this morning of the
race, in which it has been supplied with the simplest necessaries,
with corn, and wine, and honey, and oil, and fire, and articulate
speech, and agricultural and other arts, reared up by degrees
from the condition of ants to men, will be succeeded by a day of
equally progressive splendor; that, in the lapse of the divine
periods, other divine agents and godlike men will assist to
elevate the race as much above its present condition.

But we do not know much about it.

Thus did one voyageur waking dream, while his companion slumbered
on the bank.  Suddenly a boatman’s horn was heard echoing from
shore to shore, to give notice of his approach to the farmer’s
wife with whom he was to take his dinner, though in that place
only muskrats and kingfishers seemed to hear.  The current of our
reflections and our slumbers being thus disturbed, we weighed
anchor once more.

As we proceeded on our way in the afternoon, the western bank
became lower, or receded farther from the channel in some places,
leaving a few trees only to fringe the water’s edge; while the
eastern rose abruptly here and there into wooded hills fifty or
sixty feet high.  The bass, Tilia Americana, also called the
lime or linden, which was a new tree to us, overhung the water
with its broad and rounded leaf, interspersed with clusters of
small hard berries now nearly ripe, and made an agreeable shade
for us sailors.  The inner bark of this genus is the bast, the
material of the fisherman’s matting, and the ropes and peasant’s
shoes of which the Russians make so much use, and also of nets
and a coarse cloth in some places.  According to poets, this was
once Philyra, one of the Oceanides.  The ancients are said to
have used its bark for the roofs of cottages, for baskets, and
for a kind of paper called Philyra.  They also made bucklers of
its wood, “on account of its flexibility, lightness, and
resiliency.”  It was once much used for carving, and is still in
demand for sounding-boards of piano-fortes and panels of
carriages, and for various uses for which toughness and
flexibility are required.  Baskets and cradles are made of the
twigs.  Its sap affords sugar, and the honey made from its
flowers is said to be preferred to any other.  Its leaves are in
some countries given to cattle, a kind of chocolate has been made
of its fruit, a medicine has been prepared from an infusion of
its flowers, and finally, the charcoal made of its wood is
greatly valued for gunpowder.

The sight of this tree reminded us that we had reached a strange
land to us.  As we sailed under this canopy of leaves we saw the
sky through its chinks, and, as it were, the meaning and idea of
the tree stamped in a thousand hieroglyphics on the heavens.  The
universe is so aptly fitted to our organization that the eye
wanders and reposes at the same time.  On every side there is
something to soothe and refresh this sense.  Look up at the
tree-tops and see how finely Nature finishes off her work there.
See how the pines spire without end higher and higher, and make a
graceful fringe to the earth.  And who shall count the finer
cobwebs that soar and float away from their utmost tops, and the
myriad insects that dodge between them.  Leaves are of more
various forms than the alphabets of all languages put together;
of the oaks alone there are hardly two alike, and each expresses
its own character.

In all her products Nature only develops her simplest germs.  One
would say that it was no great stretch of invention to create
birds.  The hawk, which now takes his flight over the top of the
wood, was at first, perchance, only a leaf which fluttered in its
aisles.  From rustling leaves she came in the course of ages to
the loftier flight and clear carol of the bird.

Salmon Brook comes in from the west under the railroad, a mile
and a half below the village of Nashua.  We rowed up far enough
into the meadows which border it to learn its piscatorial history
from a haymaker on its banks.  He told us that the silver eel was
formerly abundant here, and pointed to some sunken creels at its
mouth.  This man’s memory and imagination were fertile in
fishermen’s tales of floating isles in bottomless ponds, and of
lakes mysteriously stocked with fishes, and would have kept us
till nightfall to listen, but we could not afford to loiter in
this roadstead, and so stood out to our sea again.  Though we
never trod in those meadows, but only touched their margin with
our hands, we still retain a pleasant memory of them.

Salmon Brook, whose name is said to be a translation from the
Indian, was a favorite haunt of the aborigines.  Here, too, the
first white settlers of Nashua planted, and some dents in the
earth where their houses stood and the wrecks of ancient
apple-trees are still visible.  About one mile up this stream
stood the house of old John Lovewell, who was an ensign in the
army of Oliver Cromwell, and the father of “famous Captain
Lovewell.”  He settled here before 1690, and died about 1754, at
the age of one hundred and twenty years.  He is thought to have
been engaged in the famous Narragansett swamp fight, which took
place in 1675, before he came here.  The Indians are said to have
spared him in succeeding wars on account of his kindness to them.
Even in 1700 he was so old and gray-headed that his scalp was
worth nothing, since the French Governor offered no bounty for
such.  I have stood in the dent of his cellar on the bank of the
brook, and talked there with one whose grandfather had, whose
father might have, talked with Lovewell.  Here also he had a mill
in his old age, and kept a small store.  He was remembered by
some who were recently living, as a hale old man who drove the
boys out of his orchard with his cane.  Consider the triumphs of
the mortal man, and what poor trophies it would have to show, to
wit:—He cobbled shoes without glasses at a hundred, and cut a
handsome swath at a hundred and five!  Lovewell’s house is said
to have been the first which Mrs.  Dustan reached on her escape
from the Indians.  Here probably the hero of Pequawket was born
and bred.  Close by may be seen the cellar and the gravestone of
Joseph Hassell, who, as is elsewhere recorded, with his wife
Anna, and son Benjamin, and Mary Marks, “were slain by our Indian
enemies on September 2d, [1691,] in the evening.” As Gookin
observed on a previous occasion, “The Indian rod upon the English
backs had not yet done God’s errand.” Salmon Brook near its mouth
is still a solitary stream, meandering through woods and meadows,
while the then uninhabited mouth of the Nashua now resounds with
the din of a manufacturing town.

A stream from Otternic Pond in Hudson comes in just above Salmon
Brook, on the opposite side.  There was a good view of Uncannunuc,
the most conspicuous mountain in these parts, from the bank here,
seen rising over the west end of the bridge above.  We soon after
passed the village of Nashua, on the river of the same name,
where there is a covered bridge over the Merrimack.  The Nashua,
which is one of the largest tributaries, flows from Wachusett
Mountain, through Lancaster, Groton, and other towns, where it
has formed well-known elm-shaded meadows, but near its mouth it
is obstructed by falls and factories, and did not tempt us to
explore it.

Far away from here, in Lancaster, with another companion, I have
crossed the broad valley of the Nashua, over which we had so long
looked westward from the Concord hills without seeing it to the
blue mountains in the horizon.  So many streams, so many meadows
and woods and quiet dwellings of men had lain concealed between
us and those Delectable Mountains;—from yonder hill on the road
to Tyngsborough you may get a good view of them.  There where it
seemed uninterrupted forest to our youthful eyes, between two
neighboring pines in the horizon, lay the valley of the Nashua,
and this very stream was even then winding at its bottom, and
then, as now, it was here silently mingling its waters with the
Merrimack.  The clouds which floated over its meadows and were
born there, seen far in the west, gilded by the rays of the
setting sun, had adorned a thousand evening skies for us.  But as
it were, by a turf wall this valley was concealed, and in our
journey to those hills it was first gradually revealed to us.
Summer and winter our eyes had rested on the dim outline of the
mountains, to which distance and indistinctness lent a grandeur
not their own, so that they served to interpret all the allusions
of poets and travellers.  Standing on the Concord Cliffs we thus
spoke our mind to them:—

     With frontier strength ye stand your ground,
     With grand content ye circle round,
     Tumultuous silence for all sound,
     Ye distant nursery of rills,
     Monadnock and the Peterborough Hills;—
     Firm argument that never stirs,
     Outcircling the philosophers,—
     Like some vast fleet,
     Sailing through rain and sleet,
     Through winter’s cold and summer’s heat;
     Still holding on upon your high emprise,
     Until ye find a shore amid the skies;
     Not skulking close to land,
     With cargo contraband,
     For they who sent a venture out by ye
     Have set the Sun to see
     Their honesty.
     Ships of the line, each one,
     Ye westward run,
     Convoying clouds,
     Which cluster in your shrouds,
     Always before the gale,
     Under a press of sail,
     With weight of metal all untold,—
     I seem to feel ye in my firm seat here,
     Immeasurable depth of hold,
     And breadth of beam, and length of running gear
     Methinks ye take luxurious pleasure
     In your novel western leisure;
     So cool your brows and freshly blue,
     As Time had naught for ye to do;
     For  ye lie at your length,
     An unappropriated strength,
     Unhewn primeval timber,
     For knees so stiff, for masts so limber;
     The stock of which new earths are made,
     One day to be our western trade,
     Fit for the stanchions of a world
     Which through the seas of space is hurled.
     While we enjoy a lingering ray,
     Ye still o’ertop the western day,
     Reposing yonder on God’s croft
     Like solid stacks of hay;
     So bold a line as ne’er was writ
     On any page by human wit;
     The forest glows as if
     An enemy’s camp-fires shone
     Along the horizon,
     Or the day’s funeral pyre
     Were lighted there;
     Edged with silver and with gold,
     The clouds hang o’er in damask fold,
     And with such depth of amber light
     The west is dight,
     Where still a few rays slant,
     That even Heaven seems extravagant.
     Watatic Hill
     Lies on the horizon’s sill
     Like a child’s toy left overnight,
     And other duds to left and right,
     On the earth’s edge, mountains and trees
     Stand as they were on air graven,
     Or as the vessels in a haven
     Await the morning breeze.
     I fancy even
     Through your defiles windeth the way to heaven;
     And yonder still, in spite of history’s page,
     Linger the golden and the silver age;
     Upon the laboring gale
     The news of future centuries is brought,
     And of new dynasties of thought,
     From your remotest vale.
     But special I remember thee,
     Wachusett, who like me
     Standest alone without society.
     Thy far blue eye,
     A remnant of the sky,
     Seen through the clearing or the gorge,
     Or from the windows of the forge,
     Doth leaven all it passes by.
     Nothing is true
     But stands ’tween me and you,
     Thou western pioneer,
     Who know’st not shame nor fear,
     By venturous spirit driven
     Under the eaves of heaven;
     And canst expand thee there,
     And breathe enough of air?
     Even beyond the West
     Thou migratest,
     Into unclouded tracts,
     Without a pilgrim’s axe,
     Cleaving thy road on high
     With thy well-tempered brow,
     And mak’st thyself a clearing in the sky.
     Upholding heaven, holding down earth,
     Thy pastime from thy birth;
     Not steadied by the one, nor leaning on the other,
     May I approve myself thy worthy brother!

At length, like Rasselas and other inhabitants of happy valleys,
we had resolved to scale the blue wall which bounded the western
horizon, though not without misgivings that thereafter no visible
fairy-land would exist for us.  But it would be long to tell of
our adventures, and we have no time this afternoon, transporting
ourselves in imagination up this hazy Nashua valley, to go over
again that pilgrimage.  We have since made many similar
excursions to the principal mountains of New England and New
York, and even far in the wilderness, and have passed a night on
the summit of many of them.  And now, when we look again westward
from our native hills, Wachusett and Monadnock have retreated
once more among the blue and fabulous mountains in the horizon,
though our eyes rest on the very rocks on both of them, where we
have pitched our tent for a night, and boiled our hasty-pudding
amid the clouds.

As late as 1724 there was no house on the north side of the
Nashua, but only scattered wigwams and grisly forests between
this frontier and Canada.  In September of that year, two men who
were engaged in making turpentine on that side, for such were the
first enterprises in the wilderness, were taken captive and
carried to Canada by a party of thirty Indians.  Ten of the
inhabitants of Dunstable, going to look for them, found the hoops
of their barrel cut, and the turpentine spread on the ground.  I
have been told by an inhabitant of Tyngsborough, who had the
story from his ancestors, that one of these captives, when the
Indians were about to upset his barrel of turpentine, seized a
pine knot and flourishing it, swore so resolutely that he would
kill the first who touched it, that they refrained, and when at
length he returned from Canada he found it still standing.
Perhaps there was more than one barrel.  However this may have
been, the scouts knew by marks on the trees, made with coal mixed
with grease, that the men were not killed, but taken prisoners.
One of the company, named Farwell, perceiving that the turpentine
had not done spreading, concluded that the Indians had been gone
but a short time, and they accordingly went in instant pursuit.
Contrary to the advice of Farwell, following directly on their
trail up the Merrimack, they fell into an ambuscade near
Thornton’s Ferry, in the present town of Merrimack, and nine were
killed, only one, Farwell, escaping after a vigorous pursuit.
The men of Dunstable went out and picked up their bodies, and
carried them all down to Dunstable and buried them.  It is almost
word for word as in the Robin Hood ballad:—

     “They carried these foresters into fair Nottingham,
       As many there did know,
     They digged them graves in their churchyard,
       And they buried them all a-row.”

Nottingham is only the other side of the river, and they were not
exactly all a-row.  You may read in the churchyard at Dunstable,
under the “Memento Mori,” and the name of one of them, how they
“departed this life,” and

      “This man with seven more that lies in
      this grave was slew all in a day by
                    the Indians.”

The stones of some others of the company stand around the common
grave with their separate inscriptions.  Eight were buried here,
but nine were killed, according to the best authorities.

     “Gentle river, gentle river,
       Lo, thy streams are stained with gore,
     Many a brave and noble captain
       Floats along thy willowed shore.
     “All beside thy limpid waters,
       All beside thy sands so bright,
     Indian Chiefs and Christian warriors
       Joined in fierce and mortal fight.”

It is related in the History of Dunstable, that on the return of
Farwell the Indians were engaged by a fresh party which they
compelled to retreat, and pursued as far as the Nashua, where
they fought across the stream at its mouth.  After the departure
of the Indians, the figure of an Indian’s head was found carved
by them on a large tree by the shore, which circumstance has
given its name to this part of the village of Nashville,—the
“Indian Head.”  “It was observed by some judicious,” says Gookin,
referring to Philip’s war, “that at the beginning of the war the
English soldiers made a nothing of the Indians, and many spake
words to this effect: that one Englishman was sufficient to chase
ten Indians; many reckoned it was no other but Veni, vidi,
vici.” But we may conclude that the judicious would by this time
have made a different observation.

Farwell appears to have been the only one who had studied his
profession, and understood the business of hunting Indians.  He
lived to fight another day, for the next year he was Lovewell’s
lieutenant at Pequawket, but that time, as we have related, he
left his bones in the wilderness.  His name still reminds us of
twilight days and forest scouts on Indian trails, with an uneasy
scalp;—an indispensable hero to New England.  As the more recent
poet of Lovewell’s fight has sung, halting a little but bravely
still:—

     “Then did the crimson streams that flowed
       Seem like the waters of the brook,
     That brightly shine, that loudly dash,
       Far down the cliffs of Agiochook.”

These battles sound incredible to us.  I think that posterity
will doubt if such things ever were; if our bold ancestors who
settled this land were not struggling rather with the forest
shadows, and not with a copper-<DW52> race of men.  They were
vapors, fever and ague of the unsettled woods.  Now, only a few
arrow-heads are turned up by the plough.  In the Pelasgic, the
Etruscan, or the British story, there is nothing so shadowy and
unreal.

It is a wild and antiquated looking graveyard, overgrown with
bushes, on the high-road, about a quarter of a mile from and
overlooking the Merrimack, with a deserted mill-stream bounding
it on one side, where lie the earthly remains of the ancient
inhabitants of Dunstable.  We passed it three or four miles below
here.  You may read there the names of Lovewell, Farwell, and
many others whose families were distinguished in Indian warfare.
We noticed there two large masses of granite more than a foot
thick and rudely squared, lying flat on the ground over the
remains of the first pastor and his wife.

It is remarkable that the dead lie everywhere under stones,—

     “Strata jacent passim suo quæque sub” lapide—

corpora, we might say, if the measure allowed.  When the stone
is a slight one, it does not oppress the spirits of the traveller
to meditate by it; but these did seem a little heathenish to us;
and so are all large monuments over men’s bodies, from the
pyramids down.  A monument should at least be “star-y-pointing,”
to indicate whither the spirit is gone, and not prostrate, like
the body it has deserted.  There have been some nations who could
do nothing but construct tombs, and these are the only traces
which they have left.  They are the heathen.  But why these
stones, so upright and emphatic, like exclamation-points?  What
was there so remarkable that lived?  Why should the monument be
so much more enduring than the fame which it is designed to
perpetuate,—a stone to a bone?  “Here lies,”—“Here lies”;—why
do they not sometimes write, There rises?  Is it a monument to
the body only that is intended?  “Having reached the term of his
natural life”;—would it not be truer to say, Having reached
the term of his unnatural life?  The rarest quality in an
epitaph is truth.  If any character is given, it should be as
severely true as the decision of the three judges below, and not
the partial testimony of friends.  Friends and contemporaries
should supply only the name and date, and leave it to posterity
to write the epitaph.

               Here lies an honest man,
               Rear-Admiral Van.
                      ———-
               Faith, then ye have
               Two in one grave,
               For in his favor,
               Here too lies the Engraver.

Fame itself is but an epitaph; as late, as false, as true.  But
they only are the true epitaphs which Old Mortality retouches.

A man might well pray that he may not taboo or curse any portion
of nature by being buried in it.  For the most part, the best
man’s spirit makes a fearful sprite to haunt his grave, and it is
therefore much to the credit of Little John, the famous follower
of Robin Hood, and reflecting favorably on his character, that
his grave was “long celebrous for the yielding of excellent
whetstones.”  I confess that I have but little love for such
collections as they have at the Catacombs, Père la Chaise, Mount
Auburn, and even this Dunstable graveyard.  At any rate, nothing
but great antiquity can make graveyards interesting to me.  I
have no friends there.  It may be that I am not competent to
write the poetry of the grave.  The farmer who has skimmed his
farm might perchance leave his body to Nature to be ploughed in,
and in some measure restore its fertility.  We should not <DW44>
but forward her economies.

Soon the village of Nashua was out of sight, and the woods were
gained again, and we rowed slowly on before sunset, looking for a
solitary place in which to spend the night.  A few evening clouds
began to be reflected in the water and the surface was dimpled
only here and there by a muskrat crossing the stream.  We camped
at length near Penichook Brook, on the confines of what is now
Nashville, by a deep ravine, under the skirts of a pine wood,
where the dead pine-leaves were our carpet, and their tawny
boughs stretched overhead.  But fire and smoke soon tamed the
scene; the rocks consented to be our walls, and the pines our
roof.  A woodside was already the fittest locality for us.

The wilderness is near as well as dear to every man.  Even the
oldest villages are indebted to the border of wild wood which
surrounds them, more than to the gardens of men.  There is
something indescribably inspiriting and beautiful in the aspect
of the forest skirting and occasionally jutting into the midst of
new towns, which, like the sand-heaps of fresh fox-burrows, have
sprung up in their midst.  The very uprightness of the pines and
maples asserts the ancient rectitude and vigor of nature.  Our
lives need the relief of such a background, where the pine
flourishes and the jay still screams.

We had found a safe harbor for our boat, and as the sun was
setting carried up our furniture, and soon arranged our house
upon the bank, and while the kettle steamed at the tent door, we
chatted of distant friends and of the sights which we were to
behold, and wondered which way the towns lay from us.  Our cocoa
was soon boiled, and supper set upon our chest, and we lengthened
out this meal, like old voyageurs, with our talk.  Meanwhile we
spread the map on the ground, and read in the Gazetteer when the
first settlers came here and got a township granted.  Then, when
supper was done and we had written the journal of our voyage, we
wrapped our buffaloes about us and lay down with our heads
pillowed on our arms listening awhile to the distant baying of a
dog, or the murmurs of the river, or to the wind, which had not
gone to rest:—

     The western wind came lumbering in,
     Bearing a faint Pacific din,
     Our evening mail, swift at the call
     Of its Postmaster General;
     Laden with news from Californ’,
     Whate’er transpired hath since morn,
     How wags the world by brier and brake
     From hence to Athabasca Lake;—

or half awake and half asleep, dreaming of a star which glimmered
through our cotton roof.  Perhaps at midnight one was awakened by
a cricket shrilly singing on his shoulder, or by a hunting spider
in his eye, and was lulled asleep again by some streamlet purling
its way along at the bottom of a wooded and rocky ravine in our
neighborhood.  It was pleasant to lie with our heads so low in
the grass, and hear what a tinkling ever-busy laboratory it was.
A thousand little artisans beat on their anvils all night long.

Far in the night as we were falling asleep on the bank of the
Merrimack, we heard some tyro beating a drum incessantly, in
preparation for a country muster, as we learned, and we thought
of the line,—

     “When the drum beat at dead of night.”

We could have assured him that his beat would be answered, and
the forces be mustered.  Fear not, thou drummer of the night, we
too will be there.  And still he drummed on in the silence and
the dark.  This stray sound from a far-off sphere came to our
ears from time to time, far, sweet, and significant, and we
listened with such an unprejudiced sense as if for the first time
we heard at all.  No doubt he was an insignificant drummer
enough, but his music afforded us a prime and leisure hour, and
we felt that we were in season wholly.  These simple sounds
related us to the stars.  Ay, there was a logic in them so
convincing that the combined sense of mankind could never make me
doubt their conclusions.  I stop my habitual thinking, as if the
plough had suddenly run deeper in its furrow through the crust of
the world.  How can I go on, who have just stepped over such a
bottomless skylight in the bog of my life.  Suddenly old Time
winked at me,—Ah, you know me, you rogue,—and news had come
that IT was well.  That ancient universe is in such capital
health, I think undoubtedly it will never die.  Heal yourselves,
doctors; by God, I live.

                Then idle Time ran gadding by
                And left me with Eternity alone;
            I hear beyond the range of sound,
            I see beyond the verge of sight,—

I see, smell, taste, hear, feel, that everlasting Something to
which we are allied, at once our maker, our abode, our destiny,
our very Selves; the one historic truth, the most remarkable fact
which can become the distinct and uninvited subject of our
thought, the actual glory of the universe; the only fact which a
human being cannot avoid recognizing, or in some way forget or
dispense with.

           It doth expand my privacies
       To all, and leave me single in the crowd.

I have seen how the foundations of the world are laid, and I have
not the least doubt that it will stand a good while.

         Now chiefly is my natal hour,
         And only now my prime of life.
         I will not doubt the love untold,
         Which not my worth nor want hath bought,
         Which wooed me young and wooes me old,
         And to this evening hath me brought.

What are ears? what is Time? that this particular series of
sounds called a strain of music, an invisible and fairy troop
which never brushed the dew from any mead, can be wafted down
through the centuries from Homer to me, and he have been
conversant with that same aerial and mysterious charm which now
so tingles my ears?  What a fine communication from age to age,
of the fairest and noblest thoughts, the aspirations of ancient
men, even such as were never communicated by speech, is music!
It is the flower of language, thought  and curved, fluent
and flexible, its crystal fountain tinged with the sun’s rays,
and its purling ripples reflecting the grass and the clouds.  A
strain of music reminds me of a passage of the Vedas, and I
associate with it the idea of infinite remoteness, as well as of
beauty and serenity, for to the senses that is farthest from us
which addresses the greatest depth within us.  It teaches us
again and again to trust the remotest and finest as the divinest
instinct, and makes a dream our only real experience.  We feel a
sad cheer when we hear it, perchance because we that hear are not
one with that which is heard.

        Therefore a torrent of sadness deep,
        Through the strains of thy triumph is heard to sweep.

The sadness is ours.  The Indian poet Calidas says in the
Sacontala: “Perhaps the sadness of men on seeing beautiful forms
and hearing sweet music arises from some faint remembrance of
past joys, and the traces of connections in a former state of
existence.” As polishing expresses the vein in marble, and grain
in wood, so music brings out what of heroic lurks anywhere.  The
hero is the sole patron of music.  That harmony which exists
naturally between the hero’s moods and the universe the soldier
would fain imitate with drum and trumpet.  When we are in health
all sounds fife and drum for us; we hear the notes of music in
the air, or catch its echoes dying away when we awake in the
dawn.  Marching is when the pulse of the hero beats in unison
with the pulse of Nature, and he steps to the measure of the
universe; then there is true courage and invincible strength.

Plutarch says that “Plato thinks the gods never gave men music,
the science of melody and harmony, for mere delectation or to
tickle the ear; but that the discordant parts of the circulations
and beauteous fabric of the soul, and that of it that roves about
the body, and many times, for want of tune and air, breaks forth
into many extravagances and excesses, might be sweetly recalled
and artfully wound up to their former consent and agreement.”

Music is the sound of the universal laws promulgated.  It is the
only assured tone.  There are in it such strains as far surpass
any man’s faith in the loftiness of his destiny.  Things are to
be learned which it will be worth the while to learn.  Formerly I
heard these

         Rumors from an Æolian Harp.

      There is a vale which none hath seen,
      Where foot of man has never been,
      Such as here lives with toil and strife,
      An anxious and a sinful life.
     There every virtue has its birth,
     Ere it descends upon the earth,
     And thither every deed returns,
     Which in the generous bosom burns.
     There love is warm, and youth is young,
     And poetry is yet unsung,
     For Virtue still adventures there,
     And freely breathes her native air.
     And ever, if you hearken well,
     You still may hear its vesper bell,
     And tread of high-souled men go by,
     Their thoughts conversing with the sky.

According to Jamblichus, “Pythagoras did not procure for himself
a thing of this kind through instruments or the voice, but
employing a certain ineffable divinity, and which it is difficult
to apprehend, he extended his ears and fixed his intellect in the
sublime symphonies of the world, he alone hearing and
understanding, as it appears, the universal harmony and
consonance of the spheres, and the stars that are moved through
them, and which produce a fuller and more intense melody than
anything effected by mortal sounds.”

Travelling on foot very early one morning due east from here
about twenty miles, from Caleb Harriman’s tavern in Hampstead
toward Haverhill, when I reached the railroad in Plaistow, I
heard at some distance a faint music in the air like an Æolian
harp, which I immediately suspected to proceed from the cord of
the telegraph vibrating in the just awakening morning wind, and
applying my ear to one of the posts I was convinced that it was
so.  It was the telegraph harp singing its message through the
country, its message sent not by men, but by gods.  Perchance,
like the statue of Memnon, it resounds only in the morning, when
the first rays of the sun fall on it.  It was like the first lyre
or shell heard on the sea-shore,—that vibrating cord high in the
air over the shores of earth.  So have all things their higher
and their lower uses.  I heard a fairer news than the journals
ever print.  It told of things worthy to hear, and worthy of the
electric fluid to carry the news of, not of the price of cotton
and flour, but it hinted at the price of the world itself and of
things which are priceless, of absolute truth and beauty.

Still the drum rolled on, and stirred our blood to fresh
extravagance that night.  The clarion sound and clang of corselet
and buckler were heard from many a hamlet of the soul, and many a
knight was arming for the fight behind the encamped stars.

                                “Before each van
         Prick forth the aery knights, and couch their spears
         Till thickest legions close; with feats of arms
         From either end of Heaven the welkin burns.”
                     ———————
           Away! away! away! away!
             Ye have not kept your secret well,
           I will abide that other day,
             Those other lands ye tell.
           Has time no leisure left for these,
             The acts that ye rehearse?
           Is not eternity a lease
             For better deeds than verse?
           ’T is sweet to hear of heroes dead,
             To know them still alive,
           But sweeter if we earn their bread,
              And in us they survive.
           Our life should feed the springs of fame
              With a perennial wave.
           As ocean feeds the babbling founts
              Which find in it their grave.
          Ye skies drop gently round my breast,
            And be my corselet blue,
          Ye earth receive my lance in rest,
            My faithful charger you;
          Ye stars my spear-heads in the sky,
            My arrow-tips ye are;
          I see the routed foemen fly,
            My bright spears fixed are.
          Give me an angel for a foe,
            Fix now the place and time,
          And straight to meet him I will go
            Above the starry chime.
          And with our clashing bucklers’ clang
            The heavenly spheres shall ring,
          While bright the northern lights shall hang
            Beside our tourneying.
          And if she lose her champion true,
            Tell Heaven not despair,
          For I will be her champion new,
            Her fame I will repair.

There was a high wind this night, which we afterwards learned had
been still more violent elsewhere, and had done much injury to
the cornfields far and near; but we only heard it sigh from time
to time, as if it had no license to shake the foundations of our
tent; the pines murmured, the water rippled, and the tent rocked
a little, but we only laid our ears closer to the ground, while
the blast swept on to alarm other men, and long before sunrise we
were ready to pursue our voyage as usual.

    
      
 
 
       
    
    
      


    

TUESDAY.

            “On either side the river lie
             Long fields of barley and of rye,
             That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
             And through the fields the road runs by
                          To many-towered Camelot.”

                                            Tennyson.


TUESDAY.



Long before daylight we ranged abroad, hatchet in hand, in search
of fuel, and made the yet slumbering and dreaming wood resound
with our blows.  Then with our fire we burned up a portion of the
loitering night, while the kettle sang its homely strain to the
morning star.  We tramped about the shore, waked all the
muskrats, and scared up the bittern and birds that were asleep
upon their roosts; we hauled up and upset our boat and washed it
and rinsed out the clay, talking aloud as if it were broad day,
until at length, by three o’clock, we had completed our
preparations and were ready to pursue our voyage as usual; so,
shaking the clay from our feet, we pushed into the fog.

Though we were enveloped in mist as usual, we trusted that there
was a bright day behind it.

     Ply the oars! away! away!
     In each dew-drop of the morning
     Lies the promise of a day.
     Rivers from the sunrise flow,
     Springing with the dewy morn;
     Voyageurs ’gainst time do row,
     Idle noon nor sunset know,
     Ever even with the dawn.

Belknap, the historian of this State, says that, “In the
neighborhood of fresh rivers and ponds, a whitish fog in the
morning lying over the water is a sure indication of fair weather
for that day; and when no fog is seen, rain is expected before
night.” That which seemed to us to invest the world was only a
narrow and shallow wreath of vapor stretched over the channel of
the Merrimack from the seaboard to the mountains.  More extensive
fogs, however, have their own limits.  I once saw the day break
from the top of Saddle-back Mountain in Massachusetts, above the
clouds.  As we cannot distinguish objects through this dense fog,
let me tell this story more at length.

I had come over the hills on foot and alone in serene summer
days, plucking the raspberries by the wayside, and occasionally
buying a loaf of bread at a farmer’s house, with a knapsack on my
back which held a few traveller’s books and a change of clothing,
and a staff in my hand.  I had that morning looked down from the
Hoosack Mountain, where the road crosses it, on the village of
North Adams in the valley three miles away under my feet, showing
how uneven the earth may sometimes be, and making it seem an
accident that it should ever be level and convenient for the feet
of man.  Putting a little rice and sugar and a tin cup into my
knapsack at this village, I began in the afternoon to ascend the
mountain, whose summit is three thousand six hundred feet above
the level of the sea, and was seven or eight miles distant by the
path.  My route lay up a long and spacious valley called the
Bellows, because the winds rush up or down it with violence in
storms, sloping up to the very clouds between the principal range
and a lower mountain.  There were a few farms scattered along at
different elevations, each commanding a fine prospect of the
mountains to the north, and a stream ran down the middle of the
valley on which near the head there was a mill.  It seemed a road
for the pilgrim to enter upon who would climb to the gates of
heaven.  Now I crossed a hay-field, and now over the brook on a
slight bridge, still gradually ascending all the while with a
sort of awe, and filled with indefinite expectations as to what
kind of inhabitants and what kind of nature I should come to at
last.  It now seemed some advantage that the earth was uneven,
for one could not imagine a more noble position for a farm-house
than this vale afforded, farther from or nearer to its head, from
a glen-like seclusion overlooking the country at a great
elevation between these two mountain walls.

It reminded me of the homesteads of the Huguenots, on Staten
Island, off the coast of New Jersey.  The hills in the interior
of this island, though comparatively low, are penetrated in
various directions by similar sloping valleys on a humble scale,
gradually narrowing and rising to the centre, and at the head of
these the Huguenots, who were the first settlers, placed their
houses quite within the land, in rural and sheltered places, in
leafy recesses where the breeze played with the poplar and the
gum-tree, from which, with equal security in calm and storm, they
looked out through a widening vista, over miles of forest and
stretching salt marsh, to the Huguenot’s Tree, an old elm on the
shore at whose root they had landed, and across the spacious
outer bay of New York to Sandy Hook and the Highlands of
Neversink, and thence over leagues of the Atlantic, perchance to
some faint vessel in the horizon, almost a day’s sail on her
voyage to that Europe whence they had come.  When walking in the
interior there, in the midst of rural scenery, where there was as
little to remind me of the ocean as amid the New Hampshire hills,
I have suddenly, through a gap, a cleft or “clove road,” as the
Dutch settlers called it, caught sight of a ship under full sail,
over a field of corn, twenty or thirty miles at sea.  The effect
was similar, since I had no means of measuring distances, to
seeing a painted ship passed backwards and forwards through a
magic-lantern.

But to return to the mountain.  It seemed as if he must be the
most singular and heavenly minded man whose dwelling stood
highest up the valley.  The thunder had rumbled at my heels all
the way, but the shower passed off in another direction, though
if it had not, I half believed that I should get above it.  I at
length reached the last house but one, where the path to the
summit diverged to the right, while the summit itself rose
directly in front.  But I determined to follow up the valley to
its head, and then find my own route up the steep as the shorter
and more adventurous way.  I had thoughts of returning to this
house, which was well kept and so nobly placed, the next day, and
perhaps remaining a week there, if I could have entertainment.
Its mistress was a frank and hospitable young woman, who stood
before me in a dishabille, busily and unconcernedly combing her
long black hair while she talked, giving her head the necessary
toss with each sweep of the comb, with lively, sparkling eyes,
and full of interest in that lower world from which I had come,
talking all the while as familiarly as if she had known me for
years, and reminding me of a cousin of mine.  She at first had
taken me for a student from Williamstown, for they went by in
parties, she said, either riding or walking, almost every
pleasant day, and were a pretty wild set of fellows; but they
never went by the way I was going.  As I passed the last house, a
man called out to know what I had to sell, for seeing my
knapsack, he thought that I might be a pedler who was taking this
unusual route over the ridge of the valley into South Adams.  He
told me that it was still four or five miles to the summit by the
path which I had left, though not more than two in a straight
line from where I was, but that nobody ever went this way; there
was no path, and I should find it as steep as the roof of a
house.  But I knew that I was more used to woods and mountains
than he, and went along through his cow-yard, while he, looking
at the sun, shouted after me that I should not get to the top
that night.  I soon reached the head of the valley, but as I
could not see the summit from this point, I ascended a low
mountain on the opposite side, and took its bearing with my
compass.  I at once entered the woods, and began to climb the
steep side of the mountain in a diagonal direction, taking the
bearing of a tree every dozen rods.  The ascent was by no means
difficult or unpleasant, and occupied much less time than it
would have taken to follow the path.  Even country people, I have
observed, magnify the difficulty of travelling in the forest, and
especially among mountains.  They seem to lack their usual common
sense in this.  I have climbed several higher mountains without
guide or path, and have found, as might be expected, that it
takes only more time and patience commonly than to travel the
smoothest highway.  It is very rare that you meet with obstacles
in this world which the humblest man has not faculties to
surmount.  It is true we may come to a perpendicular precipice,
but we need not jump off nor run our heads against it.  A man may
jump down his own cellar stairs or dash his brains out against
his chimney, if he is mad.  So far as my experience goes,
travellers generally exaggerate the difficulties of the way.
Like most evil, the difficulty is imaginary; for what’s the
hurry?  If a person lost would conclude that after all he is not
lost, he is not beside himself, but standing in his own old shoes
on the very spot where he is, and that for the time being he will
live there; but the places that have known him, they are
lost,—how much anxiety and danger would vanish.  I am not alone
if I stand by myself.  Who knows where in space this globe is
rolling?  Yet we will not give ourselves up for lost, let it go
where it will.

I made my way steadily upward in a straight line through a dense
undergrowth of mountain laurel, until the trees began to have a
scraggy and infernal look, as if contending with frost goblins,
and at length I reached the summit, just as the sun was setting.
Several acres here had been cleared, and were covered with rocks
and stumps, and there was a rude observatory in the middle which
overlooked the woods.  I had one fair view of the country before
the sun went down, but I was too thirsty to waste any light in
viewing the prospect, and set out directly to find water.  First,
going down a well-beaten path for half a mile through the low
scrubby wood, till I came to where the water stood in the tracks
of the horses which had carried travellers up, I lay down flat,
and drank these dry, one after another, a pure, cold, spring-like
water, but yet I could not fill my dipper, though I contrived
little siphons of grass-stems, and ingenious aqueducts on a small
scale; it was too slow a process.  Then remembering that I had
passed a moist place near the top, on my way up, I returned to
find it again, and here, with sharp stones and my hands, in the
twilight, I made a well about two feet deep, which was soon
filled with pure cold water, and the birds too came and drank at
it.  So I filled my dipper, and, making my way back to the
observatory, collected some dry sticks, and made a fire on some
flat stones which had been placed on the floor for that purpose,
and so I soon cooked my supper of rice, having already whittled a
wooden spoon to eat it with.

I sat up during the evening, reading by the light of the fire the
scraps of newspapers in which some party had wrapped their
luncheon; the prices current in New York and Boston, the
advertisements, and the singular editorials which some had seen
fit to publish, not foreseeing under what critical circumstances
they would be read.  I read these things at a vast advantage
there, and it seemed to me that the advertisements, or what is
called the business part of a paper, were greatly the best, the
most useful, natural, and respectable.  Almost all the opinions
and sentiments expressed were so little considered, so shallow
and flimsy, that I thought the very texture of the paper must be
weaker in that part and tear the more easily.  The advertisements
and the prices current were more closely allied to nature, and
were respectable in some measure as tide and meteorological
tables are; but the reading-matter, which I remembered was most
prized down below, unless it was some humble record of science,
or an extract from some old classic, struck me as strangely
whimsical, and crude, and one-idea’d, like a school-boy’s theme,
such as youths write and after burn.  The opinions were of that
kind that are doomed to wear a different aspect to-morrow, like
last year’s fashions; as if mankind were very green indeed, and
would be ashamed of themselves in a few years, when they had
outgrown this verdant period.  There was, moreover, a singular
disposition to wit and humor, but rarely the slightest real
success; and the apparent success was a terrible satire on the
attempt; the Evil Genius of man laughed the loudest at his best
jokes.  The advertisements, as I have said, such as were serious,
and not of the modern quack kind, suggested pleasing and poetic
thoughts; for commerce is really as interesting as nature.  The
very names of the commodities were poetic, and as suggestive as
if they had been inserted in a pleasing poem,—Lumber, Cotton,
Sugar, Hides, Guano, Logwood.  Some sober, private, and original
thought would have been grateful to read there, and as much in
harmony with the circumstances as if it had been written on a
mountain-top; for it is of a fashion which never changes, and as
respectable as hides and logwood, or any natural product.  What
an inestimable companion such a scrap of paper would have been,
containing some fruit of a mature life.  What a relic!  What a
recipe!  It seemed a divine invention, by which not mere shining
coin, but shining and current thoughts, could be brought up and
left there.

As it was cold, I collected quite a pile of wood and lay down on
a board against the side of the building, not having any blanket
to cover me, with my head to the fire, that I might look after
it, which is not the Indian rule.  But as it grew colder towards
midnight, I at length encased myself completely in boards,
managing even to put a board on top of me, with a large stone on
it, to keep it down, and so slept comfortably.  I was reminded,
it is true, of the Irish children, who inquired what their
neighbors did who had no door to put over them in winter nights
as they had; but I am convinced that there was nothing very
strange in the inquiry.  Those who have never tried it can have
no idea how far a door, which keeps the single blanket down, may
go toward making one comfortable.  We are constituted a good deal
like chickens, which taken from the hen, and put in a basket of
cotton in the chimney-corner, will often peep till they die,
nevertheless, but if you put in a book, or anything heavy, which
will press down the cotton, and feel like the hen, they go to
sleep directly.  My only companions were the mice, which came to
pick up the crumbs that had been left in those scraps of paper;
still, as everywhere, pensioners on man, and not unwisely
improving this elevated tract for their habitation.  They nibbled
what was for them; I nibbled what was for me.  Once or twice in
the night, when I looked up, I saw a white cloud drifting through
the windows, and filling the whole upper story.

This observatory was a building of considerable size, erected by
the students of Williamstown College, whose buildings might be
seen by daylight gleaming far down in the valley.  It would be no
small advantage if every college were thus located at the base of
a mountain, as good at least as one well-endowed professorship.
It were as well to be educated in the shadow of a mountain as in
more classical shades.  Some will remember, no doubt, not only
that they went to the college, but that they went to the
mountain.  Every visit to its summit would, as it were,
generalize the particular information gained below, and subject
it to more catholic tests.

I was up early and perched upon the top of this tower to see the
daybreak, for some time reading the names that had been engraved
there, before I could distinguish more distant objects.  An
“untamable fly” buzzed at my elbow with the same nonchalance as
on a molasses hogshead at the end of Long Wharf.  Even there I
must attend to his stale humdrum.  But now I come to the pith of
this long digression.—As the light increased I discovered around
me an ocean of mist, which by chance reached up exactly to the
base of the tower, and shut out every vestige of the earth, while
I was left floating on this fragment of the wreck of a world, on
my carved plank, in cloudland; a situation which required no aid
from the imagination to render it impressive.  As the light in
the east steadily increased, it revealed to me more clearly the
new world into which I had risen in the night, the new terra
firma perchance of my future life.  There was not a crevice left
through which the trivial places we name Massachusetts or Vermont
or New York could be seen, while I still inhaled the clear
atmosphere of a July morning,—if it were July there.  All around
beneath me was spread for a hundred miles on every side, as far
as the eye could reach, an undulating country of clouds,
answering in the varied swell of its surface to the terrestrial
world it veiled.  It was such a country as we might see in
dreams, with all the delights of paradise.  There were immense
snowy pastures, apparently smooth-shaven and firm, and shady
vales between the vaporous mountains; and far in the horizon I
could see where some luxurious misty timber jutted into the
prairie, and trace the windings of a water-course, some
unimagined Amazon or Orinoko, by the misty trees on its brink.
As there was wanting the symbol, so there was not the substance
of impurity, no spot nor stain.  It was a favor for which to be
forever silent to be shown this vision.  The earth beneath had
become such a flitting thing of lights and shadows as the clouds
had been before.  It was not merely veiled to me, but it had
passed away like the phantom of a shadow, σκιὰς
ὄναρ, and this new platform was gained.  As I had climbed above
storm and cloud, so by successive days’ journeys I might reach the region
of eternal day, beyond the tapering shadow of the earth; ay,

             “Heaven itself shall slide,
        And roll away, like melting stars that glide
        Along their oily threads.”

But when its own sun began to rise on this pure world, I found
myself a dweller in the dazzling halls of Aurora, into which
poets have had but a partial glance over the eastern hills,
drifting amid the saffron- clouds, and playing with the
rosy fingers of the Dawn, in the very path of the Sun’s chariot,
and sprinkled with its dewy dust, enjoying the benignant smile,
and near at hand the far-darting glances of the god.  The
inhabitants of earth behold commonly but the dark and shadowy
under-side of heaven’s pavement; it is only when seen at a
favorable angle in the horizon, morning or evening, that some
faint streaks of the rich lining of the clouds are revealed.  But
my muse would fail to convey an impression of the gorgeous
tapestry by which I was surrounded, such as men see faintly
reflected afar off in the chambers of the east.  Here, as on
earth, I saw the gracious god

        “Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
             .      .      .      .      .      .
          Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy.”

But never here did “Heaven’s sun” stain himself.

But, alas, owing, as I think, to some unworthiness in myself, my
private sun did stain himself, and

             “Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
              With ugly wrack on his celestial face,”—

for before the god had reached the zenith the heavenly pavement
rose and embraced my wavering virtue, or rather I sank down again
into that “forlorn world,” from which the celestial sun had hid
his visage,—

      “How may a worm that crawls along the dust,
       Clamber the azure mountains, thrown so high,
       And fetch from thence thy fair idea just,
       That in those sunny courts doth hidden lie,
       Clothed with such light as blinds the angel’s eye?
          How may weak mortal ever hope to file
          His unsmooth tongue, and his deprostrate style?
       O, raise thou from his corse thy now entombed exile!”

In the preceding evening I had seen the summits of new and yet
higher mountains, the Catskills, by which I might hope to climb
to heaven again, and had set my compass for a fair lake in the
southwest, which lay in my way, for which I now steered,
descending the mountain by my own route, on the side opposite to
that by which I had ascended, and soon found myself in the region
of cloud and drizzling rain, and the inhabitants affirmed that it
had been a cloudy and drizzling day wholly.

But now we must make haste back before the fog disperses to the
blithe Merrimack water.

      Since that first “Away! away!”
           Many a lengthy reach we’ve rowed,
      Still the sparrow on the spray
      Hastes to usher in the day
           With her simple stanza’d ode.

We passed a canal-boat before sunrise, groping its way to the
seaboard, and, though we could not see it on account of the fog,
the few dull, thumping, stertorous sounds which we heard,
impressed us with a sense of weight and irresistible motion.  One
little rill of commerce already awake on this distant New
Hampshire river.  The fog, as it required more skill in the
steering, enhanced the interest of our early voyage, and made the
river seem indefinitely broad.  A slight mist, through which
objects are faintly visible, has the effect of expanding even
ordinary streams, by a singular mirage, into arms of the sea or
inland lakes.  In the present instance it was even fragrant and
invigorating, and we enjoyed it as a sort of earlier sunshine, or
dewy and embryo light.

         Low-anchored cloud,
         Newfoundland air,
         Fountain-head and source of rivers,
         Dew-cloth, dream drapery,
         And napkin spread by fays;
         Drifting meadow of the air,
         Where bloom the daisied banks and violets,
         And in whose fenny labyrinth
         The bittern booms and heron wades;
         Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,
         Bear only perfumes and the scent
         Of healing herbs to just men’s fields!

The same pleasant and observant historian whom we quoted above
says, that, “In the mountainous parts of the country, the ascent
of vapors, and their formation into clouds, is a curious and
entertaining object.  The vapors are seen rising in small columns
like smoke from many chimneys.  When risen to a certain height,
they spread, meet, condense, and are attracted to the mountains,
where they either distil in gentle dews, and replenish the
springs, or descend in showers, accompanied with thunder.  After
short intermissions, the process is repeated many times in the
course of a summer day, affording to travellers a lively
illustration of what is observed in the Book of Job, ‘They are
wet with the showers of the mountains.’”

Fogs and clouds which conceal the overshadowing mountains lend
the breadth of the plains to mountain vales.  Even a
small-featured country acquires some grandeur in stormy weather
when clouds are seen drifting between the beholder and the
neighboring hills.  When, in travelling toward Haverhill through
Hampstead in this State, on the height of land between the
Merrimack and the Piscataqua or the sea, you commence the descent
eastward, the view toward the coast is so distant and unexpected,
though the sea is invisible, that you at first suppose the
unobstructed atmosphere to be a fog in the lowlands concealing
hills of corresponding elevation to that you are upon; but it is
the mist of prejudice alone, which the winds will not disperse.
The most stupendous scenery ceases to be sublime when it becomes
distinct, or in other words limited, and the imagination is no
longer encouraged to exaggerate it.  The actual height and
breadth of a mountain or a waterfall are always ridiculously
small; they are the imagined only that content us.  Nature is not
made after such a fashion as we would have her.  We piously
exaggerate her wonders, as the scenery around our home.

Such was the heaviness of the dews along this river that we were
generally obliged to leave our tent spread over the bows of the
boat till the sun had dried it, to avoid mildew.  We passed the
mouth of Penichook Brook, a wild salmon-stream, in the fog,
without seeing it.  At length the sun’s rays struggled through
the mist and showed us the pines on shore dripping with dew, and
springs trickling from the moist banks,—

      “And now the taller sons, whom Titan warms,
       Of unshorn mountains blown with easy winds,
       Dandle the morning’s childhood in their arms,
       And, if they chanced to slip the prouder pines,
       The under corylets did catch their shines,
       To gild their leaves.”

We rowed for some hours between glistening banks before the sun
had dried the grass and leaves, or the day had established its
character.  Its serenity at last seemed the more profound and
secure for the denseness of the morning’s fog.  The river became
swifter, and the scenery more pleasing than before.  The banks
were steep and clayey for the most part, and trickling with
water, and where a spring oozed out a few feet above the river
the boatmen had cut a trough out of a slab with their axes, and
placed it so as to receive the water and fill their jugs
conveniently.  Sometimes this purer and cooler water, bursting
out from under a pine or a rock, was collected into a basin close
to the edge of and level with the river, a fountain-head of the
Merrimack.  So near along life’s stream are the fountains of
innocence and youth making fertile its sandy margin; and the
voyageur will do well to replenish his vessels often at these
uncontaminated sources.  Some youthful spring, perchance, still
empties with tinkling music into the oldest river, even when it
is falling into the sea, and we imagine that its music is
distinguished by the river-gods from the general lapse of the
stream, and falls sweeter on their ears in proportion as it is
nearer to the ocean.  As the evaporations of the river feed thus
these unsuspected springs which filter through its banks, so,
perchance, our aspirations fall back again in springs on the
margin of life’s stream to refresh and purify it.  The yellow and
tepid river may float his scow, and cheer his eye with its
reflections and its ripples, but the boatman quenches his thirst
at this small rill alone.  It is this purer and cooler element
that chiefly sustains his life.  The race will long survive that
is thus discreet.

Our course this morning lay between the territories of Merrimack,
on the west, and Litchfield, once called Brenton’s Farm, on the
east, which townships were anciently the Indian Naticook.
Brenton was a fur-trader among the Indians, and these lands were
granted to him in 1656.  The latter township contains about five
hundred inhabitants, of whom, however, we saw none, and but few
of their dwellings.  Being on the river, whose banks are always
high and generally conceal the few houses, the country appeared
much more wild and primitive than to the traveller on the
neighboring roads.  The river is by far the most attractive
highway, and those boatmen who have spent twenty or twenty-five
years on it must have had a much fairer, more wild, and memorable
experience than the dusty and jarring one of the teamster who has
driven, during the same time, on the roads which run parallel
with the stream.  As one ascends the Merrimack he rarely sees a
village, but for the most part alternate wood and pasture lands,
and sometimes a field of corn or potatoes, of rye or oats or
English grass, with a few straggling apple-trees, and, at still
longer intervals, a farmer’s house.  The soil, excepting the best
of the interval, is commonly as light and sandy as a patriot
could desire.  Sometimes this forenoon the country appeared in
its primitive state, and as if the Indian still inhabited it,
and, again, as if many free, new settlers occupied it, their
slight fences straggling down to the water’s edge; and the
barking of dogs, and even the prattle of children, were heard,
and smoke was seen to go up from some hearthstone, and the banks
were divided into patches of pasture, mowing, tillage, and
woodland.  But when the river spread out broader, with an
uninhabited islet, or a long, low sandy shore which ran on single
and devious, not answering to its opposite, but far off as if it
were sea-shore or single coast, and the land no longer nursed the
river in its bosom, but they conversed as equals, the rustling
leaves with rippling waves, and few fences were seen, but high
oak woods on one side, and large herds of cattle, and all tracks
seemed a point to one centre behind some statelier grove,—we
imagined that the river flowed through an extensive manor, and
that the few inhabitants were retainers to a lord, and a feudal
state of things prevailed.

When there was a suitable reach, we caught sight of the Goffstown
mountain, the Indian Uncannunuc, rising before us on the west
side.  It was a calm and beautiful day, with only a slight zephyr
to ripple the surface of the water, and rustle the woods on
shore, and just warmth enough to prove the kindly disposition of
Nature to her children.  With buoyant spirits and vigorous
impulses we tossed our boat rapidly along into the very middle of
this forenoon.  The fish-hawk sailed and screamed overhead.  The
chipping or striped squirrel, Sciurus striatus (Tamias
Lysteri, Aud.), sat upon the end of some Virginia fence or rider
reaching over the stream, twirling a green nut with one paw, as
in a lathe, while the other held it fast against its incisors as
chisels.  Like an independent russet leaf, with a will of its
own, rustling whither it could; now under the fence, now over it,
now peeping at the voyageurs through a crack with only its tail
visible, now at its lunch deep in the toothsome kernel, and now a
rod off playing at hide-and-seek, with the nut stowed away in its
chops, where were half a dozen more besides, extending its cheeks
to a ludicrous breadth,—as if it were devising through what safe
valve of frisk or somerset to let its superfluous life escape;
the stream passing harmlessly off, even while it sits, in
constant electric flashes through its tail.  And now with a
chuckling squeak it dives into the root of a hazel, and we see no
more of it.  Or the larger red squirrel or chickaree, sometimes
called the Hudson Bay squirrel (Scriurus Hudsonius), gave
warning of our approach by that peculiar alarum of his, like the
winding up of some strong clock, in the top of a pine-tree, and
dodged behind its stem, or leaped from tree to tree with such
caution and adroitness, as if much depended on the fidelity of
his scout, running along the white-pine boughs sometimes twenty
rods by our side, with such speed, and by such unerring routes,
as if it were some well-worn familiar path to him; and presently,
when we have passed, he returns to his work of cutting off the
pine-cones, and letting them fall to the ground.

We passed Cromwell’s Falls, the first we met with on this river,
this forenoon, by means of locks, without using our wheels.
These falls are the Nesenkeag of the Indians.  Great Nesenkeag
Stream comes in on the right just above, and Little Nesenkeag
some distance below, both in Litchfield.  We read in the
Gazetteer, under the head of Merrimack, that “The first house in
this town was erected on the margin of the river [soon after
1665] for a house of traffic with the Indians.  For some time one
Cromwell carried on a lucrative trade with them, weighing their
furs with his foot, till, enraged at his supposed or real
deception, they formed the resolution to murder him.  This
intention being communicated to Cromwell, he buried his wealth
and made his escape.  Within a few hours after his flight, a
party of the Penacook tribe arrived, and, not finding the object
of their resentment, burnt his habitation.” Upon the top of the
high bank here, close to the river, was still to be seen his
cellar, now overgrown with trees.  It was a convenient spot for
such a traffic, at the foot of the first falls above the
settlements, and commanding a pleasant view up the river, where
he could see the Indians coming down with their furs.  The
lock-man told us that his shovel and tongs had been ploughed up
here, and also a stone with his name on it.  But we will not
vouch for the truth of this story.  In the New Hampshire
Historical Collections for 1815 it says, “Some time after pewter
was found in the well, and an iron pot and trammel in the sand;
the latter are preserved.”  These were the traces of the white
trader.  On the opposite bank, where it jutted over the stream
cape-wise, we picked up four arrow-heads and a small Indian tool
made of stone, as soon as we had climbed it, where plainly there
had once stood a wigwam of the Indians with whom Cromwell traded,
and who fished and hunted here before he came.

As usual the gossips have not been silent respecting Cromwell’s
buried wealth, and it is said that some years ago a farmer’s
plough, not far from here, slid over a flat stone which emitted a
hollow sound, and, on its being raised, a small hole six inches
in diameter was discovered, stoned about, from which a sum of
money was taken.  The lock-man told us another similar story about
a farmer in a neighboring town, who had been a poor man, but who
suddenly bought a good farm, and was well to do in the world,
and, when he was questioned, did not give a satisfactory account
of the matter; how few, alas, could!  This caused his hired man to
remember that one day, as they were ploughing together, the
plough struck something, and his employer, going back to look,
concluded not to go round again, saying that the sky looked
rather lowering, and so put up his team.  The like urgency has
caused many things to be remembered which never transpired.  The
truth is, there is money buried everywhere, and you have only to
go to work to find it.

Not far from these falls stands an oak-tree, on the interval,
about a quarter of a mile from the river, on the farm of a
Mr. Lund, which was pointed out to us as the spot where French,
the leader of the party which went in pursuit of the Indians from
Dunstable, was killed.  Farwell dodged them in the thick woods
near.  It did not look as if men had ever had to run for their
lives on this now open and peaceful interval.

Here too was another extensive desert by the side of the road in
Litchfield, visible from the bank of the river.  The sand was
blown off in some places to the depth of ten or twelve feet,
leaving small grotesque hillocks of that height, where there was
a clump of bushes firmly rooted.  Thirty or forty years ago, as
we were told, it was a sheep-pasture, but the sheep, being
worried by the fleas, began to paw the ground, till they broke
the sod, and so the sand began to blow, till now it had extended
over forty or fifty acres.  This evil might easily have been
remedied, at first, by spreading birches with their leaves on
over the sand, and fastening them down with stakes, to break the
wind.  The fleas bit the sheep, and the sheep bit the ground, and
the sore had spread to this extent.  It is astonishing what a
great sore a little scratch breedeth.  Who knows but Sahara,
where caravans and cities are buried, began with the bite of an
African flea?  This poor globe, how it must itch in many places!
Will no god be kind enough to spread a salve of birches over its
sores?  Here too we noticed where the Indians had gathered a heap
of stones, perhaps for their council-fire, which, by their weight
having prevented the sand under them from blowing away, were left
on the summit of a mound.  They told us that arrow-heads, and
also bullets of lead and iron, had been found here.  We noticed
several other sandy tracts in our voyage; and the course of the
Merrimack can be traced from the nearest mountain by its yellow
sandbanks, though the river itself is for the most part invisible.
Lawsuits, as we hear, have in some cases grown out of these causes.
Railroads have been made through certain irritable districts,
breaking their sod, and so have set the sand to blowing, till it
has converted fertile farms into deserts, and the company has had
to pay the damages.

This sand seemed to us the connecting link between land and
water.  It was a kind of water on which you could walk, and you
could see the ripple-marks on its surface, produced by the winds,
precisely like those at the bottom of a brook or lake.  We had
read that Mussulmen are permitted by the Koran to perform their
ablutions in sand when they cannot get water, a necessary
indulgence in Arabia, and we now understood the propriety of this
provision.

Plum Island, at the mouth of this river, to whose formation,
perhaps, these very banks have sent their contribution, is a
similar desert of drifting sand, of various colors, blown into
graceful curves by the wind.  It is a mere sand-bar exposed,
stretching nine miles parallel to the coast, and, exclusive of
the marsh on the inside, rarely more than half a mile wide.
There are but half a dozen houses on it, and it is almost without
a tree, or a sod, or any green thing with which a countryman is
familiar.  The thin vegetation stands half buried in sand, as in
drifting snow.  The only shrub, the beach-plum, which gives the
island its name, grows but a few feet high; but this is so
abundant that parties of a hundred at once come from the
main-land and down the Merrimack, in September, pitch their
tents, and gather the plums, which are good to eat raw and to
preserve.  The graceful and delicate beach-pea, too, grows
abundantly amid the sand, and several strange, moss-like and
succulent plants.  The island for its whole length is scalloped
into low hills, not more than twenty feet high, by the wind, and,
excepting a faint trail on the edge of the marsh, is as trackless
as Sahara.  There are dreary bluffs of sand and valleys ploughed
by the wind, where you might expect to discover the bones of a
caravan.  Schooners come from Boston to load with the sand for
masons’ uses, and in a few hours the wind obliterates all traces
of their work.  Yet you have only to dig a foot or two anywhere
to come to fresh water; and you are surprised to learn that
woodchucks abound here, and foxes are found, though you see not
where they can burrow or hide themselves.  I have walked down the
whole length of its broad beach at low tide, at which time alone
you can find a firm ground to walk on, and probably Massachusetts
does not furnish a more grand and dreary walk.  On the seaside
there are only a distant sail and a few coots to break the grand
monotony.  A solitary stake stuck up, or a sharper sand-hill than
usual, is remarkable as a landmark for miles; while for music you
hear only the ceaseless sound of the surf, and the dreary peep of
the beach-birds.

There were several canal-boats at Cromwell’s Falls passing
through the locks, for which we waited.  In the forward part of
one stood a brawny New Hampshire man, leaning on his pole,
bareheaded and in shirt and trousers only, a rude Apollo of a
man, coming down from that “vast uplandish country” to the main;
of nameless age, with flaxen hair, and vigorous, weather-bleached
countenance, in whose wrinkles the sun still lodged, as little
touched by the heats and frosts and withering cares of life as a
maple of the mountain; an undressed, unkempt, uncivil man, with
whom we parleyed awhile, and parted not without a sincere
interest in one another.  His humanity was genuine and
instinctive, and his rudeness only a manner.  He inquired, just
as we were passing out of earshot, if we had killed anything, and
we shouted after him that we had shot a buoy, and could see him
for a long while scratching his head in vain to know if he had
heard aright.

There is reason in the distinction of civil and uncivil.  The
manners are sometimes so rough a rind that we doubt whether they
cover any core or sap-wood at all.  We sometimes meet uncivil
men, children of Amazons, who dwell by mountain paths, and are
said to be inhospitable to strangers; whose salutation is as rude
as the grasp of their brawny hands, and who deal with men as
unceremoniously as they are wont to deal with the elements.  They
need only to extend their clearings, and let in more sunlight, to
seek out the southern <DW72>s of the hills, from which they may
look down on the civil plain or ocean, and temper their diet duly
with the cereal fruits, consuming less wild meat and acorns, to
become like the inhabitants of cities.  A true politeness does
not result from any hasty and artificial polishing, it is true,
but grows naturally in characters of the right grain and quality,
through a long fronting of men and events, and rubbing on good
and bad fortune.  Perhaps I can tell a tale to the purpose while
the lock is filling,—for our voyage this forenoon furnishes but
few incidents of importance.

Early one summer morning I had left the shores of the
Connecticut, and for the livelong day travelled up the bank of a
river, which came in from the west; now looking down on the
stream, foaming and rippling through the forest a mile off, from
the hills over which the road led, and now sitting on its rocky
brink and dipping my feet in its rapids, or bathing adventurously
in mid-channel.  The hills grew more and more frequent, and
gradually swelled into mountains as I advanced, hemming in the
course of the river, so that at last I could not see where it
came from, and was at liberty to imagine the most wonderful
meanderings and descents.  At noon I slept on the grass in the
shade of a maple, where the river had found a broader channel
than usual, and was spread out shallow, with frequent sand-bars
exposed.  In the names of the towns I recognized some which I had
long ago read on teamsters’ wagons, that had come from far up
country; quiet, uplandish towns, of mountainous fame.  I walked
along, musing and enchanted, by rows of sugar-maples, through the
small and uninquisitive villages, and sometimes was pleased with
the sight of a boat drawn up on a sand-bar, where there appeared
no inhabitants to use it.  It seemed, however, as essential to
the river as a fish, and to lend a certain dignity to it.  It was
like the trout of mountain streams to the fishes of the sea, or
like the young of the land-crab born far in the interior, who
have never yet heard the sound of the ocean’s surf.  The hills
approached nearer and nearer to the stream, until at last they
closed behind me, and I found myself just before nightfall in a
romantic and retired valley, about half a mile in length, and
barely wide enough for the stream at its bottom.  I thought that
there could be no finer site for a cottage among mountains.  You
could anywhere run across the stream on the rocks, and its
constant murmuring would quiet the passions of mankind forever.
Suddenly the road, which seemed aiming for the mountain-side,
turned short to the left, and another valley opened, concealing
the former, and of the same character with it.  It was the most
remarkable and pleasing scenery I had ever seen.  I found here a
few mild and hospitable inhabitants, who, as the day was not
quite spent, and I was anxious to improve the light, directed me
four or five miles farther on my way to the dwelling of a man
whose name was Rice, who occupied the last and highest of the
valleys that lay in my path, and who, they said, was a rather
rude and uncivil man.  But “what is a foreign country to those
who have science?  Who is a stranger to those who have the habit
of speaking kindly?”

At length, as the sun was setting behind the mountains in a still
darker and more solitary vale, I reached the dwelling of this
man.  Except for the narrowness of the plain, and that the stones
were solid granite, it was the counterpart of that retreat to
which Belphœbe bore the wounded Timias,—

                        “In a pleasant glade,
     With mountains round about environed,
     And mighty woods, which did the valley shade,
     And like a stately theatre it made,
     Spreading itself into a spacious plain;
     And in the midst a little river played
     Amongst the pumy stones which seemed to plain,
     With gentle murmur, that his course they did restrain.”

I observed, as I drew near, that he was not so rude as I had
anticipated, for he kept many cattle, and dogs to watch them, and
I saw where he had made maple-sugar on the sides of the
mountains, and above all distinguished the voices of children
mingling with the murmur of the torrent before the door.  As I
passed his stable I met one whom I supposed to be a hired man,
attending to his cattle, and I inquired if they entertained
travellers at that house.  “Sometimes we do,” he answered,
gruffly, and immediately went to the farthest stall from me, and
I perceived that it was Rice himself whom I had addressed.  But
pardoning this incivility to the wildness of the scenery, I bent
my steps to the house.  There was no sign-post before it, nor any
of the usual invitations to the traveller, though I saw by the
road that many went and came there, but the owner’s name only was
fastened to the outside; a sort of implied and sullen invitation,
as I thought.  I passed from room to room without meeting any
one, till I came to what seemed the guests’ apartment, which was
neat, and even had an air of refinement about it, and I was glad
to find a map against the wall which would direct me on my
journey on the morrow.  At length I heard a step in a distant
apartment, which was the first I had entered, and went to see if
the landlord had come in; but it proved to be only a child, one
of those whose voices I had heard, probably his son, and between
him and me stood in the doorway a large watch-dog, which growled
at me, and looked as if he would presently spring, but the boy
did not speak to him; and when I asked for a glass of water, he
briefly said, “It runs in the corner.” So I took a mug from the
counter and went out of doors, and searched round the corner of
the house, but could find neither well nor spring, nor any water
but the stream which ran all along the front.  I came back,
therefore, and, setting down the mug, asked the child if the
stream was good to drink; whereupon he seized the mug, and, going
to the corner of the room, where a cool spring which issued from
the mountain behind trickled through a pipe into the apartment,
filled it, and drank, and gave it to me empty again, and, calling
to the dog, rushed out of doors.  Erelong some of the hired men
made their appearance, and drank at the spring, and lazily washed
themselves and combed their hair in silence, and some sat down as
if weary, and fell asleep in their seats.  But all the while I
saw no women, though I sometimes heard a bustle in that part of
the house from which the spring came.

At length Rice himself came in, for it was now dark, with an
ox-whip in his hand, breathing hard, and he too soon settled down
into his seat not far from me, as if, now that his day’s work was
done, he had no farther to travel, but only to digest his supper
at his leisure.  When I asked him if he could give me a bed, he
said there was one ready, in such a tone as implied that I ought
to have known it, and the less said about that the better.  So
far so good.  And yet he continued to look at me as if he would
fain have me say something further like a traveller.  I remarked,
that it was a wild and rugged country he inhabited, and worth
coming many miles to see.  “Not so very rough neither,” said he,
and appealed to his men to bear witness to the breadth and
smoothness of his fields, which consisted in all of one small
interval, and to the size of his crops; “and if we have some
hills,” added he, “there’s no better pasturage anywhere.” I then
asked if this place was the one I had heard of, calling it by a
name I had seen on the map, or if it was a certain other; and he
answered, gruffly, that it was neither the one nor the other;
that he had settled it and cultivated it, and made it what it
was, and I could know nothing about it.  Observing some guns and
other implements of hunting hanging on brackets around the room,
and his hounds now sleeping on the floor, I took occasion to
change the discourse, and inquired if there was much game in that
country, and he answered this question more graciously, having
some glimmering of my drift; but when I inquired if there were
any bears, he answered impatiently that he was no more in danger
of losing his sheep than his neighbors; he had tamed and
civilized that region.  After a pause, thinking of my journey on
the morrow, and the few hours of daylight in that hollow and
mountainous country, which would require me to be on my way
betimes, I remarked that the day must be shorter by an hour there
than on the neighboring plains; at which he gruffly asked what I
knew about it, and affirmed that he had as much daylight as his
neighbors; he ventured to say, the days were longer there than
where I lived, as I should find if I stayed; that in some way, I
could not be expected to understand how, the sun came over the
mountains half an hour earlier, and stayed half an hour later
there than on the neighboring plains.  And more of like sort he
said.  He was, indeed, as rude as a fabled satyr.  But I suffered
him to pass for what he was,—for why should I quarrel with
nature?—and was even pleased at the discovery of such a singular
natural phenomenon.  I dealt with him as if to me all manners
were indifferent, and he had a sweet, wild way with him.  I would
not question nature, and I would rather have him as he was than
as I would have him.  For I had come up here not for sympathy, or
kindness, or society, but for novelty and adventure, and to see
what nature had produced here.  I therefore did not repel his
rudeness, but quite innocently welcomed it all, and knew how to
appreciate it, as if I were reading in an old drama a part well
sustained.  He was indeed a coarse and sensual man, and, as I
have said, uncivil, but he had his just quarrel with nature and
mankind, I have no doubt, only he had no artificial covering to
his ill-humors.  He was earthy enough, but yet there was good
soil in him, and even a long-suffering Saxon probity at bottom.
If you could represent the case to him, he would not let the race
die out in him, like a red Indian.

At length I told him that he was a fortunate man, and I trusted
that he was grateful for so much light; and, rising, said I would
take a lamp, and that I would pay him then for my lodging, for I
expected to recommence my journey even as early as the sun rose
in his country; but he answered in haste, and this time civilly,
that I should not fail to find some of his household stirring,
however early, for they were no sluggards, and I could take my
breakfast with them before I started, if I chose; and as he
lighted the lamp I detected a gleam of true hospitality and
ancient civility, a beam of pure and even gentle humanity, from
his bleared and moist eyes.  It was a look more intimate with me,
and more explanatory, than any words of his could have been if he
had tried to his dying day.  It was more significant than any
Rice of those parts could even comprehend, and long anticipated
this man’s culture,—a glance of his pure genius, which did not
much enlighten him, but did impress and rule him for the moment,
and faintly constrain his voice and manner.  He cheerfully led
the way to my apartment, stepping over the limbs of his men, who
were asleep on the floor in an intervening chamber, and showed me
a clean and comfortable bed.  For many pleasant hours after the
household was asleep I sat at the open window, for it was a
sultry night, and heard the little river

   “Amongst the pumy stones, which seemed to plain,
     With gentle murmur, that his course they did restrain.”

But I arose as usual by starlight the next morning, before my
host, or his men, or even his dogs, were awake; and, having left
a ninepence on the counter, was already half-way over the
mountain with the sun before they had broken their fast.

Before I had left the country of my host, while the first rays of
the sun slanted over the mountains, as I stopped by the wayside
to gather some raspberries, a very old man, not far from a
hundred, came along with a milking-pail in his hand, and turning
aside began to pluck the berries near me:—

          “His reverend locks
     In comelye curles did wave;
     And on his aged temples grew
        The blossoms of the grave.”

But when I inquired the way, he answered in a low, rough voice,
without looking up or seeming to regard my presence, which I
imputed to his years; and presently, muttering to himself, he
proceeded to collect his cows in a neighboring pasture; and when
he had again returned near to the wayside, he suddenly stopped,
while his cows went on before, and, uncovering his head, prayed
aloud in the cool morning air, as if he had forgotten this
exercise before, for his daily bread, and also that He who
letteth his rain fall on the just and on the unjust, and without
whom not a sparrow falleth to the ground, would not neglect the
stranger (meaning me), and with even more direct and personal
applications, though mainly according to the long-established
formula common to lowlanders and the inhabitants of mountains.
When he had done praying, I made bold to ask him if he had any
cheese in his hut which he would sell me, but he answered without
looking up, and in the same low and repulsive voice as before,
that they did not make any, and went to milking.  It is written,
“The stranger who turneth away from a house with disappointed
hopes, leaveth there his own offences, and departeth, taking with
him all the good actions of the owner.”

Being now fairly in the stream of this week’s commerce, we began
to meet with boats more frequently, and hailed them from time to
time with the freedom of sailors.  The boatmen appeared to lead
an easy and contented life, and we thought that we should prefer
their employment ourselves to many professions which are much
more sought after.  They suggested how few circumstances are
necessary to the well-being and serenity of man, how indifferent
all employments are, and that any may seem noble and poetic to
the eyes of men, if pursued with sufficient buoyancy and freedom.
With liberty and pleasant weather, the simplest occupation, any
unquestioned country mode of life which detains us in the open
air, is alluring.  The man who picks peas steadily for a living
is more than respectable, he is even envied by his shop-worn
neighbors.  We are as happy as the birds when our Good Genius
permits us to pursue any out-door work, without a sense of
dissipation.  Our penknife glitters in the sun; our voice is
echoed by yonder wood; if an oar drops, we are fain to let it
drop again.

The canal-boat is of very simple construction, requiring but
little ship-timber, and, as we were told, costs about two hundred
dollars.  They are managed by two men.  In ascending the stream
they use poles fourteen or fifteen feet long, pointed with iron,
walking about one third the length of the boat from the forward
end.  Going down, they commonly keep in the middle of the stream,
using an oar at each end; or if the wind is favorable they raise
their broad sail, and have only to steer.  They commonly carry
down wood or bricks,—fifteen or sixteen cords of wood, and as
many thousand bricks, at a time,—and bring back stores for the
country, consuming two or three days each way between Concord and
Charlestown.  They sometimes pile the wood so as to leave a
shelter in one part where they may retire from the rain.  One can
hardly imagine a more healthful employment, or one more favorable
to contemplation and the observation of nature.  Unlike the
mariner, they have the constantly varying panorama of the shore
to relieve the monotony of their labor, and it seemed to us that
as they thus glided noiselessly from town to town, with all their
furniture about them, for their very homestead is a movable, they
could comment on the character of the inhabitants with greater
advantage and security to themselves than the traveller in a
coach, who would be unable to indulge in such broadsides of wit
and humor in so small a vessel for fear of the recoil.  They are
not subject to great exposure, like the lumberers of Maine, in
any weather, but inhale the healthfullest breezes, being slightly
encumbered with clothing, frequently with the head and feet bare.
When we met them at noon as they were leisurely descending the
stream, their busy commerce did not look like toil, but rather
like some ancient Oriental game still played on a large scale, as
the game of chess, for instance, handed down to this generation.
From morning till night, unless the wind is so fair that his
single sail will suffice without other labor than steering, the
boatman walks backwards and forwards on the side of his boat, now
stooping with his shoulder to the pole, then drawing it back
slowly to set it again, meanwhile moving steadily forward through
an endless valley and an everchanging scenery, now distinguishing
his course for a mile or two, and now shut in by a sudden turn of
the river in a small woodland lake.  All the phenomena which
surround him are simple and grand, and there is something
impressive, even majestic, in the very motion he causes, which
will naturally be communicated to his own character, and he feels
the slow, irresistible movement under him with pride, as if it
were his own energy.

The news spread like wildfire among us youths, when formerly,
once in a year or two, one of these boats came up the Concord
River, and was seen stealing mysteriously through the meadows and
past the village.  It came and departed as silently as a cloud,
without noise or dust, and was witnessed by few.  One summer day
this huge traveller might be seen moored at some meadow’s wharf,
and another summer day it was not there.  Where precisely it came
from, or who these men were who knew the rocks and soundings
better than we who bathed there, we could never tell.  We knew
some river’s bay only, but they took rivers from end to end.
They were a sort of fabulous river-men to us.  It was
inconceivable by what sort of mediation any mere landsman could
hold communication with them.  Would they heave to, to gratify
his wishes?  No, it was favor enough to know faintly of their
destination, or the time of their possible return.  I have seen
them in the summer when the stream ran low, mowing the weeds in
mid-channel, and with hayers’ jests cutting broad swaths in three
feet of water, that they might make a passage for their scow,
while the grass in long windrows was carried down the stream,
undried by the rarest hay-weather.  We admired unweariedly how
their vessel would float, like a huge chip, sustaining so many
casks of lime, and thousands of bricks, and such heaps of iron
ore, with wheelbarrows aboard, and that, when we stepped on it,
it did not yield to the pressure of our feet.  It gave us
confidence in the prevalence of the law of buoyancy, and we
imagined to what infinite uses it might be put.  The men appeared
to lead a kind of life on it, and it was whispered that they
slept aboard.  Some affirmed that it carried sail, and that such
winds blew here as filled the sails of vessels on the ocean;
which again others much doubted.  They had been seen to sail
across our Fair Haven bay by lucky fishers who were out, but
unfortunately others were not there to see.  We might then say
that our river was navigable,—why not?  In after-years I read in
print, with no little satisfaction, that it was thought by some
that, with a little expense in removing rocks and deepening the
channel, “there might be a profitable inland navigation.” I
then lived some-where to tell of.

Such is Commerce, which shakes the cocoa-nut and bread-fruit tree
in the remotest isle, and sooner or later dawns on the duskiest
and most simple-minded savage.  If we may be pardoned the
digression, who can help being affected at the thought of the
very fine and slight, but positive relation, in which the savage
inhabitants of some remote isle stand to the mysterious white
mariner, the child of the sun?—as if we were to have dealings
with an animal higher in the scale of being than ourselves.  It
is a barely recognized fact to the natives that he exists, and
has his home far away somewhere, and is glad to buy their fresh
fruits with his superfluous commodities.  Under the same catholic
sun glances his white ship over Pacific waves into their smooth
bays, and the poor savage’s paddle gleams in the air.

     Man’s little acts are grand,
     Beheld from land to land,
     There as they lie in time,
     Within their native clime
          Ships with the noontide weigh,
          And glide before its ray
          To some retired bay,
          Their haunt,
          Whence, under tropic sun,
          Again they run,
          Bearing gum Senegal and Tragicant.
     For this was ocean meant,
     For this the sun was sent,
     And moon was lent,
     And winds in distant caverns pent.

Since our voyage the railroad on the bank has been extended, and
there is now but little boating on the Merrimack.  All kinds of
produce and stores were formerly conveyed by water, but now
nothing is carried up the stream, and almost wood and bricks
alone are carried down, and these are also carried on the
railroad.  The locks are fast wearing out, and will soon be
impassable, since the tolls will not pay the expense of repairing
them, and so in a few years there will be an end of boating on
this river.  The boating at present is principally between
Merrimack and Lowell, or Hooksett and Manchester.  They make two
or three trips in a week, according to wind and weather, from
Merrimack to Lowell and back, about twenty-five miles each way.
The boatman comes singing in to shore late at night, and moors
his empty boat, and gets his supper and lodging in some house
near at hand, and again early in the morning, by starlight
perhaps, he pushes away up stream, and, by a shout, or the
fragment of a song, gives notice of his approach to the lock-man,
with whom he is to take his breakfast.  If he gets up to his
wood-pile before noon he proceeds to load his boat, with the help
of his single “hand,” and is on his way down again before night.
When he gets to Lowell he unloads his boat, and gets his receipt
for his cargo, and, having heard the news at the public house at
Middlesex or elsewhere, goes back with his empty boat and his
receipt in his pocket to the owner, and to get a new load.  We
were frequently advertised of their approach by some faint sound
behind us, and looking round saw them a mile off, creeping
stealthily up the side of the stream like alligators.  It was
pleasant to hail these sailors of the Merrimack from time to
time, and learn the news which circulated with them.  We imagined
that the sun shining on their bare heads had stamped a liberal
and public character on their most private thoughts.

The open and sunny interval still stretched away from the river
sometimes by two or more terraces, to the distant hill-country,
and when we climbed the bank we commonly found an irregular
copse-wood skirting the river, the primitive having floated
down-stream long ago to——the “King’s navy.” Sometimes we saw
the river-road a quarter or half a mile distant, and the
particolored Concord stage, with its cloud of dust, its van of
earnest travelling faces, and its rear of dusty trunks, reminding
us that the country had its places of rendezvous for restless
Yankee men.  There dwelt along at considerable distances on this
interval a quiet agricultural and pastoral people, with every
house its well, as we sometimes proved, and every household,
though never so still and remote it appeared in the noontide, its
dinner about these times.  There they lived on, those New England
people, farmer lives, father and grandfather and great-grandfather,
on and on without noise, keeping up tradition, and expecting,
beside fair weather and abundant harvests, we did not learn what.
They were contented to live, since it was so contrived for them,
and where their lines had fallen.

     Our uninquiring corpses lie more low
     Than our life’s curiosity doth go.

Yet these men had no need to travel to be as wise as Solomon in
all his glory, so similar are the lives of men in all countries,
and fraught with the same homely experiences.  One half the world
knows how the other half lives.

About noon we passed a small village in Merrimack at Thornton’s
Ferry, and tasted of the waters of Naticook Brook on the same
side, where French and his companions, whose grave we saw in
Dunstable, were ambuscaded by the Indians.  The humble village of
Litchfield, with its steepleless meeting-house, stood on the
opposite or east bank, near where a dense grove of willows
backed by maples skirted the shore.  There also we noticed some
shagbark-trees, which, as they do not grow in Concord, were as
strange a sight to us as the palm would be, whose fruit only we
have seen.  Our course now curved gracefully to the north,
leaving a low, flat shore on the Merrimack side, which forms a
sort of harbor for canal-boats.  We observed some fair elms
and particularly large and handsome white-maples standing
conspicuously on this interval; and the opposite shore, a quarter
of a mile below, was covered with young elms and maples six
inches high, which had probably sprung from the seeds which had
been washed across.

Some carpenters were at work here mending a scow on the green and
sloping bank.  The strokes of their mallets echoed from shore to
shore, and up and down the river, and their tools gleamed in the
sun a quarter of a mile from us, and we realized that boat-building
was as ancient and honorable an art as agriculture, and that
there might be a naval as well as a pastoral life.  The whole
history of commerce was made manifest in that scow turned bottom
upward on the shore.  Thus did men begin to go down upon the sea
in ships; quæque diu steterant in montibus altis, Fluctibus
ignotis insultavêre carinæ; “and keels which had long stood on
high mountains careered insultingly (insultavêre) over unknown
waves.” (Ovid, Met.  I. 133.) We thought that it would be well
for the traveller to build his boat on the bank of a stream,
instead of finding a ferry or a bridge.  In the Adventures of
Henry the fur-trader, it is pleasant to read that when with his
Indians he reached the shore of Ontario, they consumed two days
in making two canoes of the bark of the elm-tree, in which to
transport themselves to Fort Niagara.  It is a worthy incident in
a journey, a delay as good as much rapid travelling.  A good
share of our interest in Xenophon’s story of his retreat is in
the manœuvres to get the army safely over the rivers, whether on
rafts of logs or fagots, or sheep-skins blown up.  And where
could they better afford to tarry meanwhile than on the banks of
a river?

As we glided past at a distance, these out-door workmen appeared
to have added some dignity to their labor by its very publicness.
It was a part of the industry of nature, like the work of hornets
and mud-wasps.

      The waves slowly beat,
      Just to keep the noon sweet,
      And no sound is floated o’er,
      Save the mallet on shore,
      Which echoing on high
      Seems a-calking the sky.

The haze, the sun’s dust of travel, had a Lethean influence on
the land and its inhabitants, and all creatures resigned
themselves to float upon the inappreciable tides of nature.

     Woof of the sun, ethereal gauze,
     Woven of Nature’s richest stuffs,
     Visible heat, air-water, and dry sea,
     Last conquest of the eye;
     Toil of the day displayed sun-dust,
     Aerial surf upon the shores of earth.
     Ethereal estuary, frith of light,
     Breakers of air, billows of heat
     Fine summer spray on inland seas;
     Bird of the sun, transparent-winged
     Owlet of noon, soft-pinioned,
     From heath or stubble rising without song;
     Establish thy serenity o’er the fields

The routine which is in the sunshine and the finest days, as that
which has conquered and prevailed, commends itself to us by its
very antiquity and apparent solidity and necessity.  Our weakness
needs it, and our strength uses it.  We cannot draw on our boots
without bracing ourselves against it.  If there were but one
erect and solid standing tree in the woods, all creatures would
go to rub against it and make sure of their footing.  During the
many hours which we spend in this waking sleep, the hand stands
still on the face of the clock, and we grow like corn in the
night.  Men are as busy as the brooks or bees, and postpone
everything to their business; as carpenters discuss politics
between the strokes of the hammer while they are shingling a
roof.

This noontide was a fit occasion to make some pleasant harbor,
and there read the journal of some voyageur like ourselves, not
too moral nor inquisitive, and which would not disturb the noon;
or else some old classic, the very flower of all reading, which
we had postponed to such a season

     “Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure.”

But, alas, our chest, like the cabin of a coaster, contained only
its well-thumbed “Navigator” for all literature, and we were
obliged to draw on our memory for these things.

We naturally remembered Alexander Henry’s Adventures here, as a
sort of classic among books of American travel.  It contains
scenery and rough sketching of men and incidents enough to
inspire poets for many years, and to my fancy is as full of
sounding names as any page of history,—Lake Winnipeg, Hudson
Bay, Ottaway, and portages innumerable; Chipeways, Gens de
Terres, Les Pilleurs, The Weepers; with reminiscences of Hearne’s
journey, and the like; an immense and shaggy but sincere country,
summer and winter, adorned with chains of lakes and rivers,
covered with snows, with hemlocks, and fir-trees.  There is a
naturalness, an unpretending and cold life in this traveller, as
in a Canadian winter, what life was preserved through low
temperatures and frontier dangers by furs within a stout heart.
He has truth and moderation worthy of the father of history,
which belong only to an intimate experience, and he does not
defer too much to literature.  The unlearned traveller may quote
his single line from the poets with as good right as the scholar.
He too may speak of the stars, for he sees them shoot perhaps
when the astronomer does not.  The good sense of this author is
very conspicuous.  He is a traveller who does not exaggerate, but
writes for the information of his readers, for science, and for
history.  His story is told with as much good faith and
directness as if it were a report to his brother traders, or the
Directors of the Hudson Bay Company, and is fitly dedicated to
Sir Joseph Banks.  It reads like the argument to a great poem on
the primitive state of the country and its inhabitants, and the
reader imagines what in each case, with the invocation of the
Muse, might be sung, and leaves off with suspended interest, as
if the full account were to follow.  In what school was this
fur-trader educated?  He seems to travel the immense snowy
country with such purpose only as the reader who accompanies him,
and to the latter’s imagination, it is, as it were, momentarily
created to be the scene of his adventures.  What is most
interesting and valuable in it, however, is not the materials for
the history of Pontiac, or Braddock, or the Northwest, which it
furnishes; not the annals of the country, but the natural
facts, or perennials, which are ever without date.  When out of
history the truth shall be extracted, it will have shed its dates
like withered leaves.

The Souhegan, or Crooked River, as some translate it, comes in
from the west about a mile and a half above Thornton’s Ferry.
Babboosuck Brook empties into it near its mouth.  There are said
to be some of the finest water privileges in the country still
unimproved on the former stream, at a short distance from the
Merrimack.  One spring morning, March 22, in the year 1677, an
incident occurred on the banks of the river here, which is
interesting to us as a slight memorial of an interview between
two ancient tribes of men, one of which is now extinct, while the
other, though it is still represented by a miserable remnant, has
long since disappeared from its ancient hunting-grounds.  A
Mr. James Parker, at “Mr. Hinchmanne’s farme ner Meremack,” wrote
thus “to the Honred Governer and Council at Bostown, Hast, Post
Hast”:—

  “Sagamore Wanalancet come this morning to informe me, and then
  went to Mr. Tyng’s to informe him, that his son being on ye
  other sid of Meremack river over against Souhegan upon the 22
  day of this instant, about tene of the clock in the morning, he
  discovered 15 Indians on this sid the river, which he soposed
  to be Mohokes by ther spech.  He called to them; they answered,
  but he could not understand ther spech; and he having a conow
  ther in the river, he went to breck his conow that they might
  not have ani ues of it.  In the mean time they shot about
  thirty guns at him, and he being much frighted fled, and come
  home forthwith to Nahamcock [Pawtucket Falls or Lowell], wher
  ther wigowames now stand.”

Penacooks and Mohawks! ubique gentium sunt? In the year 1670, a
Mohawk warrior scalped a Naamkeak or else a Wamesit Indian maiden
near where Lowell now stands.  She, however, recovered.  Even as
late as 1685, John Hogkins, a Penacook Indian, who describes his
grandfather as having lived “at place called Malamake rever,
other name chef Natukkog and Panukkog, that one rever great many
names,” wrote thus to the governor:—

                                                 “May 15th, 1685.

  “Honor governor my friend,—

  “You my friend I desire your worship and your power, because I
  hope you can do som great matters this one.  I am poor and
  naked and I have no men at my place because I afraid allwayes
  Mohogs he will kill me every day and night.  If your worship
  when please pray help me you no let Mohogs kill me at my place
  at Malamake river called Pannukkog and Natukkog, I will submit
  your worship and your power.  And now I want pouder and such
  alminishon shatt and guns, because I have forth at my hom and I
  plant theare.

  “This all Indian hand, but pray you do consider your humble
  servant,

                                                John Hogkins.”

  Signed also by Simon Detogkom, King Hary, Sam Linis, Mr. Jorge
  Rodunnonukgus, John Owamosimmin, and nine other Indians, with
  their marks against their names.

But now, one hundred and fifty-four years having elapsed since
the date of this letter, we went unalarmed on our way without
“brecking” our “conow,” reading the New England Gazetteer, and
seeing no traces of “Mohogs” on the banks.

The Souhegan, though a rapid river, seemed to-day to have
borrowed its character from the noon.

     Where gleaming fields of haze
     Meet the voyageur’s gaze,
     And above, the heated air
     Seems to make a river there,
     The pines stand up with pride
     By the Souhegan’s side,
     And the hemlock and the larch
     With their triumphal arch
     Are waving o’er its march
        To the sea.
     No wind stirs its waves,
     But the spirits of the braves
        Hov’ring o’er,
     Whose antiquated graves
     Its still water laves
        On the shore.
     With an Indian’s stealthy tread
     It goes sleeping in its bed,
     Without joy or grief,
     Or the rustle of a leaf,
     Without a ripple or a billow,
     Or the sigh of a willow,
     From the Lyndeboro’ hills
     To the Merrimack mills.
     With a louder din
     Did its current begin,
     When melted the snow
     On the far mountain’s brow,
     And the drops came together
     In that rainy weather.
     Experienced river,
     Hast thou flowed forever?
     Souhegan soundeth old,
     But the half is not told,
     What names hast thou borne,
     In the ages far gone,
     When the Xanthus and Meander
     Commenced to wander,
     Ere the black bear haunted
        Thy red forest-floor,
     Or Nature had planted
        The pines by thy shore?

During the heat of the day, we rested on a large island a mile
above the mouth of this river, pastured by a herd of cattle, with
steep banks and scattered elms and oaks, and a sufficient channel
for canal-boats on each side.  When we made a fire to boil some
rice for our dinner, the flames spreading amid the dry grass, and
the smoke curling silently upward and casting grotesque shadows
on the ground, seemed phenomena of the noon, and we fancied that
we progressed up the stream without effort, and as naturally as
the wind and tide went down, not outraging the calm days by
unworthy bustle or impatience.  The woods on the neighboring
shore were alive with pigeons, which were moving south, looking
for mast, but now, like ourselves, spending their noon in the
shade.  We could hear the slight, wiry, winnowing sound of their
wings as they changed their roosts from time to time, and their
gentle and tremulous cooing.  They sojourned with us during the
noontide, greater travellers far than we.  You may frequently
discover a single pair sitting upon the lower branches of the
white-pine in the depths of the wood, at this hour of the day, so
silent and solitary, and with such a hermit-like appearance, as
if they had never strayed beyond its skirts, while the acorn
which was gathered in the forests of Maine is still undigested in
their crops.  We obtained one of these handsome birds, which
lingered too long upon its perch, and plucked and broiled it here
with some other game, to be carried along for our supper; for,
beside the provisions which we carried with us, we depended
mainly on the river and forest for our supply.  It is true, it
did not seem to be putting this bird to its right use to pluck
off its feathers, and extract its entrails, and broil its carcass
on the coals; but we heroically persevered, nevertheless, waiting
for further information.  The same regard for Nature which
excited our sympathy for her creatures nerved our hands to carry
through what we had begun.  For we would be honorable to the
party we deserted; we would fulfil fate, and so at length,
perhaps, detect the secret innocence of these incessant tragedies
which Heaven allows.

     “Too quick resolves do resolution wrong,
     What, part so soon to be divorced so long?
     Things to be done are long to be debated;
     Heaven is not day’d, Repentance is not dated.”

We are double-edged blades, and every time we whet our virtue the
return stroke straps our vice.  Where is the skilful swordsman who
can give clean wounds, and not rip up his work with the other
edge?

Nature herself has not provided the most graceful end for her
creatures.  What becomes of all these birds that people the air
and forest for our solacement?  The sparrows seem always
chipper, never infirm.  We do not see their bodies lie about.
Yet there is a tragedy at the end of each one of their lives.
They must perish miserably; not one of them is translated.  True,
“not a sparrow falleth to the ground without our Heavenly
Father’s knowledge,” but they do fall, nevertheless.

The carcasses of some poor squirrels, however, the same that
frisked so merrily in the morning, which we had skinned and
embowelled for our dinner, we abandoned in disgust, with tardy
humanity, as too wretched a resource for any but starving men.
It was to perpetuate the practice of a barbarous era.  If they
had been larger, our crime had been less.  Their small red
bodies, little bundles of red tissue, mere gobbets of venison,
would not have “fattened fire.” With a sudden impulse we threw
them away, and washed our hands, and boiled some rice for our
dinner.  “Behold the difference between the one who eateth flesh,
and him to whom it belonged!  The first hath a momentary
enjoyment, whilst the latter is deprived of existence!” “Who
would commit so great a crime against a poor animal, who is fed
only by the herbs which grow wild in the woods, and whose belly
is burnt up with hunger?” We remembered a picture of mankind in
the hunter age, chasing hares down the mountains; O me miserable!
Yet sheep and oxen are but larger squirrels, whose hides are
saved and meat is salted, whose souls perchance are not so large
in proportion to their bodies.

There should always be some flowering and maturing of the fruits
of nature in the cooking process.  Some simple dishes recommend
themselves to our imaginations as well as palates.  In parched
corn, for instance, there is a manifest sympathy between the
bursting seed and the more perfect developments of vegetable
life.  It is a perfect flower with its petals, like the houstonia
or anemone.  On my warm hearth these cerealian blossoms expanded;
here is the bank whereon they grew.  Perhaps some such visible
blessing would always attend the simple and wholesome repast.

Here was that “pleasant harbor” which we had sighed for, where
the weary voyageur could read the journal of some other sailor,
whose bark had ploughed, perchance, more famous and classic seas.
At the tables of the gods, after feasting follow music and song;
we will recline now under these island trees, and for our
minstrel call on

                            ANACREON.

     “Nor has he ceased his charming song, for still that lyre,
     Though he is dead, sleeps not in Hades.”
                                Simonides’ Epigram on Anacreon.

I lately met with an old volume from a London bookshop, containing
the Greek Minor Poets, and it was a pleasure to read once more
only the words, Orpheus, Linus, Musæus,—those faint poetic
sounds and echoes of a name, dying away on the ears of us modern
men; and those hardly more substantial sounds, Mimnermus, Ibycus,
Alcaeus, Stesichorus, Menander.  They lived not in vain.  We can
converse with these bodiless fames without reserve or
personality.

I know of no studies so composing as those of the classical
scholar.  When we have sat down to them, life seems as still
and serene as if it were very far off, and I believe it is
not habitually seen from any common platform so truly and
unexaggerated as in the light of literature.  In serene hours we
contemplate the tour of the Greek and Latin authors with more
pleasure than the traveller does the fairest scenery of Greece or
Italy.  Where shall we find a more refined society?  That highway
down from Homer and Hesiod to Horace and Juvenal is more attractive
than the Appian.  Reading the classics, or conversing with those
old Greeks and Latins in their surviving works, is like walking
amid the stars and constellations, a high and by way serene to
travel.  Indeed, the true scholar will be not a little of an
astronomer in his habits.  Distracting cares will not be allowed
to obstruct the field of his vision, for the higher regions of
literature, like astronomy, are above storm and darkness.

But passing by these rumors of bards, let us pause for a moment
at the Teian poet.

There is something strangely modern about him.  He is very easily
turned into English.  Is it that our lyric poets have resounded
but that lyre, which would sound only light subjects, and which
Simonides tells us does not sleep in Hades?  His odes are like
gems of pure ivory.  They possess an ethereal and evanescent
beauty like summer evenings, ὅ χρή σε
νοεῖν νόου
ἄνθει,—which you must perceive with the flower of
the mind,—and show how slight a beauty could be expressed.  You have to consider
them, as the stars of lesser magnitude, with the side of the eye, and look aside
from them to behold them.  They charm us by their serenity and freedom from
exaggeration and passion, and by a certain flower-like beauty, which does not
propose itself, but must be approached and studied like a natural
object.  But perhaps their chief merit consists in the lightness
and yet security of their tread;

     “The young and tender stalk
     Ne’er bends when they do walk.”

True, our nerves are never strung by them; it is too constantly
the sound of the lyre, and never the note of the trumpet; but
they are not gross, as has been presumed, but always elevated
above the sensual.

These are some of the best that have come down to us.

     ON HIS LYRE.

     I wish to sing the Atridæ,
     And Cadmus I wish to sing;
     But my lyre sounds
     Only love with its chords.
     Lately I changed the strings
     And all the lyre;
     And I began to sing the labors
     Of Hercules; but my lyre
     Resounded loves.
     Farewell, henceforth, for me,
     Heroes! for my lyre
     Sings only loves.

     TO A SWALLOW.

     Thou indeed, dear swallow,
     Yearly going and coming,
     In summer weavest thy nest,
     And in winter go’st disappearing
     Either to Nile or to Memphis.
     But Love always weaveth
     His nest in my heart….

     ON A SILVER CUP.

     Turning the silver,
     Vulcan, make for me,
     Not indeed a panoply,
     For what are battles to me?
     But a hollow cup,
     As deep as thou canst
     And make for me in it
     Neither stars, nor wagons,
     Nor sad Orion;
     What are the Pleiades to me?
     What the shining Bootes?
     Make vines for me,
     And clusters of grapes in it,
     And of gold Love and Bathyllus
     Treading the grapes
     With the fair Lyæus

     ON HIMSELF.

     Thou sing’st the affairs of Thebes,
     And he the battles of Troy,
     But I of my own defeats.
     No horse have wasted me,
     Nor foot, nor ships;
     But a new and different host,
     From eyes smiting me.

     TO A DOVE.

     Lovely dove,
     Whence, whence dost thou fly?
     Whence, running on air,
     Dost thou waft and diffuse
     So many sweet ointments?
     Who art? What thy errand?—
     Anacreon sent me
     To a boy, to Bathyllus,
     Who lately is ruler and tyrant of all.
     Cythere has sold me
     For one little song,
     And I’m doing this service
     For Anacreon.
     And now, as you see,
     I bear letters from him.
     And he says that directly
     He’ll make me free,
     But though he release me,
     His slave I will tarry with him.
     For why should I fly
     Over mountains and fields,
     And perch upon trees,
     Eating some wild thing?
     Now indeed I eat bread,
     Plucking it from the hands
     Of Anacreon himself;
     And he gives me to drink
     The wine which he tastes,
     And drinking, I dance,
     And shadow my master’s
     Face with my wings;
     And, going to rest,
     On the lyre itself I sleep.
     That is all; get thee gone.
     Thou hast made me more talkative,
     Man, than a crow.

     ON LOVE.

     Love walking swiftly,
     With hyacinthine staff,
     Bade me to take a run with him;
     And hastening through swift torrents,
     And woody places, and over precipices,
     A water-snake stung me.
     And my heart leaped up to
     My mouth, and I should have fainted;
     But Love fanning my brows
     With his soft wings, said,
     Surely, thou art not able to love.

     ON WOMEN.

     Nature has given horns
     To bulls, and hoofs to horses,
     Swiftness to hares,
     To lions yawning teeth,
     To fishes swimming,
     To birds flight,
     To men wisdom.
     For woman she had nothing beside;
     What then does she give? Beauty,—
     Instead of all shields,
     Instead of all  spears;
     And she conquers even iron
     And fire, who is beautiful.

     ON LOVERS.

     Horses have the mark
     Of fire on their sides,
     And some have distinguished
     The Parthian men by their crests;
     So I, seeing lovers,
     Know them at once,
     For they have a certain slight
     Brand on their hearts.

     TO A SWALLOW.

     What dost thou wish me to do to thee,—
     What, thou loquacious swallow?
     Dost thou wish me taking thee
     Thy light pinions to clip?
     Or rather to pluck out
     Thy tongue from within,
     As that Tereus did?
     Why with thy notes in the dawn
     Hast thou plundered Bathyllus
     From my beautiful dreams?

     TO A COLT.

     Thracian colt, why at me
     Looking aslant with thy eyes,
     Dost thou cruelly flee,
     And think that I know nothing wise?
     Know I could well
     Put the bridle on thee,
     And holding the reins, turn
     Round the bounds of the course.
     But now thou browsest the meads,
     And gambolling lightly dost play,
     For thou hast no skilful horseman
     Mounted upon thy back.

     CUPID WOUNDED.

     Love once among roses
     Saw not
     A sleeping bee, but was stung;
     And being wounded in the finger
     Of his hand, cried for pain.
     Running as well as flying
     To the beautiful Venus,
     I am killed, mother, said he,
     I am killed, and I die.
     A little serpent has stung me,
     Winged, which they call
     A bee,—the husbandmen.
     And she said, If the sting
     Of a bee afflicts you,
     How, think you, are they afflicted,
     Love, whom you smite?
            —————-

Late in the afternoon, for we had lingered long on the island, we
raised our sail for the first time, and for a short hour the
southwest wind was our ally; but it did not please Heaven to abet
us along.  With one sail raised we swept slowly up the eastern
side of the stream, steering clear of the rocks, while, from the
top of a hill which formed the opposite bank, some lumberers were
rolling down timber to be rafted down the stream.  We could see
their axes and levers gleaming in the sun, and the logs came down
with a dust and a rumbling sound, which was reverberated through
the woods beyond us on our side, like the roar of artillery.  But
Zephyr soon took us out of sight and hearing of this commerce.
Having passed Read’s Ferry, and another island called McGaw’s
Island, we reached some rapids called Moore’s Falls, and entered
on “that section of the river, nine miles in extent, converted,
by law, into the Union Canal, comprehending in that space six
distinct falls; at each of which, and at several intermediate
places, work has been done.”  After passing Moore’s Falls by
means of locks, we again had recourse to our oars, and went
merrily on our way, driving the small sandpiper from rock to rock
before us, and sometimes rowing near enough to a cottage on the
bank, though they were few and far between, to see the sunflowers,
and the seed vessels of the poppy, like small goblets filled with
the water of Lethe, before the door, but without disturbing the
sluggish household behind.  Thus we held on, sailing or dipping
our way along with the paddle up this broad river, smooth and
placid, flowing over concealed rocks, where we could see the
pickerel lying low in the transparent water, eager to double some
distant cape, to make some great bend as in the life of man, and
see what new perspective would open; looking far into a new
country, broad and serene, the cottages of settlers seen afar for
the first time, yet with the moss of a century on their roofs,
and the third or fourth generation in their shadows.  Strange was
it to consider how the sun and the summer, the buds of spring and
the seared leaves of autumn, were related to these cabins along
the shore; how all the rays which paint the landscape radiate
from them, and the flight of the crow and the gyrations of the
hawk have reference to their roofs.  Still the ever rich and
fertile shores accompanied us, fringed with vines and alive with
small birds and frisking squirrels, the edge of some farmer’s
field or widow’s wood-lot, or wilder, perchance, where the
muskrat, the little medicine of the river, drags itself along
stealthily over the alder-leaves and muscle-shells, and man and
the memory of man are banished far.

At length the unwearied, never-sinking shore, still holding on
without break, with its cool copses and serene pasture-grounds,
tempted us to disembark; and we adventurously landed on this
remote coast, to survey it, without the knowledge of any human
inhabitant probably to this day.  But we still remember the
gnarled and hospitable oaks which grew even there for our
entertainment, and were no strangers to us, the lonely horse in
his pasture, and the patient cows, whose path to the river, so
judiciously chosen to overcome the difficulties of the way, we
followed, and disturbed their ruminations in the shade; and,
above all, the cool, free aspect of the wild apple-trees,
generously proffering their fruit to us, though still green and
crude,—the hard, round, glossy fruit, which, if not ripe, still
was not poison, but New-English too, brought hither its ancestors
by ours once.  These gentler trees imparted a half-civilized and
twilight aspect to the otherwise barbarian land.  Still farther
on we scrambled up the rocky channel of a brook, which had long
served nature for a sluice there, leaping like it from rock to
rock through tangled woods, at the bottom of a ravine, which grew
darker and darker, and more and more hoarse the murmurs of the
stream, until we reached the ruins of a mill, where now the ivy
grew, and the trout glanced through the crumbling flume; and
there we imagined what had been the dreams and speculations of
some early settler.  But the waning day compelled us to embark
once more, and redeem this wasted time with long and vigorous
sweeps over the rippling stream.

It was still wild and solitary, except that at intervals of a
mile or two the roof of a cottage might be seen over the bank.
This region, as we read, was once famous for the manufacture of
straw bonnets of the Leghorn kind, of which it claims the
invention in these parts; and occasionally some industrious
damsel tripped down to the water’s edge, to put her straw a-soak,
as it appeared, and stood awhile to watch the retreating
voyageurs, and catch the fragment of a boat-song which we had
made, wafted over the water.

   Thus, perchance, the Indian hunter,
     Many a lagging year agone,
   Gliding o’er thy rippling waters,
     Lowly hummed a natural song.
   Now the sun’s behind the willows,
     Now he gleams along the waves,
   Faintly o’er the wearied billows
     Come the spirits of the braves.

Just before sundown we reached some more falls in the town of
Bedford, where some stone-masons were employed repairing the
locks in a solitary part of the river.  They were interested in
our adventure, especially one young man of our own age, who
inquired at first if we were bound up to “’Skeag”; and when he
had heard our story, and examined our outfit, asked us other
questions, but temperately still, and always turning to his work
again, though as if it were become his duty.  It was plain that
he would like to go with us, and, as he looked up the river, many
a distant cape and wooded shore were reflected in his eye, as
well as in his thoughts.  When we were ready he left his work,
and helped us through the locks with a sort of quiet enthusiasm,
telling us that we were at Coos Falls, and we could still
distinguish the strokes of his chisel for many sweeps after we
had left him.

We wished to camp this night on a large rock in the middle of the
stream, just above these falls, but the want of fuel, and the
difficulty of fixing our tent firmly, prevented us; so we made
our bed on the main-land opposite, on the west bank, in the town
of Bedford, in a retired place, as we supposed, there being no
house in sight.

    
      
 
 
       
    
    
      


    

WEDNESDAY.

             “Man is man’s foe and destiny.”

                                            Cotton.

WEDNESDAY.


Early this morning, as we were rolling up our buffaloes and
loading our boat amid the dew, while our embers were still
smoking, the masons who worked at the locks, and whom we had seen
crossing the river in their boat the evening before while we were
examining the rock, came upon us as they were going to their
work, and we found that we had pitched our tent directly in the
path to their boat.  This was the only time that we were observed
on our camping-ground.  Thus, far from the beaten highways and
the dust and din of travel, we beheld the country privately, yet
freely, and at our leisure.  Other roads do some violence to
Nature, and bring the traveller to stare at her, but the river
steals into the scenery it traverses without intrusion, silently
creating and adorning it, and is as free to come and go as the
zephyr.

As we shoved away from this rocky coast, before sunrise, the
smaller bittern, the genius of the shore, was moping along its
edge, or stood probing the mud for its food, with ever an eye on
us, though so demurely at work, or else he ran along over the wet
stones like a wrecker in his storm-coat, looking out for wrecks
of snails and cockles.  Now away he goes, with a limping flight,
uncertain where he will alight, until a rod of clear sand amid
the alders invites his feet; and now our steady approach compels
him to seek a new retreat.  It is a bird of the oldest Thalesian
school, and no doubt believes in the priority of water to the
other elements; the relic of a twilight antediluvian age which
yet inhabits these bright American rivers with us Yankees.  There
is something venerable in this melancholy and contemplative race
of birds, which may have trodden the earth while it was yet in a
slimy and imperfect state.  Perchance their tracks too are still
visible on the stones.  It still lingers into our glaring
summers, bravely supporting its fate without sympathy from man,
as if it looked forward to some second advent of which he has
no assurance.  One wonders if, by its patient study by rocks and
sandy capes, it has wrested the whole of her secret from Nature
yet.  What a rich experience it must have gained, standing on one
leg and looking out from its dull eye so long on sunshine and
rain, moon and stars!  What could it tell of stagnant pools and
reeds and dank night-fogs!  It would be worth the while to look
closely into the eye which has been open and seeing at such
hours, and in such solitudes, its dull, yellowish, greenish eye.
Methinks my own soul must be a bright invisible green.  I have
seen these birds stand by the half-dozen together in the
shallower water along the shore, with their bills thrust into the
mud at the bottom, probing for food, the whole head being
concealed, while the neck and body formed an arch above the
water.

Cohass Brook, the outlet of Massabesic Pond,—which last is five
or six miles distant, and contains fifteen hundred acres, being
the largest body of fresh water in Rockingham County,—comes in
near here from the east.  Rowing between Manchester and Bedford,
we passed, at an early hour, a ferry and some falls, called
Goff’s Falls, the Indian Cohasset, where there is a small
village, and a handsome green islet in the middle of the stream.
From Bedford and Merrimack have been boated the bricks of which
Lowell is made.  About twenty years before, as they told us, one
Moore, of Bedford, having clay on his farm, contracted to furnish
eight millions of bricks to the founders of that city within two
years.  He fulfilled his contract in one year, and since then
bricks have been the principal export from these towns.  The
farmers found thus a market for their wood, and when they had
brought a load to the kilns, they could cart a load of bricks to
the shore, and so make a profitable day’s work of it.  Thus all
parties were benefited.  It was worth the while to see the place
where Lowell was “dug out.”  So likewise Manchester is being
built of bricks made still higher up the river at Hooksett.

There might be seen here on the bank of the Merrimack, near
Goff’s Falls, in what is now the town of Bedford, famous “for
hops and for its fine domestic manufactures,” some graves of the
aborigines.  The land still bears this scar here, and time is
slowly crumbling the bones of a race.  Yet, without fail, every
spring, since they first fished and hunted here, the brown
thrasher has heralded the morning from a birch or alder spray,
and the undying race of reed-birds still rustles through the
withering grass.  But these bones rustle not.  These mouldering
elements are slowly preparing for another metamorphosis, to serve
new masters, and what was the Indian’s will erelong be the white
man’s sinew.

We learned that Bedford was not so famous for hops as formerly,
since the price is fluctuating, and poles are now scarce.  Yet if
the traveller goes back a few miles from the river, the hop-kilns
will still excite his curiosity.

There were few incidents in our voyage this forenoon, though the
river was now more rocky and the falls more frequent than before.
It was a pleasant change, after rowing incessantly for many
hours, to lock ourselves through in some retired place,—for
commonly there was no lock-man at hand,—one sitting in the boat,
while the other, sometimes with no little labor and heave-yo-ing,
opened and shut the gates, waiting patiently to see the locks
fill.  We did not once use the wheels which we had provided.
Taking advantage of the eddy, we were sometimes floated up to the
locks almost in the face of the falls; and, by the same cause,
any floating timber was carried round in a circle and repeatedly
drawn into the rapids before it finally went down the stream.
These old gray structures, with their quiet arms stretched over
the river in the sun, appeared like natural objects in the
scenery, and the kingfisher and sandpiper alighted on them as
readily as on stakes or rocks.

We rowed leisurely up the stream for several hours, until the sun
had got high in the sky, our thoughts monotonously beating time
to our oars.  For outward variety there was only the river and
the receding shores, a vista continually opening behind and
closing before us, as we sat with our backs up-stream; and, for
inward, such thoughts as the muses grudgingly lent us.  We were
always passing some low, inviting shore, or some overhanging
bank, on which, however, we never landed.

     Such near aspects had we
     Of our life’s scenery.

It might be seen by what tenure men held the earth.  The smallest
stream is mediterranean sea, a smaller ocean creek within the
land, where men may steer by their farm-bounds and cottage-lights.
For my own part, but for the geographers, I should hardly have
known how large a portion of our globe is water, my life has
chiefly passed within so deep a cove.  Yet I have sometimes
ventured as far as to the mouth of my Snug Harbor.  From an old
ruined fort on Staten Island, I have loved to watch all day some
vessel whose name I had read in the morning through the
telegraph-glass, when she first came upon the coast, and her hull
heaved up and glistened in the sun, from the moment when the
pilot and most adventurous news-boats met her, past the Hook, and
up the narrow channel of the wide outer bay, till she was boarded
by the health-officer, and took her station at Quarantine, or
held on her unquestioned course to the wharves of New York.  It
was interesting, too, to watch the less adventurous newsman, who
made his assault as the vessel swept through the Narrows, defying
plague and quarantine law, and, fastening his little cockboat to
her huge side, clambered up and disappeared in the cabin.  And
then I could imagine what momentous news was being imparted by
the captain, which no American ear had ever heard, that Asia,
Africa, Europe—were all sunk; for which at length he pays the
price, and is seen descending the ship’s side with his bundle of
newspapers, but not where he first got up, for these arrivers do
not stand still to gossip; and he hastes away with steady sweeps
to dispose of his wares to the highest bidder, and we shall
erelong read something startling,—“By the latest arrival,”—“by
the good ship——.” On Sunday I beheld, from some interior hill,
the long procession of vessels getting to sea, reaching from the
city wharves through the Narrows, and past the Hook, quite to the
ocean stream, far as the eye could reach, with stately march and
silken sails, all counting on lucky voyages, but each time some
of the number, no doubt, destined to go to Davy’s locker, and
never come on this coast again.  And, again, in the evening of a
pleasant day, it was my amusement to count the sails in sight.
But as the setting sun continually brought more and more to
light, still farther in the horizon, the last count always had
the advantage, till, by the time the last rays streamed over the
sea, I had doubled and trebled my first number; though I could no
longer class them all under the several heads of ships, barks,
brigs, schooners, and sloops, but most were faint generic
vessels only.  And then the temperate twilight light, perchance,
revealed the floating home of some sailor whose thoughts were
already alienated from this American coast, and directed towards
the Europe of our dreams.  I have stood upon the same hill-top
when a thunder-shower, rolling down from the Catskills and
Highlands, passed over the island, deluging the land; and, when
it had suddenly left us in sunshine, have seen it overtake
successively, with its huge shadow and dark, descending wall of
rain, the vessels in the bay.  Their bright sails were suddenly
drooping and dark, like the sides of barns, and they seemed to
shrink before the storm; while still far beyond them on the sea,
through this dark veil, gleamed the sunny sails of those vessels
which the storm had not yet reached.  And at midnight, when all
around and overhead was darkness, I have seen a field of
trembling, silvery light far out on the sea, the reflection of
the moonlight from the ocean, as if beyond the precincts of our
night, where the moon traversed a cloudless heaven,—and
sometimes a dark speck in its midst, where some fortunate vessel
was pursuing its happy voyage by night.

But to us river sailors the sun never rose out of ocean waves,
but from some green coppice, and went down behind some dark
mountain line.  We, too, were but dwellers on the shore, like the
bittern of the morning; and our pursuit, the wrecks of snails and
cockles.  Nevertheless, we were contented to know the better one
fair particular shore.

      My life is like a stroll upon the beach,
          As near the ocean’s edge as I can go,
      My tardy steps its waves sometimes o’erreach,
          Sometimes I stay to let them overflow.
      My sole employment ’t is, and scrupulous care,
          To place my gains beyond the reach of tides,
      Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare,
          Which ocean kindly to my hand confides.
      I have but few companions on the shore,
          They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea,
      Yet oft I think the ocean they’ve sailed o’er
          Is deeper known upon the strand to me.
      The middle sea contains no crimson dulse,
          Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view,
      Along the shore my hand is on its pulse,
          And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew.

The small houses which were scattered along the river at
intervals of a mile or more were commonly out of sight to us, but
sometimes, when we rowed near the shore, we heard the peevish
note of a hen, or some slight domestic sound, which betrayed
them.  The lock-men’s houses were particularly well placed,
retired, and high, always at falls or rapids, and commanding the
pleasantest reaches of the river,—for it is generally wider and
more lake-like just above a fall,—and there they wait for boats.
These humble dwellings, homely and sincere, in which a hearth was
still the essential part, were more pleasing to our eyes than
palaces or castles would have been.  In the noon of these days,
as we have said, we occasionally climbed the banks and approached
these houses, to get a glass of water and make acquaintance with
their inhabitants.  High in the leafy bank, surrounded commonly
by a small patch of corn and beans, squashes and melons, with
sometimes a graceful hop-yard on one side, and some running vine
over the windows, they appeared like beehives set to gather honey
for a summer.  I have not read of any Arcadian life which
surpasses the actual luxury and serenity of these New England
dwellings.  For the outward gilding, at least, the age is golden
enough.  As you approach the sunny doorway, awakening the echoes
by your steps, still no sound from these barracks of repose, and
you fear that the gentlest knock may seem rude to the Oriental
dreamers.  The door is opened, perchance, by some Yankee-Hindoo
woman, whose small-voiced but sincere hospitality, out of the
bottomless depths of a quiet nature, has travelled quite round to
the opposite side, and fears only to obtrude its kindness.  You
step over the white-scoured floor to the bright “dresser”
lightly, as if afraid to disturb the devotions of the
household,—for Oriental dynasties appear to have passed away
since the dinner-table was last spread here,—and thence to the
frequented curb, where you see your long-forgotten, unshaven face
at the bottom, in juxtaposition with new-made butter and the
trout in the well.  “Perhaps you would like some molasses and
ginger,” suggests the faint noon voice.  Sometimes there sits the
brother who follows the sea, their representative man; who knows
only how far it is to the nearest port, no more distances, all
the rest is sea and distant capes,—patting the dog, or dandling
the kitten in arms that were stretched by the cable and the oar,
pulling against Boreas or the trade-winds.  He looks up at the
stranger, half pleased, half astonished, with a mariner’s eye, as
if he were a dolphin within cast.  If men will believe it, sua
si bona nôrint, there are no more quiet Tempes, nor more poetic
and Arcadian lives, than may be lived in these New England
dwellings.  We thought that the employment of their inhabitants
by day would be to tend the flowers and herds, and at night, like
the shepherds of old, to cluster and give names to the stars from
the river banks.

We passed a large and densely wooded island this forenoon,
between Short’s and Griffith’s Falls, the fairest which we had
met with, with a handsome grove of elms at its head.  If it had
been evening we should have been glad to camp there.  Not long
after, one or two more were passed.  The boatmen told us that the
current had recently made important changes here.  An island
always pleases my imagination, even the smallest, as a small
continent and integral portion of the globe.  I have a fancy for
building my hut on one.  Even a bare, grassy isle, which I can
see entirely over at a glance, has some undefined and mysterious
charm for me.  There is commonly such a one at the junction of
two rivers, whose currents bring down and deposit their
respective sands in the eddy at their confluence, as it were the
womb of a continent.  By what a delicate and far-stretched
contribution every island is made!  What an enterprise of Nature
thus to lay the foundations of and to build up the future
continent, of golden and silver sands and the ruins of forests,
with ant-like industry!  Pindar gives the following account of
the origin of Thera, whence, in after times, Libyan Cyrene was
settled by Battus.  Triton, in the form of Eurypylus, presents a
clod to Euphemus, one of the Argonauts, as they are about to
return home.

                        “He knew of our haste,
     And immediately seizing a clod
     With his right hand, strove to give it
     As a chance stranger’s gift.
     Nor did the hero disregard him, but leaping on the shore,
     Stretching hand to hand,
     Received the mystic clod.
     But I hear it sinking from the deck,
     Go with the sea brine
     At evening, accompanying the watery sea.
     Often indeed I urged the careless
     Menials to guard it, but their minds forgot.
     And now in this island the imperishable seed of spacious Libya
     Is spilled before its hour.”

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

                “springing up from the bottom,
     Capable of feeding many men, and suitable for flocks;

and at the nod of Zeus,

             “The island sprang from the watery
     Sea; and the genial Father of penetrating beams,
     Ruler of fire-breathing horses, has it.”

The shifting islands! who would not be willing that his house
should be undermined by such a foe!  The inhabitant of an island
can tell what currents formed the land which he cultivates; and
his earth is still being created or destroyed.  There before his
door, perchance, still empties the stream which brought down the
material of his farm ages before, and is still bringing it down
or washing it away,—the graceful, gentle robber!

Not long after this we saw the Piscataquoag, or Sparkling Water,
emptying in on our left, and heard the Falls of Amoskeag above.
Large quantities of lumber, as we read in the Gazetteer, were
still annually floated down the Piscataquoag to the Merrimack,
and there are many fine mill privileges on it.  Just above the
mouth of this river we passed the artificial falls where the
canals of the Manchester Manufacturing Company discharge
themselves into the Merrimack.  They are striking enough to have
a name, and, with the scenery of a Bashpish, would be visited
from far and near.  The water falls thirty or forty feet over
seven or eight steep and narrow terraces of stone, probably to
break its force, and is converted into one mass of foam.  This
canal-water did not seem to be the worse for the wear, but foamed
and fumed as purely, and boomed as savagely and impressively, as
a mountain torrent, and, though it came from under a factory, we
saw a rainbow here.  These are now the Amoskeag Falls, removed a
mile down-stream.  But we did not tarry to examine them minutely,
making haste to get past the village here collected, and out of
hearing of the hammer which was laying the foundation of another
Lowell on the banks.  At the time of our voyage Manchester was a
village of about two thousand inhabitants, where we landed for a
moment to get some cool water, and where an inhabitant told us
that he was accustomed to go across the river into Goffstown for
his water.  But now, as I have been told, and indeed have
witnessed, it contains fourteen thousand inhabitants.  From a
hill on the road between Goffstown and Hooksett, four miles
distant, I have seen a thunder-shower pass over, and the sun
break out and shine on a city there, where I had landed nine
years before in the fields; and there was waving the flag of its
Museum, where “the only perfect skeleton of a Greenland or river
whale in the United States” was to be seen, and I also read in
its directory of a “Manchester Athenæum and Gallery of the Fine
Arts.”

According to the Gazetteer, the descent of Amoskeag Falls, which
are the most considerable in the Merrimack, is fifty-four feet in
half a mile.  We locked ourselves through here with much ado,
surmounting the successive watery steps of this river’s staircase
in the midst of a crowd of villagers, jumping into the canal to
their amusement, to save our boat from upsetting, and consuming
much river-water in our service.  Amoskeag, or Namaskeak, is said
to mean “great fishing-place.” It was hereabouts that the Sachem
Wannalancet resided.  Tradition says that his tribe, when at war
with the Mohawks, concealed their provisions in the cavities of
the rocks in the upper part of these falls.  The Indians, who hid
their provisions in these holes, and affirmed “that God had cut
them out for that purpose,” understood their origin and use
better than the Royal Society, who in their Transactions, in the
last century, speaking of these very holes, declare that “they
seem plainly to be artificial.”  Similar “pot-holes” may be seen
at the Stone Flume on this river, on the Ottaway, at Bellows’
Falls on the Connecticut, and in the limestone rock at Shelburne
Falls on Deerfield River in Massachusetts, and more or less
generally about all falls.  Perhaps the most remarkable curiosity
of this kind in New England is the well-known Basin on the
Pemigewasset, one of the head-waters of this river, twenty by
thirty feet in extent and proportionably deep, with a smooth and
rounded brim, and filled with a cold, pellucid, and greenish
water.  At Amoskeag the river is divided into many separate
torrents and trickling rills by the rocks, and its volume is so
much reduced by the drain of the canals that it does not fill its
bed.  There are many pot-holes here on a rocky island which the
river washes over in high freshets.  As at Shelburne Falls, where
I first observed them, they are from one foot to four or five in
diameter, and as many in depth, perfectly round and regular, with
smooth and gracefully curved brims, like goblets.  Their origin
is apparent to the most careless observer.  A stone which the
current has washed down, meeting with obstacles, revolves as on a
pivot where it lies, gradually sinking in the course of centuries
deeper and deeper into the rock, and in new freshets receiving
the aid of fresh stones, which are drawn into this trap and
doomed to revolve there for an indefinite period, doing
Sisyphus-like penance for stony sins, until they either wear out,
or wear through the bottom of their prison, or else are released
by some revolution of nature.  There lie the stones of various
sizes, from a pebble to a foot or two in diameter, some of which
have rested from their labor only since the spring, and some
higher up which have lain still and dry for ages,—we noticed
some here at least sixteen feet above the present level of the
water,—while others are still revolving, and enjoy no respite at
any season.  In one instance, at Shelburne Falls, they have worn
quite through the rock, so that a portion of the river leaks
through in anticipation of the fall.  Some of these pot-holes at
Amoskeag, in a very hard brown-stone, had an oblong, cylindrical
stone of the same material loosely fitting them.  One, as much as
fifteen feet deep and seven or eight in diameter, which was worn
quite through to the water, had a huge rock of the same material,
smooth but of irregular form, lodged in it.  Everywhere there
were the rudiments or the wrecks of a dimple in the rock; the
rocky shells of whirlpools.  As if by force of example and
sympathy after so many lessons, the rocks, the hardest material,
had been endeavoring to whirl or flow into the forms of the most
fluid.  The finest workers in stone are not copper or steel
tools, but the gentle touches of air and water working at their
leisure with a liberal allowance of time.

Not only have some of these basins been forming for countless
ages, but others exist which must have been completed in a former
geological period.  In deepening the Pawtucket Canal, in 1822,
the workmen came to ledges with pot-holes in them, where probably
was once the bed of the river, and there are some, we are told,
in the town of Canaan in this State, with the stones still in
them, on the height of land between the Merrimack and
Connecticut, and nearly a thousand feet above these rivers,
proving that the mountains and the rivers have changed places.
There lie the stones which completed their revolutions perhaps
before thoughts began to revolve in the brain of man.  The
periods of Hindoo and Chinese history, though they reach back to
the time when the race of mortals is confounded with the race of
gods, are as nothing compared with the periods which these stones
have inscribed.  That which commenced a rock when time was young,
shall conclude a pebble in the unequal contest.  With such
expense of time and natural forces are our very paving-stones
produced.  They teach us lessons, these dumb workers; verily
there are “sermons in stones, and books in the running streams.”
In these very holes the Indians hid their provisions; but now
there is no bread, but only its old neighbor stones at the
bottom.  Who knows how many races they have served thus?  By as
simple a law, some accidental by-law, perchance, our system
itself was made ready for its inhabitants.

These, and such as these, must be our antiquities, for lack of
human vestiges.  The monuments of heroes and the temples of the
gods which may once have stood on the banks of this river are
now, at any rate, returned to dust and primitive soil.  The
murmur of unchronicled nations has died away along these shores,
and once more Lowell and Manchester are on the trail of the
Indian.

The fact that Romans once inhabited her reflects no little
dignity on Nature herself; that from some particular hill the
Roman once looked out on the sea.  She need not be ashamed of the
vestiges of her children.  How gladly the antiquary informs us
that their vessels penetrated into this frith, or up that river
of some remote isle!  Their military monuments still remain on
the hills and under the sod of the valleys.  The oft-repeated
Roman story is written in still legible characters in every
quarter of the Old World, and but to-day, perchance, a new coin
is dug up whose inscription repeats and confirms their fame.
Some “Judæa Capta” with a woman mourning under a palm-tree,
with silent argument and demonstration confirms the pages of
history.

   “Rome living was the world’s sole ornament;
    And dead is now the world’s sole monument.
       .        .        .       .       .
    With her own weight down pressed now she lies,
    And by her heaps her hugeness testifies.”

If one doubts whether Grecian valor and patriotism are not a
fiction of the poets, he may go to Athens and see still upon the
walls of the temple of Minerva the circular marks made by the
shields taken from the enemy in the Persian war, which were
suspended there.  We have not far to seek for living and
unquestionable evidence.  The very dust takes shape and confirms
some story which we had read.  As Fuller said, commenting on the
zeal of Camden, “A broken urn is a whole evidence; or an old gate
still surviving out of which the city is run out.”  When Solon
endeavored to prove that Salamis had formerly belonged to the
Athenians, and not to the Megareans, he caused the tombs to be
opened, and showed that the inhabitants of Salamis turned the
faces of their dead to the same side with the Athenians, but the
Megareans to the opposite side.  There they were to be
interrogated.

Some minds are as little logical or argumentative as nature; they
can offer no reason or “guess,” but they exhibit the solemn and
incontrovertible fact.  If a historical question arises, they
cause the tombs to be opened.  Their silent and practical logic
convinces the reason and the understanding at the same time.  Of
such sort is always the only pertinent question and the only
satisfactory reply.

Our own country furnishes antiquities as ancient and durable, and
as useful, as any; rocks at least as well covered with lichens,
and a soil which, if it is virgin, is but virgin mould, the very
dust of nature.  What if we cannot read Rome, or Greece, Etruria,
or Carthage, or Egypt, or Babylon, on these; are our cliffs bare?
The lichen on the rocks is a rude and simple shield which
beginning and imperfect Nature suspended there.  Still hangs her
wrinkled trophy.  And here too the poet’s eye may still detect
the brazen nails which fastened Time’s inscriptions, and if he
has the gift, decipher them by this clew.  The walls that fence
our fields, as well as modern Rome, and not less the Parthenon
itself, are all built of ruins.  Here may be heard the din of
rivers, and ancient winds which have long since lost their names
sough through our woods;—the first faint sounds of spring, older
than the summer of Athenian glory, the titmouse lisping in the
wood, the jay’s scream, and blue-bird’s warble, and the hum of

     “bees that fly
     About the laughing blossoms of sallowy.”

Here is the gray dawn for antiquity, and our to-morrow’s future
should be at least paulo-post to theirs which we have put behind
us.  There are the red-maple and birchen leaves, old runes which
are not yet deciphered; catkins, pine-cones, vines, oak-leaves,
and acorns; the very things themselves, and not their forms in
stone,—so much the more ancient and venerable.  And even to the
current summer there has come down tradition of a hoary-headed
master of all art, who once filled every field and grove with
statues and god-like architecture, of every design which Greece
has lately copied; whose ruins are now mingled with the dust, and
not one block remains upon another.  The century sun and
unwearied rain have wasted them, till not one fragment from that
quarry now exists; and poets perchance will feign that gods sent
down the material from heaven.

What though the traveller tell us of the ruins of Egypt, are we
so sick or idle, that we must sacrifice our America and to-day to
some man’s ill-remembered and indolent story?  Carnac and Luxor
are but names, or if their skeletons remain, still more desert
sand, and at length a wave of the Mediterranean Sea are needed to
wash away the filth that attaches to their grandeur.  Carnac!
Carnac! here is Carnac for me.  I behold the columns of a larger
and purer temple.

     This is my Carnac, whose unmeasured dome
     Shelters the measuring art and measurer’s home.
     Behold these flowers, let us be up with time,
     Not dreaming of three thousand years ago,
     Erect ourselves and let those columns lie,
     Not stoop to raise a foil against the sky.
     Where is the spirit of that time but in
     This present day, perchance the present line?
     Three thousand years ago are not agone,
     They are still lingering in this summer morn,
     And Memnon’s Mother sprightly greets us now,
     Wearing her youthful radiance on her brow.
     If Carnac’s columns still stand on the plain,
     To enjoy our opportunities they remain.

In these parts dwelt the famous Sachem Pasaconaway, who was seen
by Gookin “at Pawtucket, when he was about one hundred and twenty
years old.”  He was reputed a wise man and a powwow, and
restrained his people from going to war with the English.  They
believed “that he could make water burn, rocks move, and trees
dance, and metamorphose himself into a flaming man; that in
winter he could raise a green leaf out of the ashes of a dry one,
and produce a living snake from the skin of a dead one, and many
similar miracles.” In 1660, according to Gookin, at a great feast
and dance, he made his farewell speech to his people, in which he
said, that as he was not likely to see them met together again,
he would leave them this word of advice, to take heed how they
quarrelled with their English neighbors, for though they might do
them much mischief at first, it would prove the means of their
own destruction.  He himself, he said, had been as much an enemy
to the English at their first coming as any, and had used all his
arts to destroy them, or at least to prevent their settlement,
but could by no means effect it.  Gookin thought that he
“possibly might have such a kind of spirit upon him as was upon
Balaam, who in xxiii.  Numbers, 23, said ‘Surely, there is no
enchantment against Jacob, neither is there any divination
against Israel.’”  His son Wannalancet carefully followed his
advice, and when Philip’s War broke out, he withdrew his
followers to Penacook, now Concord in New Hampshire, from the
scene of the war.  On his return afterwards, he visited the
minister of Chelmsford, and, as is stated in the history of that
town, “wished to know whether Chelmsford had suffered much during
the war; and being informed that it had not, and that God should
be thanked for it, Wannalancet replied, ‘Me next.’”

Manchester was the residence of John Stark, a hero of two wars,
and survivor of a third, and at his death the last but one of the
American generals of the Revolution.  He was born in the
adjoining town of Londonderry, then Nutfield, in 1728.  As early
as 1752, he was taken prisoner by the Indians while hunting in
the wilderness near Baker’s River; he performed notable service
as a captain of rangers in the French war; commanded a regiment
of the New Hampshire militia at the battle of Bunker Hill; and
fought and won the battle of Bennington in 1777.  He was past
service in the last war, and died here in 1822, at the age of 94.
His monument stands upon the second bank of the river, about a
mile and a half above the falls, and commands a prospect several
miles up and down the Merrimack.  It suggested how much more
impressive in the landscape is the tomb of a hero than the
dwellings of the inglorious living.  Who is most dead,—a hero by
whose monument you stand, or his descendants of whom you have
never heard?

The graves of Pasaconaway and Wannalancet are marked by no
monument on the bank of their native river.

Every town which we passed, if we may believe the Gazetteer, had
been the residence of some great man.  But though we knocked at
many doors, and even made particular inquiries, we could not find
that there were any now living.  Under the head of Litchfield we
read:—

  “The Hon.  Wyseman Clagett closed his life in this town.”
  According to another, “He was a classical scholar, a good
  lawyer, a wit, and a poet.” We saw his old gray house just
  below Great Nesenkeag Brook.—Under the head of Merrimack:
  “Hon.  Mathew Thornton, one of the signers of the Declaration
  of American Independence, resided many years in this town.” His
  house too we saw from the river.—“Dr.  Jonathan Gove, a man
  distinguished for his urbanity, his talents and professional
  skill, resided in this town [Goffstown].  He was one of the
  oldest practitioners of medicine in the county.  He was many
  years an active member of the legislature.”—“Hon.  Robert
  Means, who died Jan. 24, 1823, at the age of 80, was for a long
  period a resident in Amherst.  He was a native of Ireland.  In
  1764 he came to this country, where, by his industry and
  application to business, he acquired a large property, and
  great respect.”—“William Stinson [one of the first settlers of
  Dunbarton], born in Ireland, came to Londonderry with his
  father.  He was much respected and was a useful man.  James
  Rogers was from Ireland, and father to Major Robert Rogers.  He
  was shot in the woods, being mistaken for a bear.”—“Rev.
  Matthew Clark, second minister of Londonderry, was a native of
  Ireland, who had in early life been an officer in the army, and
  distinguished himself in the defence of the city of
  Londonderry, when besieged by the army of King James II.  A.
  D.  1688-9.  He afterwards relinquished a military life for the
  clerical profession.  He possessed a strong mind, marked by a
  considerable degree of eccentricity.  He died Jan. 25, 1735,
  and was borne to the grave, at his particular request, by his
  former companions in arms, of whom there were a considerable
  number among the early settlers of this town; several of them
  had been made free from taxes throughout the British dominions
  by King William, for their bravery in that memorable
  siege.”—Col.  George Reid and Capt. David M’Clary, also
  citizens of Londonderry, were “distinguished and brave”
  officers.—“Major Andrew M’Clary, a native of this town
  [Epsom], fell at the battle of Breed’s Hill.”—Many of these
  heroes, like the illustrious Roman, were ploughing when the
  news of the massacre at Lexington arrived, and straightway left
  their ploughs in the furrow, and repaired to the scene of
  action.  Some miles from where we now were, there once stood a
  guide-post on which were the words, “3 miles to Squire
  MacGaw’s.”

But generally speaking, the land is now, at any rate, very barren
of men, and we doubt if there are as many hundreds as we read
of.  It may be that we stood too near.

Uncannunuc Mountain in Goffstown was visible from Amoskeag, five
or six miles westward.  It is the north-easternmost in the
horizon, which we see from our native town, but seen from there
is too ethereally blue to be the same which the like of us have
ever climbed.  Its name is said to mean “The Two Breasts,” there
being two eminences some distance apart.  The highest, which is
about fourteen hundred feet above the sea, probably affords a
more extensive view of the Merrimack valley and the adjacent
country than any other hill, though it is somewhat obstructed by
woods.  Only a few short reaches of the river are visible, but
you can trace its course far down stream by the sandy tracts on
its banks.

A little south of Uncannunuc, about sixty years ago, as the story
goes, an old woman who went out to gather pennyroyal, tript her
foot in the bail of a small brass kettle in the dead grass and
bushes.  Some say that flints and charcoal and some traces of a
camp were also found.  This kettle, holding about four quarts, is
still preserved and used to dye thread in.  It is supposed to
have belonged to some old French or Indian hunter, who was killed
in one of his hunting or scouting excursions, and so never
returned to look after his kettle.

But we were most interested to hear of the pennyroyal, it is
soothing to be reminded that wild nature produces anything ready
for the use of man.  Men know that something is good.  One says
that it is yellow-dock, another that it is bitter-sweet, another
that it is slippery-elm bark, burdock, catnip, calamint,
elicampane, thoroughwort, or pennyroyal.  A man may esteem
himself happy when that which is his food is also his medicine.
There is no kind of herb, but somebody or other says that it is
good.  I am very glad to hear it.  It reminds me of the first
chapter of Genesis.  But how should they know that it is good?
That is the mystery to me.  I am always agreeably disappointed;
it is incredible that they should have found it out.  Since all
things are good, men fail at last to distinguish which is the
bane, and which the antidote.  There are sure to be two
prescriptions diametrically opposite.  Stuff a cold and starve a
cold are but two ways.  They are the two practices both always in
full blast.  Yet you must take advice of the one school as if
there was no other.  In respect to religion and the healing art,
all nations are still in a state of barbarism.  In the most
civilized countries the priest is still but a Powwow, and the
physician a Great Medicine.  Consider the deference which is
everywhere paid to a doctor’s opinion.  Nothing more strikingly
betrays the credulity of mankind than medicine.  Quackery is a
thing universal, and universally successful.  In this case it
becomes literally true that no imposition is too great for the
credulity of men.  Priests and physicians should never look one
another in the face.  They have no common ground, nor is there
any to mediate between them.  When the one comes, the other goes.
They could not come together without laughter, or a significant
silence, for the one’s profession is a satire on the other’s, and
either’s success would be the other’s failure.  It is wonderful
that the physician should ever die, and that the priest should
ever live.  Why is it that the priest is never called to consult
with the physician?  Is it because men believe practically that
matter is independent of spirit.  But what is quackery?  It is
commonly an attempt to cure the diseases of a man by addressing
his body alone.  There is need of a physician who shall minister
to both soul and body at once, that is, to man.  Now he falls
between two souls.

After passing through the locks, we had poled ourselves through
the canal here, about half a mile in length, to the boatable part
of the river.  Above Amoskeag the river spreads out into a lake
reaching a mile or two without a bend.  There were many
canal-boats here bound up to Hooksett, about eight miles, and as
they were going up empty with a fair wind, one boatman offered to
take us in tow if we would wait.  But when we came alongside, we
found that they meant to take us on board, since otherwise we
should clog their motions too much; but as our boat was too heavy
to be lifted aboard, we pursued our way up the stream, as before,
while the boatmen were at their dinner, and came to anchor at
length under some alders on the opposite shore, where we could
take our lunch.  Though far on one side, every sound was wafted
over to us from the opposite bank, and from the harbor of the
canal, and we could see everything that passed.  By and by came
several canal-boats, at intervals of a quarter of a mile,
standing up to Hooksett with a light breeze, and one by one
disappeared round a point above.  With their broad sails set,
they moved slowly up the stream in the sluggish and fitful
breeze, like one-winged antediluvian birds, and as if impelled by
some mysterious counter-current.  It was a grand motion, so slow
and stately, this “standing out,” as the phrase is, expressing
the gradual and steady progress of a vessel, as if it were by
mere rectitude and disposition, without shuffling.  Their sails,
which stood so still, were like chips cast into the current of
the air to show which way it set.  At length the boat which we
had spoken came along, keeping the middle of the stream, and when
within speaking distance the steersman called out ironically to
say, that if we would come alongside now he would take us in tow;
but not heeding his taunt, we still loitered in the shade till we
had finished our lunch, and when the last boat had disappeared
round the point with flapping sail, for the breeze had now sunk
to a zephyr, with our own sails set, and plying our oars, we shot
rapidly up the stream in pursuit, and as we glided close
alongside, while they were vainly invoking Æolus to their aid,
we returned their compliment by proposing, if they would throw us
a rope, to “take them in tow,” to which these Merrimack sailors
had no suitable answer ready.  Thus we gradually overtook and
passed each boat in succession until we had the river to
ourselves again.

Our course this afternoon was between Manchester and Goffstown.

                           ——————-

While we float here, far from that tributary stream on whose
banks our Friends and kindred dwell, our thoughts, like the
stars, come out of their horizon still; for there circulates a
finer blood than Lavoisier has discovered the laws of,—the
blood, not of kindred merely, but of kindness, whose pulse still
beats at any distance and forever.

     True kindness is a pure divine affinity,
     Not founded upon human consanguinity.
     It is a spirit, not a blood relation,
     Superior to family and station.

After years of vain familiarity, some distant gesture or
unconscious behavior, which we remember, speaks to us with more
emphasis than the wisest or kindest words.  We are sometimes made
aware of a kindness long passed, and realize that there have been
times when our Friends’ thoughts of us were of so pure and lofty
a character that they passed over us like the winds of heaven
unnoticed; when they treated us not as what we were, but as what
we aspired to be.  There has just reached us, it may be, the
nobleness of some such silent behavior, not to be forgotten, not
to be remembered, and we shudder to think how it fell on us cold,
though in some true but tardy hour we endeavor to wipe off these
scores.

In my experience, persons, when they are made the subject of
conversation, though with a Friend, are commonly the most prosaic
and trivial of facts.  The universe seems bankrupt as soon as we
begin to discuss the character of individuals.  Our discourse all
runs to slander, and our limits grow narrower as we advance.  How
is it that we are impelled to treat our old Friends so ill when
we obtain new ones?  The housekeeper says, I never had any new
crockery in my life but I began to break the old.  I say, let us
speak of mushrooms and forest trees rather.  Yet we can sometimes
afford to remember them in private.

     Lately, alas, I knew a gentle boy,
     Whose features all were cast in Virtue’s mould,
     As one she had designed for Beauty’s toy,
     But after manned him for her own strong-hold.
     On every side he open was as day,
     That you might see no lack of strength within,
     For walls and ports do only serve alway
     For a pretence to feebleness and sin.
     Say not that Cæsar was victorious,
     With toil and strife who stormed the House of Fame,
     In other sense this youth was glorious,
     Himself a kingdom wheresoe’er he came.
     No strength went out to get him victory,
     When all was income of its own accord;
     For where he went none other was to see,
     But all were parcel of their noble lord.
     He forayed like the subtile haze of summer,
     That stilly shows fresh landscapes to our eyes,
     And revolutions works without a murmur,
     Or rustling of a leaf beneath the skies.
     So was I taken unawares by this,
     I quite forgot my homage to confess;
     Yet now am forced to know, though hard it is,
     I might have loved him had I loved him less.
     Each moment as we nearer drew to each,
     A stern respect withheld us farther yet,
     So that we seemed beyond each other’s reach,
     And less acquainted than when first we met.
     We two were one while we did sympathize,
     So could we not the simplest bargain drive;
     And what avails it now that we are wise,
     If absence doth this doubleness contrive?
     Eternity may not the chance repeat,
     But I must tread my single way alone,
     In sad remembrance that we once did meet,
     And know that bliss irrevocably gone.
     The spheres henceforth my elegy shall sing,
     For elegy has other subject none;
     Each strain of music in my ears shall ring
     Knell of departure from that other one.
     Make haste and celebrate my tragedy;
     With fitting strain resound ye woods and fields;
     Sorrow is dearer in such case to me
     Than all the joys other occasion yields.
                    —————-
     Is’t then too late the damage to repair?
     Distance, forsooth, from my weak grasp hath reft
     The empty husk, and clutched the useless tare,
     But in my hands the wheat and kernel left.
     If I but love that virtue which he is,
     Though it be scented in the morning air,
     Still shall we be truest acquaintances,
     Nor mortals know a sympathy more rare.

Friendship is evanescent in every man’s experience, and
remembered like heat lightning in past summers.  Fair and
flitting like a summer cloud;—there is always some vapor in the
air, no matter how long the drought; there are even April
showers.  Surely from time to time, for its vestiges never
depart, it floats through our atmosphere.  It takes place, like
vegetation in so many materials, because there is such a law, but
always without permanent form, though ancient and familiar as the
sun and moon, and as sure to come again.  The heart is forever
inexperienced.  They silently gather as by magic, these never
failing, never quite deceiving visions, like the bright and
fleecy clouds in the calmest and clearest days.  The Friend is
some fair floating isle of palms eluding the mariner in Pacific
seas.  Many are the dangers to be encountered, equinoctial gales
and coral reefs, ere he may sail before the constant trades.  But
who would not sail through mutiny and storm, even over Atlantic
waves, to reach the fabulous retreating shores of some continent
man?  The imagination still clings to the faintest tradition of

                 THE ATLANTIDES.

     The smothered streams of love, which flow
     More bright than Phlegethon, more low,
     Island us ever, like the sea,
     In an Atlantic mystery.
     Our fabled shores none ever reach,
     No mariner has found our beach,
     Scarcely our mirage now is seen,
     And neighboring waves with floating green,
     Yet still the oldest charts contain
     Some dotted outline of our main;
     In ancient times midsummer days
     Unto the western islands’ gaze,
     To Teneriffe and the Azores,
     Have shown our faint and cloud-like shores.
     But sink not yet, ye desolate isles,
     Anon your coast with commerce smiles,
     And richer freights ye’ll furnish far
     Than Africa or Malabar.
     Be fair, be fertile evermore,
     Ye rumored but untrodden shore,
     Princes and monarchs will contend
     Who first unto your land shall send,
     And pawn the jewels of the crown
     To call your distant soil their own.

Columbus has sailed westward of these isles by the mariner’s
compass, but neither he nor his successors have found them.  We
are no nearer than Plato was.  The earnest seeker and hopeful
discoverer of this New World always haunts the outskirts of his
time, and walks through the densest crowd uninterrupted, and as
it were in a straight line.

      Sea and land are but his neighbors,
      And companions in his labors,
      Who on the ocean’s verge and firm land’s end
      Doth long and truly seek his Friend.
      Many men dwell far inland,
      But he alone sits on the strand.
      Whether he ponders men or books,
      Always still he seaward looks,
      Marine news he ever reads,
      And the slightest glances heeds,
      Feels the sea breeze on his cheek,
      At each word the landsmen speak,
      In every companion’s eye
      A sailing vessel doth descry;
      In the ocean’s sullen roar
      From some distant port he hears,
      Of wrecks upon a distant shore,
      And the ventures of past years.

Who does not walk on the plain as amid the columns of Tadmore of
the desert?  There is on the earth no institution which
Friendship has established; it is not taught by any religion; no
scripture contains its maxims.  It has no temple, nor even a
solitary column.  There goes a rumor that the earth is inhabited,
but the shipwrecked mariner has not seen a footprint on the
shore.  The hunter has found only fragments of pottery and the
monuments of inhabitants.

However, our fates at least are social.  Our courses do not
diverge; but as the web of destiny is woven it is fulled, and we
are cast more and more into the centre.  Men naturally, though
feebly, seek this alliance, and their actions faintly foretell
it.  We are inclined to lay the chief stress on likeness and not
on difference, and in foreign bodies we admit that there are many
degrees of warmth below blood heat, but none of cold above it.

Mencius says: “If one loses a fowl or a dog, he knows well how to
seek them again; if one loses the sentiments of his heart, he
does not know how to seek them again.  .  .  .  The duties of
practical philosophy consist only in seeking after those
sentiments of the heart which we have lost; that is all.”

One or two persons come to my house from time to time, there
being proposed to them the faint possibility of intercourse.
They are as full as they are silent, and wait for my plectrum to
stir the strings of their lyre.  If they could ever come to the
length of a sentence, or hear one, on that ground they are
dreaming of!  They speak faintly, and do not obtrude themselves.
They have heard some news, which none, not even they themselves,
can impart.  It is a wealth they can bear about them which can be
expended in various ways.  What came they out to seek?

No word is oftener on the lips of men than Friendship, and indeed
no thought is more familiar to their aspirations.  All men are
dreaming of it, and its drama, which is always a tragedy, is
enacted daily.  It is the secret of the universe.  You may thread
the town, you may wander the country, and none shall ever speak
of it, yet thought is everywhere busy about it, and the idea of
what is possible in this respect affects our behavior toward all
new men and women, and a great many old ones.  Nevertheless, I
can remember only two or three essays on this subject in all
literature.  No wonder that the Mythology, and Arabian Nights,
and Shakespeare, and Scott’s novels entertain us,—we are poets
and fablers and dramatists and novelists ourselves.  We are
continually acting a part in a more interesting drama than any
written.  We are dreaming that our Friends are our Friends,
and that we are our Friends’ Friends.  Our actual Friends are
but distant relations of those to whom we are pledged.  We never
exchange more than three words with a Friend in our lives on that
level to which our thoughts and feelings almost habitually rise.
One goes forth prepared to say, “Sweet Friends!” and the
salutation is, “Damn your eyes!”  But never mind; faint heart
never won true Friend.  O my Friend, may it come to pass once,
that when you are my Friend I may be yours.

Of what use the friendliest dispositions even, if there are
no hours given to Friendship, if it is forever postponed to
unimportant duties and relations?  Friendship is first, Friendship
last.  But it is equally impossible to forget our Friends, and to
make them answer to our ideal.  When they say farewell, then
indeed we begin to keep them company.  How often we find
ourselves turning our backs on our actual Friends, that we may go
and meet their ideal cousins.  I would that I were worthy to be
any man’s Friend.

What is commonly honored with the name of Friendship is no very
profound or powerful instinct.  Men do not, after all, love
their Friends greatly.  I do not often see the farmers made seers
and wise to the verge of insanity by their Friendship for one
another.  They are not often transfigured and translated by love
in each other’s presence.  I do not observe them purified,
refined, and elevated by the love of a man.  If one abates a
little the price of his wood, or gives a neighbor his vote at
town-meeting, or a barrel of apples, or lends him his wagon
frequently, it is esteemed a rare instance of Friendship.  Nor do
the farmers’ wives lead lives consecrated to Friendship.  I do
not see the pair of farmer Friends of either sex prepared to
stand against the world.  There are only two or three couples in
history.  To say that a man is your Friend, means commonly no
more than this, that he is not your enemy.  Most contemplate only
what would be the accidental and trifling advantages of
Friendship, as that the Friend can assist in time of need, by his
substance, or his influence, or his counsel; but he who foresees
such advantages in this relation proves himself blind to its real
advantage, or indeed wholly inexperienced in the relation itself.
Such services are particular and menial, compared with the
perpetual and all-embracing service which it is.  Even the utmost
good-will and harmony and practical kindness are not sufficient
for Friendship, for Friends do not live in harmony merely, as
some say, but in melody.  We do not wish for Friends to feed and
clothe our bodies,—neighbors are kind enough for that,—but to
do the like office to our spirits.  For this few are rich enough,
however well disposed they may be.  For the most part we stupidly
confound one man with another.  The dull distinguish only races
or nations, or at most classes, but the wise man, individuals.
To his Friend a man’s peculiar character appears in every feature
and in every action, and it is thus drawn out and improved by
him.

Think of the importance of Friendship in the education of men.

     “He that hath love and judgment too,
     Sees more than any other doe.”

It will make a man honest; it will make him a hero; it will make
him a saint.  It is the state of the just dealing with the just,
the magnanimous with the magnanimous, the sincere with the
sincere, man with man.

And it is well said by another poet,

     “Why love among the virtues is not known,
     Is that love is them all contract in one.”

All the abuses which are the object of reform with the philanthropist,
 the statesman, and the housekeeper are unconsciously amended in
the intercourse of Friends.  A Friend is one who incessantly pays
us the compliment of expecting from us all the virtues, and who
can appreciate them in us.  It takes two to speak the truth,—one
to speak, and another to hear.  How can one treat with
magnanimity mere wood and stone?  If we dealt only with the false
and dishonest, we should at last forget how to speak truth.  Only
lovers know the value and magnanimity of truth, while traders
prize a cheap honesty, and neighbors and acquaintance a cheap
civility.  In our daily intercourse with men, our nobler
faculties are dormant and suffered to rust.  None will pay us the
compliment to expect nobleness from us.  Though we have gold to
give, they demand only copper.  We ask our neighbor to suffer
himself to be dealt with truly, sincerely, nobly; but he answers
no by his deafness.  He does not even hear this prayer.  He says
practically, I will be content if you treat me as “no better than
I should be,” as deceitful, mean, dishonest, and selfish.  For
the most part, we are contented so to deal and to be dealt with,
and we do not think that for the mass of men there is any truer
and nobler relation possible.  A man may have good neighbors,
so called, and acquaintances, and even companions, wife, parents,
brothers, sisters, children, who meet himself and one another on
this ground only.  The State does not demand justice of its
members, but thinks that it succeeds very well with the least
degree of it, hardly more than rogues practise; and so do the
neighborhood and the family.  What is commonly called Friendship
even is only a little more honor among rogues.

But sometimes we are said to love another, that is, to stand in
a true relation to him, so that we give the best to, and receive
the best from, him.  Between whom there is hearty truth, there is
love; and in proportion to our truthfulness and confidence in one
another, our lives are divine and miraculous, and answer to our
ideal.  There are passages of affection in our intercourse with
mortal men and women, such as no prophecy had taught us to
expect, which transcend our earthly life, and anticipate Heaven
for us.  What is this Love that may come right into the middle of
a prosaic Goffstown day, equal to any of the gods? that discovers
a new world, fair and fresh and eternal, occupying the place of
the old one, when to the common eye a dust has settled on the
universe? which world cannot else be reached, and does not exist.
What other words, we may almost ask, are memorable and worthy to
be repeated than those which love has inspired?  It is wonderful
that they were ever uttered.  They are few and rare, indeed, but,
like a strain of music, they are incessantly repeated and
modulated by the memory.  All other words crumble off with the
stucco which overlies the heart.  We should not dare to repeat
these now aloud.  We are not competent to hear them at all times.

The books for young people say a great deal about the selection
of Friends; it is because they really have nothing to say about
Friends.  They mean associates and confidants merely.  “Know
that the contrariety of foe and Friend proceeds from God.”
Friendship takes place between those who have an affinity for one
another, and is a perfectly natural and inevitable result.  No
professions nor advances will avail.  Even speech, at first,
necessarily has nothing to do with it; but it follows after
silence, as the buds in the graft do not put forth into leaves
till long after the graft has taken.  It is a drama in which the
parties have no part to act.  We are all Mussulmen and fatalists
in this respect.  Impatient and uncertain lovers think that they
must say or do something kind whenever they meet; they must never
be cold.  But they who are Friends do not do what they think
they must, but what they must.  Even their Friendship is to
some extent but a sublime phenomenon to them.

The true and not despairing Friend will address his Friend in
some such terms as these.

“I never asked thy leave to let me love thee,—I have a right.  I
love thee not as something private and personal, which is your
own, but as something universal and worthy of love, which I
have found.  O, how I think of you!  You are purely good, —you
are infinitely good.  I can trust you forever.  I did not think
that humanity was so rich.  Give me an opportunity to live.”

“You are the fact in a fiction,—you are the truth more strange
and admirable than fiction.  Consent only to be what you are.  I
alone will never stand in your way.”

“This is what I would like,—to be as intimate with you as our
spirits are intimate,—respecting you as I respect my ideal.
Never to profane one another by word or action, even by a
thought.  Between us, if necessary, let there be no
acquaintance.”

“I have discovered you; how can you be concealed from me?”

The Friend asks no return but that his Friend will religiously
accept and wear and not disgrace his apotheosis of him.  They
cherish each other’s hopes.  They are kind to each other’s
dreams.

Though the poet says, “’Tis the pre-eminence of Friendship to
impute excellence,” yet we can never praise our Friend, nor
esteem him praiseworthy, nor let him think that he can please us
by any behavior, or ever treat us well enough.  That kindness
which has so good a reputation elsewhere can least of all consist
with this relation, and no such affront can be offered to a
Friend, as a conscious good-will, a friendliness which is not a
necessity of the Friend’s nature.

The sexes are naturally most strongly attracted to one another,
by constant constitutional differences, and are most commonly and
surely the complements of each other.  How natural and easy it is
for man to secure the attention of woman to what interests
himself.  Men and women of equal culture, thrown together, are
sure to be of a certain value to one another, more than men to
men.  There exists already a natural disinterestedness and
liberality in such society, and I think that any man will more
confidently carry his favorite books to read to some circle of
intelligent women, than to one of his own sex.  The visit of man
to man is wont to be an interruption, but the sexes naturally
expect one another.  Yet Friendship is no respecter of sex; and
perhaps it is more rare between the sexes than between two of the
same sex.

Friendship is, at any rate, a relation of perfect equality.  It
cannot well spare any outward sign of equal obligation and
advantage.  The nobleman can never have a Friend among his
retainers, nor the king among his subjects.  Not that the parties
to it are in all respects equal, but they are equal in all that
respects or affects their Friendship.  The one’s love is exactly
balanced and represented by the other’s.  Persons are only the
vessels which contain the nectar, and the hydrostatic paradox is
the symbol of love’s law.  It finds its level and rises to its
fountain-head in all breasts, and its slenderest column balances
the ocean.

     “And love as well the shepherd can
     As can the mighty nobleman.”

The one sex is not, in this respect, more tender than the other.

A hero’s love is as delicate as a maiden’s.

Confucius said, “Never contract Friendship with a man who is not
better than thyself.” It is the merit and preservation of
Friendship, that it takes place on a level higher than the actual
characters of the parties would seem to warrant.  The rays of
light come to us in such a curve that every man whom we meet
appears to be taller than he actually is.  Such foundation has
civility.  My Friend is that one whom I can associate with my
choicest thought.  I always assign to him a nobler employment in
my absence than I ever find him engaged in; and I imagine that
the hours which he devotes to me were snatched from a higher
society.  The sorest insult which I ever received from a Friend
was, when he behaved with the license which only long and cheap
acquaintance allows to one’s faults, in my presence, without
shame, and still addressed me in friendly accents.  Beware, lest
thy Friend learn at last to tolerate one frailty of thine, and so
an obstacle be raised to the progress of thy love.  There are
times when we have had enough even of our Friends, when we begin
inevitably to profane one another, and must withdraw religiously
into solitude and silence, the better to prepare ourselves for a
loftier intimacy.  Silence is the ambrosial night in the
intercourse of Friends, in which their sincerity is recruited and
takes deeper root.

Friendship is never established as an understood relation.  Do
you demand that I be less your Friend that you may know it?  Yet
what right have I to think that another cherishes so rare a
sentiment for me?  It is a miracle which requires constant
proofs.  It is an exercise of the purest imagination and the
rarest faith.  It says by a silent but eloquent behavior,—“I
will be so related to thee as thou canst imagine; even so thou
mayest believe.  I will spend truth,—all my wealth on
thee,”—and the Friend responds silently through his nature and
life, and treats his Friend with the same divine courtesy.  He
knows us literally through thick and thin.  He never asks for a
sign of love, but can distinguish it by the features which it
naturally wears.  We never need to stand upon ceremony with him
with regard to his visits.  Wait not till I invite thee, but
observe that I am glad to see thee when thou comest.  It would be
paying too dear for thy visit to ask for it.  Where my Friend
lives there are all riches and every attraction, and no slight
obstacle can keep me from him.  Let me never have to tell thee
what I have not to tell.  Let our intercourse be wholly above
ourselves, and draw us up to it.

The language of Friendship is not words, but meanings.  It is an
intelligence above language.  One imagines endless conversations
with his Friend, in which the tongue shall be loosed, and
thoughts be spoken without hesitancy or end; but the experience
is commonly far otherwise.  Acquaintances may come and go, and
have a word ready for every occasion; but what puny word shall he
utter whose very breath is thought and meaning?  Suppose you go
to bid farewell to your Friend who is setting out on a journey;
what other outward sign do you know than to shake his hand?  Have
you any palaver ready for him then? any box of salve to commit to
his pocket?  any particular message to send by him?  any
statement which you had forgotten to make?—as if you could
forget anything.—No, it is much that you take his hand and say
Farewell; that you could easily omit; so far custom has
prevailed.  It is even painful, if he is to go, that he should
linger so long.  If he must go, let him go quickly.  Have you any
last words?  Alas, it is only the word of words, which you have
so long sought and found not; you have not a first word yet.
There are few even whom I should venture to call earnestly by
their most proper names.  A name pronounced is the recognition of
the individual to whom it belongs.  He who can pronounce my name
aright, he can call me, and is entitled to my love and service.
Yet reserve is the freedom and abandonment of lovers.  It is the
reserve of what is hostile or indifferent in their natures, to
give place to what is kindred and harmonious.

The violence of love is as much to be dreaded as that of hate.
When it is durable it is serene and equable.  Even its famous
pains begin only with the ebb of love, for few are indeed lovers,
though all would fain be.  It is one proof of a man’s fitness for
Friendship that he is able to do without that which is cheap and
passionate.  A true Friendship is as wise as it is tender.  The
parties to it yield implicitly to the guidance of their love, and
know no other law nor kindness.  It is not extravagant and
insane, but what it says is something established henceforth, and
will bear to be stereotyped.  It is a truer truth, it is better
and fairer news, and no time will ever shame it, or prove it
false.  This is a plant which thrives best in a temperate zone,
where summer and winter alternate with one another.  The Friend
is a necessarius, and meets his Friend on homely ground; not on
carpets and cushions, but on the ground and on rocks they will
sit, obeying the natural and primitive laws.  They will meet
without any outcry, and part without loud sorrow.  Their relation
implies such qualities as the warrior prizes; for it takes a
valor to open the hearts of men as well as the gates of castles.
It is not an idle sympathy and mutual consolation merely, but a
heroic sympathy of aspiration and endeavor.

     “When manhood shall be matched so
       That fear can take no place,
     Then weary works make warriors
       Each other to embrace.”

The Friendship which Wawatam testified for Henry the fur-trader,
as described in the latter’s “Adventures,” so almost bare and
leafless, yet not blossomless nor fruitless, is remembered with
satisfaction and security.  The stern, imperturbable warrior,
after fasting, solitude, and mortification of body, comes to the
white man’s lodge, and affirms that he is the white brother whom
he saw in his dream, and adopts him henceforth.  He buries the
hatchet as it regards his friend, and they hunt and feast and
make maple-sugar together.  “Metals unite from fluxility; birds
and beasts from motives of convenience; fools from fear and
stupidity; and just men at sight.”  If Wawatam would taste the
“white man’s milk” with his tribe, or take his bowl of human
broth made of the trader’s fellow-countrymen, he first finds a
place of safety for his Friend, whom he has rescued from a
similar fate.  At length, after a long winter of undisturbed and
happy intercourse in the family of the chieftain in the
wilderness, hunting and fishing, they return in the spring to
Michilimackinac to dispose of their furs; and it becomes
necessary for Wawatam to take leave of his Friend at the Isle aux
Outardes, when the latter, to avoid his enemies, proceeded to the
Sault de Sainte Marie, supposing that they were to be separated
for a short time only.  “We now exchanged farewells,” says Henry,
“with an emotion entirely reciprocal.  I did not quit the lodge
without the most grateful sense of the many acts of goodness
which I had experienced in it, nor without the sincerest respect
for the virtues which I had witnessed among its members.  All the
family accompanied me to the beach; and the canoe had no sooner
put off than Wawatam commenced an address to the Kichi Manito,
beseeching him to take care of me, his brother, till we should
next meet.  We had proceeded to too great a distance to allow of
our hearing his voice, before Wawatam had ceased to offer up his
prayers.” We never hear of him again.

Friendship is not so kind as is imagined; it has not much human
blood in it, but consists with a certain disregard for men and
their erections, the Christian duties and humanities, while it
purifies the air like electricity.  There may be the sternest
tragedy in the relation of two more than usually innocent and
true to their highest instincts.  We may call it an essentially
heathenish intercourse, free and irresponsible in its nature, and
practising all the virtues gratuitously.  It is not the highest
sympathy merely, but a pure and lofty society, a fragmentary and
godlike intercourse of ancient date, still kept up at intervals,
which, remembering itself, does not hesitate to disregard the
humbler rights and duties of humanity.  It requires immaculate
and godlike qualities full-grown, and exists at all only by
condescension and anticipation of the remotest future.  We love
nothing which is merely good and not fair, if such a thing is
possible.  Nature puts some kind of blossom before every fruit,
not simply a calyx behind it.  When the Friend comes out of his
heathenism and superstition, and breaks his idols, being
converted by the precepts of a newer testament; when he forgets
his mythology, and treats his Friend like a Christian, or as he
can afford; then Friendship ceases to be Friendship, and becomes
charity; that principle which established the almshouse is now
beginning with its charity at home, and establishing an almshouse
and pauper relations there.

As for the number which this society admits, it is at any rate to
be begun with one, the noblest and greatest that we know, and
whether the world will ever carry it further, whether, as Chaucer
affirms,

     “There be mo sterres in the skie than a pair,”

remains to be proved;

     “And certaine he is well begone
     Among a thousand that findeth one.”

We shall not surrender ourselves heartily to any while we are
conscious that another is more deserving of our love.  Yet
Friendship does not stand for numbers; the Friend does not count
his Friends on his fingers; they are not numerable.  The more
there are included by this bond, if they are indeed included, the
rarer and diviner the quality of the love that binds them.  I am
ready to believe that as private and intimate a relation may
exist by which three are embraced, as between two.  Indeed, we
cannot have too many friends; the virtue which we appreciate we
to some extent appropriate, so that thus we are made at last more
fit for every relation of life.  A base Friendship is of a
narrowing and exclusive tendency, but a noble one is not
exclusive; its very superfluity and dispersed love is the
humanity which sweetens society, and sympathizes with foreign
nations; for though its foundations are private, it is, in
effect, a public affair and a public advantage, and the Friend,
more than the father of a family, deserves well of the state.

The only danger in Friendship is that it will end.  It is a
delicate plant, though a native.  The least unworthiness, even if
it be unknown to one’s self, vitiates it.  Let the Friend know
that those faults which he observes in his Friend his own faults
attract.  There is no rule more invariable than that we are paid
for our suspicions by finding what we suspected.  By our narrowness
and prejudices we say, I will have so much and such of you, my
Friend, no more.  Perhaps there are none charitable, none
disinterested, none wise, noble, and heroic enough, for a true
and lasting Friendship.

I sometimes hear my Friends complain finely that I do not
appreciate their fineness.  I shall not tell them whether I do or
not.  As if they expected a vote of thanks for every fine thing
which they uttered or did.  Who knows but it was finely
appreciated.  It may be that your silence was the finest thing of
the two.  There are some things which a man never speaks of,
which are much finer kept silent about.  To the highest
communications we only lend a silent ear.  Our finest relations
are not simply kept silent about, but buried under a positive
depth of silence never to be revealed.  It may be that we are not
even yet acquainted.  In human intercourse the tragedy begins,
not when there is misunderstanding about words, but when silence
is not understood.  Then there can never be an explanation.  What
avails it that another loves you, if he does not understand you?
Such love is a curse.  What sort of companions are they who are
presuming always that their silence is more expressive than
yours?  How foolish, and inconsiderate, and unjust, to conduct as
if you were the only party aggrieved!  Has not your Friend always
equal ground of complaint?  No doubt my Friends sometimes speak
to me in vain, but they do not know what things I hear which they
are not aware that they have spoken.  I know that I have
frequently disappointed them by not giving them words when they
expected them, or such as they expected.  Whenever I see my
Friend I speak to him; but the expecter, the man with the ears,
is not he.  They will complain too that you are hard.  O ye that
would have the cocoa-nut wrong side outwards, when next I weep I
will let you know.  They ask for words and deeds, when a true
relation is word and deed.  If they know not of these things, how
can they be informed?  We often forbear to confess our feelings,
not from pride, but for fear that we could not continue to love
the one who required us to give such proof of our affection.

I know a woman who possesses a restless and intelligent mind,
interested in her own culture, and earnest to enjoy the highest
possible advantages, and I meet her with pleasure as a natural
person who not a little provokes me, and I suppose is stimulated
in turn by myself.  Yet our acquaintance plainly does not attain
to that degree of confidence and sentiment which women, which
all, in fact, covet.  I am glad to help her, as I am helped by
her; I like very well to know her with a sort of stranger’s
privilege, and hesitate to visit her often, like her other
Friends.  My nature pauses here, I do not well know why.  Perhaps
she does not make the highest demand on me, a religious demand.
Some, with whose prejudices or peculiar bias I have no sympathy,
yet inspire me with confidence, and I trust that they confide in
me also as a religious heathen at least,—a good Greek.  I, too,
have principles as well founded as their own.  If this person
could conceive that, without wilfulness, I associate with her as
far as our destinies are coincident, as far as our Good Geniuses
permit, and still value such intercourse, it would be a grateful
assurance to me.  I feel as if I appeared careless, indifferent,
and without principle to her, not expecting more, and yet not
content with less.  If she could know that I make an infinite
demand on myself, as well as on all others, she would see that
this true though incomplete intercourse, is infinitely better
than a more unreserved but falsely grounded one, without the
principle of growth in it.  For a companion, I require one who
will make an equal demand on me with my own genius.  Such a one
will always be rightly tolerant.  It is suicide, and corrupts
good manners to welcome any less than this.  I value and trust
those who love and praise my aspiration rather than my
performance.  If you would not stop to look at me, but look
whither I am looking, and farther, then my education could not
dispense with your company.

     My love must be as free
        As is the eagle’s wing,
     Hovering o’er land and sea
        And everything.
     I must not dim my eye
        In thy saloon,
     I must not leave my sky
        And nightly moon.
     Be not the fowler’s net
        Which stays my flight,
     And craftily is set
        T’allure the sight.
     But be the favoring gale
        That bears me on,
     And still doth fill my sail
        When thou art gone.
     I cannot leave my sky
        For thy caprice,
     True love would soar as high
        As heaven is.
     The eagle would not brook
        Her mate thus won,
     Who trained his eye to look
        Beneath the sun.

Few things are more difficult than to help a Friend in matters
which do not require the aid of Friendship, but only a cheap and
trivial service, if your Friendship wants the basis of a thorough
practical acquaintance.  I stand in the friendliest relation, on
social and spiritual grounds, to one who does not perceive what
practical skill I have, but when he seeks my assistance in such
matters, is wholly ignorant of that one with whom he deals; does
not use my skill, which in such matters is much greater than his,
but only my hands.  I know another, who, on the contrary, is
remarkable for his discrimination in this respect; who knows how
to make use of the talents of others when he does not possess the
same; knows when not to look after or oversee, and stops short at
his man.  It is a rare pleasure to serve him, which all laborers
know.  I am not a little pained by the other kind of treatment.
It is as if, after the friendliest and most ennobling intercourse,
your Friend should use you as a hammer, and drive a nail with
your head, all in good faith; notwithstanding that you are a
tolerable carpenter, as well as his good Friend, and would use a
hammer cheerfully in his service.  This want of perception is a
defect which all the virtues of the heart cannot supply:—

     The Good how can we trust?
     Only the Wise are just.
     The Good we use,
     The Wise we cannot choose.
     These there are none above;
     The Good they know and love,
     But are not known again
     By those of lesser ken.
     They do not charm us with their eyes,
     But they transfix with their advice;
     No partial sympathy they feel,
     With private woe or private weal,
     But with the universe joy and sigh,
     Whose knowledge is their sympathy.

Confucius said: “To contract ties of Friendship with any one, is
to contract Friendship with his virtue.  There ought not to be
any other motive in Friendship.”  But men wish us to contract
Friendship with their vice also.  I have a Friend who wishes me
to see that to be right which I know to be wrong.  But if
Friendship is to rob me of my eyes, if it is to darken the day, I
will have none of it.  It should be expansive and inconceivably
liberalizing in its effects.  True Friendship can afford true
knowledge.  It does not depend on darkness and ignorance.  A want
of discernment cannot be an ingredient in it.  If I can see my
Friend’s virtues more distinctly than another’s, his faults too
are made more conspicuous by contrast.  We have not so good a
right to hate any as our Friend.  Faults are not the less faults
because they are invariably balanced by corresponding virtues,
and for a fault there is no excuse, though it may appear greater
than it is in many ways.  I have never known one who could bear
criticism, who could not be flattered, who would not bribe his
judge, or was content that the truth should be loved always
better than himself.

If two travellers would go their way harmoniously together, the
one must take as true and just a view of things as the other,
else their path will not be strewn with roses.  Yet you can
travel profitably and pleasantly even with a blind man, if he
practises common courtesy, and when you converse about the
scenery will remember that he is blind but that you can see; and
you will not forget that his sense of hearing is probably
quickened by his want of sight.  Otherwise you will not long keep
company.  A blind man, and a man in whose eyes there was no
defect, were walking together, when they came to the edge of a
precipice.  “Take care!  my friend,” said the latter, “here is a
steep precipice; go no farther this way.”—“I know better,” said
the other, and stepped off.

It is impossible to say all that we think, even to our truest
Friend.  We may bid him farewell forever sooner than complain,
for our complaint is too well grounded to be uttered.  There is
not so good an understanding between any two, but the exposure by
the one of a serious fault in the other will produce a
misunderstanding in proportion to its heinousness.  The
constitutional differences which always exist, and are obstacles
to a perfect Friendship, are forever a forbidden theme to the
lips of Friends.  They advise by their whole behavior.  Nothing
can reconcile them but love.  They are fatally late when they
undertake to explain and treat with one another like foes.  Who
will take an apology for a Friend?  They must apologize like dew
and frost, which are off again with the sun, and which all men
know in their hearts to be beneficent.  The necessity itself for
explanation,—what explanation will atone for that?

True love does not quarrel for slight reasons, such mistakes as
mutual acquaintances can explain away, but, alas, however slight
the apparent cause, only for adequate and fatal and everlasting
reasons, which can never be set aside.  Its quarrel, if there is
any, is ever recurring, notwithstanding the beams of affection
which invariably come to gild its tears; as the rainbow, however
beautiful and unerring a sign, does not promise fair weather
forever, but only for a season.  I have known two or three
persons pretty well, and yet I have never known advice to be of
use but in trivial and transient matters.  One may know what
another does not, but the utmost kindness cannot impart what is
requisite to make the advice useful.  We must accept or refuse
one another as we are.  I could tame a hyena more easily than my
Friend.  He is a material which no tool of mine will work.  A
naked savage will fell an oak with a firebrand, and wear a
hatchet out of a rock by friction, but I cannot hew the smallest
chip out of the character of my Friend, either to beautify or
deform it.

The lover learns at last that there is no person quite
transparent and trustworthy, but every one has a devil in him
that is capable of any crime in the long run.  Yet, as an
Oriental philosopher has said, “Although Friendship between good
men is interrupted, their principles remain unaltered.  The stalk
of the lotus may be broken, and the fibres remain connected.”

Ignorance and bungling with love are better than wisdom and skill
without.  There may be courtesy, there may be even temper, and
wit, and talent, and sparkling conversation, there may be
good-will even,—and yet the humanest and divinest faculties pine
for exercise.  Our life without love is like coke and ashes.  Men
may be pure as alabaster and Parian marble, elegant as a Tuscan
villa, sublime as Niagara, and yet if there is no milk mingled
with the wine at their entertainments, better is the hospitality
of Goths and Vandals.

My Friend is not of some other race or family of men, but flesh
of my flesh, bone of my bone.  He is my real brother.  I see his
nature groping yonder so like mine.  We do not live far apart.
Have not the fates associated us in many ways?  It says, in the
Vishnu Purana: “Seven paces together is sufficient for the
friendship of the virtuous, but thou and I have dwelt together.”
Is it of no significance that we have so long partaken of the
same loaf, drank at the same fountain, breathed the same air
summer and winter, felt the same heat and cold; that the same
fruits have been pleased to refresh us both, and we have never
had a thought of different fibre the one from the other!

      Nature doth have her dawn each day,
      But mine are far between;
      Content, I cry, for sooth to say,
      Mine brightest are I ween.
      For when my sun doth deign to rise,
      Though it be her noontide,
      Her fairest field in shadow lies,
      Nor can my light abide.
      Sometimes I bask me in her day,
      Conversing with my mate,
      But if we interchange one ray,
      Forthwith her heats abate.
      Through his discourse I climb and see,
      As from some eastern hill,
      A brighter morrow rise to me
      Than lieth in her skill.
      As ’t were two summer days in one,
      Two Sundays come together,
      Our rays united make one sun,
      With fairest summer weather.

As surely as the sunset in my latest November shall translate me
to the ethereal world, and remind me of the ruddy morning of
youth; as surely as the last strain of music which falls on my
decaying ear shall make age to be forgotten, or, in short, the
manifold influences of nature survive during the term of our
natural life, so surely my Friend shall forever be my Friend, and
reflect a ray of God to me, and time shall foster and adorn and
consecrate our Friendship, no less than the ruins of temples.  As
I love nature, as I love singing birds, and gleaming stubble, and
flowing rivers, and morning and evening, and summer and winter, I
love thee, my Friend.

But all that can be said of Friendship, is like botany to
flowers.  How can the understanding take account of its
friendliness?

Even the death of Friends will inspire us as much as their lives.
They will leave consolation to the mourners, as the rich leave
money to defray the expenses of their funerals, and their
memories will be incrusted over with sublime and pleasing
thoughts, as monuments of other men are overgrown with moss; for
our Friends have no place in the graveyard.

This to our cis-Alpine and cis-Atlantic Friends.

Also this other word of entreaty and advice to the large and
respectable nation of Acquaintances, beyond the
mountains;—Greeting.

My most serene and irresponsible neighbors, let us see that we
have the whole advantage of each other; we will be useful, at
least, if not admirable, to one another.  I know that the
mountains which separate us are high, and covered with perpetual
snow, but despair not.  Improve the serene winter weather to
scale them.  If need be, soften the rocks with vinegar.  For here
lie the verdant plains of Italy ready to receive you.  Nor shall
I be slow on my side to penetrate to your Provence.  Strike then
boldly at head or heart or any vital part.  Depend upon it, the
timber is well seasoned and tough, and will bear rough usage; and
if it should crack, there is plenty more where it came from.  I
am no piece of crockery that cannot be jostled against my
neighbor without danger of being broken by the collision, and
must needs ring false and jarringly to the end of my days, when
once I am cracked; but rather one of the old-fashioned wooden
trenchers, which one while stands at the head of the table, and
at another is a milking-stool, and at another a seat for
children, and finally goes down to its grave not unadorned with
honorable scars, and does not die till it is worn out.  Nothing
can shock a brave man but dulness.  Think how many rebuffs every
man has experienced in his day; perhaps has fallen into a
horse-pond, eaten fresh-water clams, or worn one shirt for a week
without washing.  Indeed, you cannot receive a shock unless you
have an electric affinity for that which shocks you.  Use me,
then, for I am useful in my way, and stand as one of many
petitioners, from toadstool and henbane up to dahlia and violet,
supplicating to be put to my use, if by any means ye may find me
serviceable; whether for a medicated drink or bath, as balm and
lavender; or for fragrance, as verbena and geranium; or for
sight, as cactus; or for thoughts, as <DW29>.  These humbler, at
least, if not those higher uses.

Ah, my dear Strangers and Enemies, I would not forget you.  I can
well afford to welcome you.  Let me subscribe myself Yours ever
and truly,—your much obliged servant.  We have nothing to fear
from our foes; God keeps a standing army for that service; but we
have no ally against our Friends, those ruthless Vandals.

Once more to one and all,

     “Friends, Romans, Countrymen, and Lovers.”
     Let such pure hate still underprop
     Our love, that we may be
     Each other’s conscience.
     And have our sympathy
     Mainly from thence.
     We’ll one another treat like gods,
     And all the faith we have
     In virtue and in truth, bestow
     On either, and suspicion leave
     To gods below.
     Two solitary stars,—
     Unmeasured systems far
     Between us roll,
     But by our conscious light we are
     Determined to one pole.
     What need confound the sphere,—
     Love can afford to wait,
     For it no hour’s too late
     That witnesseth one duty’s end,
     Or to another doth beginning lend.
     It will subserve no use,
     More than the tints of flowers,
     Only the independent guest
     Frequents its bowers,
     Inherits its bequest.
     No speech though kind has it,
     But kinder silence doles
     Unto its mates,
     By night consoles,
     By day congratulates.
     What saith the tongue to tongue?
     What heareth ear of ear?
     By the decrees of fate
     From year to year,
     Does it communicate.
     Pathless the gulf of feeling yawns,—
     No trivial bridge of words,
     Or arch of boldest span,
     Can leap the moat that girds
     The sincere man.
     No show of bolts and bars
     Can keep the foeman out,
     Or ’scape his secret mine
     Who entered with the doubt
     That drew the line.
     No warder at the gate
     Can let the friendly in,
     But, like the sun, o’er all
     He will the castle win,
     And shine along the wall.
     There’s nothing in the world I know
     That can escape from love,
     For every depth it goes below,
     And every height above.
     It waits as waits the sky,
     Until the clouds go by,
     Yet shines serenely on
     With an eternal day,
     Alike when they are gone,
     And when they stay.
     Implacable is Love,—
     Foes may be bought or teased
     From their hostile intent,
     But he goes unappeased
     Who is on kindness bent.

Having rowed five or six miles above Amoskeag before sunset, and
reached a pleasant part of the river, one of us landed to look
for a farm-house, where we might replenish our stores, while the
other remained cruising about the stream, and exploring the
opposite shores to find a suitable harbor for the night.  In the
mean while the canal-boats began to come round a point in our
rear, poling their way along close to the shore, the breeze
having quite died away.  This time there was no offer of
assistance, but one of the boatmen only called out to say, as the
truest revenge for having been the losers in the race, that he
had seen a wood-duck, which we had scared up, sitting on a tall
white-pine, half a mile down stream; and he repeated the
assertion several times, and seemed really chagrined at the
apparent suspicion with which this information was received.  But
there sat the summer duck still, undisturbed by us.

By and by the other voyageur returned from his inland expedition,
bringing one of the natives with him, a little flaxen-headed boy,
with some tradition, or small edition, of Robinson Crusoe in his
head, who had been charmed by the account of our adventures, and
asked his father’s leave to join us.  He examined, at first from
the top of the bank, our boat and furniture, with sparkling eyes,
and wished himself already his own man.  He was a lively and
interesting boy, and we should have been glad to ship him; but
Nathan was still his father’s boy, and had not come to years of
discretion.

We had got a loaf of home-made bread, and musk and water melons
for dessert.  For this farmer, a clever and well-disposed man,
cultivated a large patch of melons for the Hooksett and Concord
markets.  He hospitably entertained us the next day, exhibiting
his hop-fields and kiln and melon-patch, warning us to step over
the tight rope which surrounded the latter at a foot from the
ground, while he pointed to a little bower at one corner, where
it connected with the lock of a gun ranging with the line, and
where, as he informed us, he sometimes sat in pleasant nights to
defend his premises against thieves.  We stepped high over the
line, and sympathized with our host’s on the whole quite human,
if not humane, interest in the success of his experiment.  That
night especially thieves were to be expected, from rumors in the
atmosphere, and the priming was not wet.  He was a Methodist man,
who had his dwelling between the river and Uncannunuc Mountain;
who there belonged, and stayed at home there, and by the
encouragement of distant political organizations, and by his own
tenacity, held a property in his melons, and continued to plant.
We suggested melon-seeds of new varieties and fruit of foreign
flavor to be added to his stock.  We had come away up here among
the hills to learn the impartial and unbribable beneficence of
Nature.  Strawberries and melons grow as well in one man’s garden
as another’s, and the sun lodges as kindly under his
hillside,—when we had imagined that she inclined rather to some
few earnest and faithful souls whom we know.

We found a convenient harbor for our boat on the opposite or east
shore, still in Hooksett, at the mouth of a small brook which
emptied into the Merrimack, where it would be out of the way of
any passing boat in the night,—for they commonly hug the shore
if bound up stream, either to avoid the current, or touch the
bottom with their poles,—and where it would be accessible
without stepping on the clayey shore.  We set one of our largest
melons to cool in the still water among the alders at the mouth
of this creek, but when our tent was pitched and ready, and we
went to get it, it had floated out into the stream, and was
nowhere to be seen.  So taking the boat in the twilight, we went
in pursuit of this property, and at length, after long straining
of the eyes, its green disk was discovered far down the river,
gently floating seaward with many twigs and leaves from the
mountains that evening, and so perfectly balanced that it had not
keeled at all, and no water had run in at the tap which had been
taken out to hasten its cooling.

As we sat on the bank eating our supper, the clear light of the
western sky fell on the eastern trees, and was reflected in the
water, and we enjoyed so serene an evening as left nothing to
describe.  For the most part we think that there are few degrees
of sublimity, and that the highest is but little higher than that
which we now behold; but we are always deceived.  Sublimer
visions appear, and the former pale and fade away.  We are
grateful when we are reminded by interior evidence of the
permanence of universal laws; for our faith is but faintly
remembered, indeed, is not a remembered assurance, but a use and
enjoyment of knowledge.  It is when we do not have to believe,
but come into actual contact with Truth, and are related to her
in the most direct and intimate way.  Waves of serener life pass
over us from time to time, like flakes of sunlight over the
fields in cloudy weather.  In some happier moment, when more sap
flows in the withered stalk of our life, Syria and India stretch
away from our present as they do in history.  All the events
which make the annals of the nations are but the shadows of our
private experiences.  Suddenly and silently the eras which we
call history awake and glimmer in us, and there is room for
Alexander and Hannibal to march and conquer.  In short, the
history which we read is only a fainter memory of events which
have happened in our own experience.  Tradition is a more
interrupted and feebler memory.

This world is but canvas to our imaginations.  I see men with
infinite pains endeavoring to realize to their bodies, what I,
with at least equal pains, would realize to my imagination,—its
capacities; for certainly there is a life of the mind above the
wants of the body, and independent of it.  Often the body is
warmed, but the imagination is torpid; the body is fat, but the
imagination is lean and shrunk.  But what avails all other wealth
if this is wanting?  “Imagination is the air of mind,” in which
it lives and breathes.  All things are as I am.  Where is the
House of Change?  The past is only so heroic as we see it.
It is the canvas on which our idea of heroism is painted, and
so, in one sense, the dim prospectus of our future field.  Our
circumstances answer to our expectations and the demand of our
natures.  I have noticed that if a man thinks that he needs a
thousand dollars, and cannot be convinced that he does not, he
will commonly be found to have them; if he lives and thinks a
thousand dollars will be forthcoming, though it be to buy
shoe-strings with.  A thousand mills will be just as slow to
come to one who finds it equally hard to convince himself that
he needs them.

     Men are by birth equal in this, that given Themselves and
     their condition, they are even.

I am astonished at the singular pertinacity and endurance of our
lives.  The miracle is, that what is is, when it is so
difficult, if not impossible, for anything else to be; that we
walk on in our particular paths so far, before we fall on death
and fate, merely because we must walk in some path; that every
man can get a living, and so few can do anything more.  So much
only can I accomplish ere health and strength are gone, and yet
this suffices.  The bird now sits just out of gunshot.  I am
never rich in money, and I am never meanly poor.  If debts are
incurred, why, debts are in the course of events cancelled, as it
were by the same law by which they were incurred.  I heard that
an engagement was entered into between a certain youth and a
maiden, and then I heard that it was broken off, but I did not
know the reason in either case.  We are hedged about, we think,
by accident and circumstance, now we creep as in a dream, and now
again we run, as if there were a fate in it, and all things
thwarted or assisted.  I cannot change my clothes but when I do,
and yet I do change them, and soil the new ones.  It is wonderful
that this gets done, when some admirable deeds which I could
mention do not get done.  Our particular lives seem of such
fortune and confident strength and durability as piers of solid
rock thrown forward into the tide of circumstance.  When every
other path would fail, with singular and unerring confidence we
advance on our particular course.  What risks we run! famine and
fire and pestilence, and the thousand forms of a cruel fate,—and
yet every man lives till he—dies.  How did he manage that?  Is
there no immediate danger?  We wonder superfluously when we hear
of a somnambulist walking a plank securely,—we have walked a
plank all our lives up to this particular string-piece where we
are.  My life will wait for nobody, but is being matured still
without delay, while I go about the streets, and chaffer with
this man and that to secure it a living.  It is as indifferent
and easy meanwhile as a poor man’s dog, and making acquaintance
with its kind.  It will cut its own channel like a mountain
stream, and by the longest ridge is not kept from the sea at
last.  I have found all things thus far, persons and inanimate
matter, elements and seasons, strangely adapted to my resources.
No matter what imprudent haste in my career; I am permitted to be
rash.  Gulfs are bridged in a twinkling, as if some unseen
baggage-train carried pontoons for my convenience, and while from
the heights I scan the tempting but unexplored Pacific Ocean of
Futurity, the ship is being carried over the mountains piecemeal
on the backs of mules and lamas, whose keel shall plough its
waves, and bear me to the Indies.  Day would not dawn if it were
not for

     THE INWARD MORNING

     Packed in my mind lie all the clothes
     Which outward nature wears,
     And in its fashion’s hourly change
     It all things else repairs.
     In vain I look for change abroad,
     And can no difference find,
     Till some new ray of peace uncalled
     Illumes my inmost mind.
     What is it gilds the trees and clouds,
     And paints the heavens so gay,
     But yonder fast-abiding light
     With its unchanging ray?
     Lo, when the sun streams through the wood,
     Upon a winter’s morn,
     Where’er his silent beams intrude,
     The murky night is gone.
     How could the patient pine have known
       The morning breeze would come,
     Or humble flowers anticipate
       The insect’s noonday hum,—
     Till the new light with morning cheer
       From far streamed through the aisles,
     And nimbly told the forest trees
       For many stretching miles?
     I’ve heard within my inmost soul
       Such cheerful morning news,
     In the horizon of my mind
       Have seen such orient hues,
     As in the twilight of the dawn,
       When the first birds awake,
     Are heard within some silent wood,
       Where they the small twigs break,
     Or in the eastern skies are seen,
       Before the sun appears,
     The harbingers of summer heats
        Which from afar he bears.

Whole weeks and months of my summer life slide away in thin
volumes like mist and smoke, till at length, some warm morning,
perchance, I see a sheet of mist blown down the brook to the
swamp, and I float as high above the fields with it.  I can recall
to mind the stillest summer hours, in which the grasshopper sings
over the mulleins, and there is a valor in that time the bare
memory of which is armor that can laugh at any blow of fortune.
For our lifetime the strains of a harp are heard to swell and die
alternately, and death is but “the pause when the blast is
recollecting itself.”

We lay awake a long while, listening to the murmurs of the brook,
in the angle formed by whose bank with the river our tent was
pitched, and there was a sort of human interest in its story,
which ceases not in freshet or in drought the livelong summer,
and the profounder lapse of the river was quite drowned by its
din.  But the rill, whose

     “Silver sands and pebbles sing
     Eternal ditties with the spring,”

is silenced by the first frosts of winter, while mightier
streams, on whose bottom the sun never shines, clogged with
sunken rocks and the ruins of forests, from whose surface comes
up no murmur, are strangers to the icy fetters which bind fast a
thousand contributary rills.

I dreamed this night of an event which had occurred long before.
It was a difference with a Friend, which had not ceased to give
me pain, though I had no cause to blame myself.  But in my dream
ideal justice was at length done me for his suspicions, and I
received that compensation which I had never obtained in my
waking hours.  I was unspeakably soothed and rejoiced, even after
I awoke, because in dreams we never deceive ourselves, nor are
deceived, and this seemed to have the authority of a final
judgment.

We bless and curse ourselves.  Some dreams are divine, as well as
some waking thoughts.  Donne sings of one

     “Who dreamt devoutlier than most use to pray.”

Dreams are the touchstones of our characters.  We are scarcely
less afflicted when we remember some unworthiness in our conduct
in a dream, than if it had been actual, and the intensity of our
grief, which is our atonement, measures the degree by which this
is separated from an actual unworthiness.  For in dreams we but
act a part which must have been learned and rehearsed in our
waking hours, and no doubt could discover some waking consent
thereto.  If this meanness had not its foundation in us, why are
we grieved at it?  In dreams we see ourselves naked and acting
out our real characters, even more clearly than we see others
awake.  But an unwavering and commanding virtue would compel even
its most fantastic and faintest dreams to respect its
ever-wakeful authority; as we are accustomed to say carelessly,
we should never have dreamed of such a thing.  Our truest life
is when we are in dreams awake.

     “And, more to lulle him in his slumber soft,
     A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe,
     And ever-drizzling raine upon the loft,
     Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne
     Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swowne.
     No other noyse, nor people’s troublous cryes,
     As still are wont t’ annoy the walled towne,
     Might there be heard; but careless Quiet lyes
     Wrapt in eternall silence farre from enemyes.”

    
      
 
 
       
    
    
      


    

THURSDAY.

     “He trode the unplanted forest floor, whereon
     The all-seeing sun for ages hath not shone,
     Where feeds the moose, and walks the surly bear,
     And up the tall mast runs the woodpecker.
          .  .  .  .
     Where darkness found him he lay glad at night;
     There the red morning touched him with its light.
          .  .  .  .
     Go where he will, the wise man is at home,
     His hearth the earth,—his hall the azure dome;
     Where his clear spirit leads him, there’s his road,
     By God’s own light illumined and foreshowed.”

                                            Emerson.

THURSDAY.


When we awoke this morning, we heard the faint, deliberate, and
ominous sound of rain-drops on our cotton roof.  The rain had
pattered all night, and now the whole country wept, the drops
falling in the river, and on the alders, and in the pastures, and
instead of any bow in the heavens, there was the trill of the
hair-bird all the morning.  The cheery faith of this little bird
atoned for the silence of the whole woodland choir beside.  When
we first stepped abroad, a flock of sheep, led by their rams,
came rushing down a ravine in our rear, with heedless haste and
unreserved frisking, as if unobserved by man, from some higher
pasture where they had spent the night, to taste the herbage by
the river-side; but when their leaders caught sight of our white
tent through the mist, struck with sudden astonishment, with
their fore-feet braced, they sustained the rushing torrent in
their rear, and the whole flock stood stock-still, endeavoring to
solve the mystery in their sheepish brains.  At length,
concluding that it boded no mischief to them, they spread
themselves out quietly over the field.  We learned afterward that
we had pitched our tent on the very spot which a few summers
before had been occupied by a party of Penobscots.  We could see
rising before us through the mist a dark conical eminence called
Hooksett Pinnacle, a landmark to boatmen, and also Uncannunuc
Mountain, broad off on the west side of the river.

This was the limit of our voyage, for a few hours more in the
rain would have taken us to the last of the locks, and our boat
was too heavy to be dragged around the long and numerous rapids
which would occur.  On foot, however, we continued up along the
bank, feeling our way with a stick through the showery and foggy
day, and climbing over the slippery logs in our path with as much
pleasure and buoyancy as in brightest sunshine; scenting the
fragrance of the pines and the wet clay under our feet, and
cheered by the tones of invisible waterfalls; with visions of
toadstools, and wandering frogs, and festoons of moss hanging
from the spruce-trees, and thrushes flitting silent under the
leaves; our road still holding together through that wettest of
weather, like faith, while we confidently followed its lead.  We
managed to keep our thoughts dry, however, and only our clothes
were wet.  It was altogether a cloudy and drizzling day, with
occasional brightenings in the mist, when the trill of the
tree-sparrow seemed to be ushering in sunny hours.

“Nothing that naturally happens to man can hurt him,
earthquakes and thunder-storms not excepted,” said a man of
genius, who at this time lived a few miles farther on our road.
When compelled by a shower to take shelter under a tree, we may
improve that opportunity for a more minute inspection of some of
Nature’s works.  I have stood under a tree in the woods half a
day at a time, during a heavy rain in the summer, and yet
employed myself happily and profitably there prying with
microscopic eye into the crevices of the bark or the leaves or
the fungi at my feet.  “Riches are the attendants of the miser;
and the heavens rain plenteously upon the mountains.” I can fancy
that it would be a luxury to stand up to one’s chin in some
retired swamp a whole summer day, scenting the wild honeysuckle
and bilberry blows, and lulled by the minstrelsy of gnats and
mosquitoes!  A day passed in the society of those Greek sages,
such as described in the Banquet of Xenophon, would not be
comparable with the dry wit of decayed cranberry vines, and the
fresh Attic salt of the moss-beds.  Say twelve hours of genial
and familiar converse with the leopard frog; the sun to rise
behind alder and dogwood, and climb buoyantly to his meridian of
two hands’ breadth, and finally sink to rest behind some bold
western hummock.  To hear the evening chant of the mosquito from
a thousand green chapels, and the bittern begin to boom from some
concealed fort like a sunset gun!—Surely one may as profitably
be soaked in the juices of a swamp for one day as pick his way
dry-shod over sand.  Cold and damp,—are they not as rich
experience as warmth and dryness?

At present, the drops come trickling down the stubble while we
lie drenched on a bed of withered wild oats, by the side of a
bushy hill, and the gathering in of the clouds, with the last
rush and dying breath of the wind, and then the regular dripping
of twigs and leaves the country over, enhance the sense of inward
comfort and sociableness.  The birds draw closer and are more
familiar under the thick foliage, seemingly composing new strains
upon their roosts against the sunshine.  What were the amusements
of the drawing-room and the library in comparison, if we had them
here?  We should still sing as of old,—

     My books I’d fain cast off, I cannot read,
     ’Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large
     Down in the meadow, where is richer feed,
     And will not mind to hit their proper targe.
     Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too,
     Our Shakespeare’s life were rich to live again,
     What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,
     Nor Shakespeare’s books, unless his books were men.
     Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough,
     What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town,
     If juster battles are enacted now
     Between the ants upon this hummock’s crown?
     Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn,
     If red or black the gods will favor most,
     Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn,
     Struggling to heave some rock against the host.
     Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour,
     For now I’ve business with this drop of dew,
     And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower,—
     I’ll meet him shortly when the sky is blue.
     This bed of herd’s-grass and wild oats was spread
     Last year with nicer skill than monarchs use,
     A clover tuft is pillow for my head,
     And violets quite overtop my shoes.
     And now the cordial clouds have shut all in
     And gently swells the wind to say all’s well
     The scattered drops are falling fast and thin,
     Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell.
     I am well drenched upon my bed of oats;
     But see that globe come rolling down its stem
     Now like a lonely planet there it floats,
     And now it sinks into my garment’s hem.
     Drip drip the trees for all the country round,
     And richness rare distils from every bough,
     The wind alone it is makes every sound,
     Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.
     For shame the sun will never show himself,
     Who could not with his beams e’er melt me so,
     My dripping locks,—they would become an elf,
     Who in a beaded coat does gayly go.

The Pinnacle is a small wooded hill which rises very abruptly to
the height of about two hundred feet, near the shore at Hooksett
Falls.  As Uncannunuc Mountain is perhaps the best point from
which to view the valley of the Merrimack, so this hill affords
the best view of the river itself.  I have sat upon its summit, a
precipitous rock only a few rods long, in fairer weather, when
the sun was setting and filling the river valley with a flood of
light.  You can see up and down the Merrimack several miles each
way.  The broad and straight river, full of light and life, with
its sparkling and foaming falls, the islet which divides the
stream, the village of Hooksett on the shore almost directly
under your feet, so near that you can converse with its
inhabitants or throw a stone into its yards, the woodland lake at
its western base, and the mountains in the north and northeast,
make a scene of rare beauty and completeness, which the traveller
should take pains to behold.

We were hospitably entertained in Concord, New Hampshire, which
we persisted in calling New Concord, as we had been wont, to
distinguish it from our native town, from which we had been told
that it was named and in part originally settled.  This would
have been the proper place to conclude our voyage, uniting
Concord with Concord by these meandering rivers, but our boat was
moored some miles below its port.

The richness of the intervals at Penacook, now Concord, New
Hampshire, had been observed by explorers, and, according to the
historian of Haverhill, in the

  “year 1726, considerable progress was made in the settlement,
  and a road was cut through the wilderness from Haverhill to
  Penacook.  In the fall of 1727, the first family, that of
  Captain Ebenezer Eastman, moved into the place.  His team was
  driven by Jacob Shute, who was by birth a Frenchman, and he is
  said to have been the first person who drove a team through the
  wilderness.  Soon after, says tradition, one Ayer, a lad of 18,
  drove a team consisting of ten yoke of oxen to Penacook, swam
  the river, and ploughed a portion of the interval.  He is
  supposed to have been the first person who ploughed land in
  that place.  After he had completed his work, he started on his
  return at sunrise, drowned a yoke of oxen while recrossing the
  river, and arrived at Haverhill about midnight.  The crank of
  the first saw-mill was manufactured in Haverhill, and carried
  to Penacook on a horse.”

But we found that the frontiers were not this way any longer.
This generation has come into the world fatally late for some
enterprises.  Go where we will on the surface of things, men
have been there before us.  We cannot now have the pleasure of
erecting the last house; that was long ago set up in the
suburbs of Astoria City, and our boundaries have literally been
run to the South Sea, according to the old patents.  But the
lives of men, though more extended laterally in their range, are
still as shallow as ever.  Undoubtedly, as a Western orator said,
“Men generally live over about the same surface; some live long
and narrow, and others live broad and short”; but it is all
superficial living.  A worm is as good a traveller as a
grasshopper or a cricket, and a much wiser settler.  With all
their activity these do not hop away from drought nor forward to
summer.  We do not avoid evil by fleeing before it, but by rising
above or diving below its plane; as the worm escapes drought and
frost by boring a few inches deeper.  The frontiers are not east
or west, north or south, but wherever a man fronts a fact,
though that fact be his neighbor, there is an unsettled
wilderness between him and Canada, between him and the setting
sun, or, farther still, between him and it.  Let him build
himself a log-house with the bark on where he is, fronting
it, and wage there an Old French war for seven or seventy
years, with Indians and Rangers, or whatever else may come
between him and the reality, and save his scalp if he can.

We now no longer sailed or floated on the river, but trod the
unyielding land like pilgrims.  Sadi tells who may travel; among
others, “A common mechanic, who can earn a subsistence by the
industry of his hand, and shall not have to stake his reputation
for every morsel of bread, as philosophers have said.” He may
travel who can subsist on the wild fruits and game of the most
cultivated country.  A man may travel fast enough and earn his
living on the road.  I have at times been applied to to do work
when on a journey; to do tinkering and repair clocks, when I had
a knapsack on my back.  A man once applied to me to go into a
factory, stating conditions and wages, observing that I succeeded
in shutting the window of a railroad car in which we were
travelling, when the other passengers had failed.  “Hast thou not
heard of a Sufi, who was hammering some nails into the sole of
his sandal; an officer of cavalry took him by the sleeve, saying,
Come along and shoe my horse.”  Farmers have asked me to assist
them in haying, when I was passing their fields.  A man once
applied to me to mend his umbrella, taking me for an
umbrella-mender, because, being on a journey, I carried an
umbrella in my hand while the sun shone.  Another wished to buy a
tin cup of me, observing that I had one strapped to my belt, and
a sauce-pan on my back.  The cheapest way to travel, and the way
to travel the farthest in the shortest distance, is to go afoot,
carrying a dipper, a spoon, and a fish-line, some Indian meal,
some salt, and some sugar.  When you come to a brook or pond, you
can catch fish and cook them; or you can boil a hasty-pudding; or
you can buy a loaf of bread at a farmer’s house for fourpence,
moisten it in the next brook that crosses the road, and dip into
it your sugar,—this alone will last you a whole day;—or, if you
are accustomed to heartier living, you can buy a quart of milk
for two cents, crumb your bread or cold pudding into it, and eat
it with your own spoon out of your own dish.  Any one of these
things I mean, not all together.  I have travelled thus some
hundreds of miles without taking any meal in a house, sleeping on
the ground when convenient, and found it cheaper, and in many
respects more profitable, than staying at home.  So that some
have inquired why it would not be best to travel always.  But I
never thought of travelling simply as a means of getting a
livelihood.  A simple woman down in Tyngsborough, at whose house
I once stopped to get a draught of water, when I said,
recognizing the bucket, that I had stopped there nine years
before for the same purpose, asked if I was not a traveller,
supposing that I had been travelling ever since, and had now come
round again; that travelling was one of the professions, more or
less productive, which her husband did not follow.  But continued
travelling is far from productive.  It begins with wearing away
the soles of the shoes, and making the feet sore, and erelong it
will wear a man clean up, after making his heart sore into the
bargain.  I have observed that the after-life of those who have
travelled much is very pathetic.  True and sincere travelling is
no pastime, but it is as serious as the grave, or any part of the
human journey, and it requires a long probation to be broken into
it.  I do not speak of those that travel sitting, the sedentary
travellers whose legs hang dangling the while, mere idle symbols
of the fact, any more than when we speak of sitting hens we mean
those that sit standing, but I mean those to whom travelling is
life for the legs, and death too, at last.  The traveller must be
born again on the road, and earn a passport from the elements,
the principal powers that be for him.  He shall experience at
last that old threat of his mother fulfilled, that he shall be
skinned alive.  His sores shall gradually deepen themselves that
they may heal inwardly, while he gives no rest to the sole of his
foot, and at night weariness must be his pillow, that so he may
acquire experience against his rainy days.—So was it with us.

Sometimes we lodged at an inn in the woods, where trout-fishers
from distant cities had arrived before us, and where, to our
astonishment, the settlers dropped in at nightfall to have a chat
and hear the news, though there was but one road, and no other
house was visible,—as if they had come out of the earth.  There
we sometimes read old newspapers, who never before read new ones,
and in the rustle of their leaves heard the dashing of the surf
along the Atlantic shore, instead of the sough of the wind among
the pines.  But then walking had given us an appetite even for
the least palatable and nutritious food.

Some hard and dry book in a dead language, which you have found
it impossible to read at home, but for which you have still a
lingering regard, is the best to carry with you on a journey.  At
a country inn, in the barren society of ostlers and travellers, I
could undertake the writers of the silver or the brazen age with
confidence.  Almost the last regular service which I performed in
the cause of literature was to read the works of

              AULUS PERSIUS FLACCUS.

If you have imagined what a divine work is spread out for the
poet, and approach this author too, in the hope of finding the
field at length fairly entered on, you will hardly dissent from
the words of the prologue,

     “Ipse semipaganus
     Ad sacra Vatum carmen affero nostrum.”
     I half pagan
     Bring my verses to the shrine of the poets.

Here is none of the interior dignity of Virgil, nor the elegance
and vivacity of Horace, nor will any sibyl be needed to remind
you, that from those older Greek poets there is a sad descent to
Persius.  You can scarcely distinguish one harmonious sound amid
this unmusical bickering with the follies of men.

One sees that music has its place in thought, but hardly as yet
in language.  When the Muse arrives, we wait for her to remould
language, and impart to it her own rhythm.  Hitherto the verse
groans and labors with its load, and goes not forward blithely,
singing by the way.  The best ode may be parodied, indeed is
itself a parody, and has a poor and trivial sound, like a man
stepping on the rounds of a ladder.  Homer and Shakespeare and
Milton and Marvell and Wordsworth are but the rustling of leaves
and crackling of twigs in the forest, and there is not yet the
sound of any bird.  The Muse has never lifted up her voice to
sing.  Most of all, satire will not be sung.  A Juvenal or
Persius do not marry music to their verse, but are measured
fault-finders at best; stand but just outside the faults they
condemn, and so are concerned rather about the monster which they
have escaped, than the fair prospect before them.  Let them live
on an age, and they will have travelled out of his shadow and
reach, and found other objects to ponder.

As long as there is satire, the poet is, as it were, particeps
criminis.  One sees not but he had best let bad take care of
itself, and have to do only with what is beyond suspicion.  If
you light on the least vestige of truth, and it is the weight of
the whole body still which stamps the faintest trace, an eternity
will not suffice to extol it, while no evil is so huge, but you
grudge to bestow on it a moment of hate.  Truth never turns to
rebuke falsehood; her own straightforwardness is the severest
correction.  Horace would not have written satire so well if he
had not been inspired by it, as by a passion, and fondly
cherished his vein.  In his odes, the love always exceeds the
hate, so that the severest satire still sings itself, and the
poet is satisfied, though the folly be not corrected.

A sort of necessary order in the development of Genius is, first,
Complaint; second, Plaint; third, Love.  Complaint, which is the
condition of Persius, lies not in the province of poetry.  Erelong
the enjoyment of a superior good would have changed his disgust
into regret.  We can never have much sympathy with the complainer;
for after searching nature through, we conclude that he must be
both plaintiff and defendant too, and so had best come to a
settlement without a hearing.  He who receives an injury is to
some extent an accomplice of the wrong-doer.

Perhaps it would be truer to say, that the highest strain of the
muse is essentially plaintive.  The saint’s are still tears of
joy.  Who has ever heard the Innocent sing?

But the divinest poem, or the life of a great man, is the
severest satire; as impersonal as Nature herself, and like the
sighs of her winds in the woods, which convey ever a slight
reproof to the hearer.  The greater the genius, the keener the
edge of the satire.

Hence we have to do only with the rare and fragmentary traits,
which least belong to Persius, or shall we say, are the properest
utterances of his muse; since that which he says best at any time
is what he can best say at all times.  The Spectators and
Ramblers have not failed to cull some quotable sentences from
this garden too, so pleasant is it to meet even the most familiar
truth in a new dress, when, if our neighbor had said it, we
should have passed it by as hackneyed.  Out of these six satires,
you may perhaps select some twenty lines, which fit so well as
many thoughts, that they will recur to the scholar almost as
readily as a natural image; though when translated into familiar
language, they lose that insular emphasis, which fitted them for
quotation.  Such lines as the following, translation cannot
render commonplace.  Contrasting the man of true religion with
those who, with jealous privacy, would fain carry on a secret
commerce with the gods, he says:—

     “Haud cuivis promptum est, murmurque humilesque susurros
     Tollere de templis; et aperto vivere voto.”
     It is not easy for every one to take murmurs and low
     Whispers out of the temples, and live with open vow.

To the virtuous man, the universe is the only sanctum sanctorum,
and the penetralia of the temple are the broad noon of his
existence.  Why should he betake himself to a subterranean crypt,
as if it were the only holy ground in all the world which he had
left unprofaned?  The obedient soul would only the more discover
and familiarize things, and escape more and more into light and
air, as having henceforth done with secrecy, so that the universe
shall not seem open enough for it.  At length, it is neglectful
even of that silence which is consistent with true modesty, but
by its independence of all confidence in its disclosures, makes
that which it imparts so private to the hearer, that it becomes
the care of the whole world that modesty be not infringed.

To the man who cherishes a secret in his breast, there is a still
greater secret unexplored.  Our most indifferent acts may be
matter for secrecy, but whatever we do with the utmost
truthfulness and integrity, by virtue of its pureness, must be
transparent as light.

In the third satire, he asks:—

     “Est aliquid quò tendis, et in quod dirigis arcum?
     An passim sequeris corvos, testâve, lutove,
     Securus quò pes ferat, atque ex tempore vivis?”
   Is there anything to which thou tendest, and against which thou
       directest thy bow?
   Or dost thou pursue crows, at random, with pottery or clay,
   Careless whither thy feet bear thee, and live ex tempore?

The bad sense is always a secondary one.  Language does not
appear to have justice done it, but is obviously cramped and
narrowed in its significance, when any meanness is described.
The truest construction is not put upon it.  What may readily be
fashioned into a rule of wisdom, is here thrown in the teeth of
the sluggard, and constitutes the front of his offence.
Universally, the innocent man will come forth from the sharpest
inquisition and lecturing, the combined din of reproof and
commendation, with a faint sound of eulogy in his ears.  Our
vices always lie in the direction of our virtues, and in their
best estate are but plausible imitations of the latter.
Falsehood never attains to the dignity of entire falseness, but
is only an inferior sort of truth; if it were more thoroughly
false, it would incur danger of becoming true.

     “Securus quo pes ferat, atque ex tempore vivit,”

is then the motto of a wise man.  For first, as the subtle
discernment of the language would have taught us, with all his
negligence he is still secure; but the sluggard, notwithstanding
his heedlessness, is insecure.

The life of a wise man is most of all extemporaneous, for he
lives out of an eternity which includes all time.  The cunning
mind travels further back than Zoroaster each instant, and comes
quite down to the present with its revelation.  The utmost thrift
and industry of thinking give no man any stock in life; his
credit with the inner world is no better, his capital no larger.
He must try his fortune again to-day as yesterday.  All questions
rely on the present for their solution.  Time measures nothing
but itself.  The word that is written may be postponed, but not
that on the lip.  If this is what the occasion says, let the
occasion say it.  All the world is forward to prompt him who gets
up to live without his creed in his pocket.

In the fifth satire, which is the best, I find,—

     “Stat contrà ratio, et secretam garrit in aurem,
     Ne liceat facere id, quod quis vitiabit agendo.”
   Reason opposes, and whispers in the secret ear,
   That it is not lawful to do that which one will spoil by doing.

Only they who do not see how anything might be better done are
forward to try their hand on it.  Even the master workman must be
encouraged by the reflection, that his awkwardness will be
incompetent to do that thing harm, to which his skill may fail to
do justice.  Here is no apology for neglecting to do many things
from a sense of our incapacity,—for what deed does not fall
maimed and imperfect from our hands?—but only a warning to
bungle less.

The satires of Persius are the furthest possible from inspired;
evidently a chosen, not imposed subject.  Perhaps I have given
him credit for more earnestness than is apparent; but it is
certain, that that which alone we can call Persius, which is
forever independent and consistent, was in earnest, and so
sanctions the sober consideration of all.  The artist and his
work are not to be separated.  The most wilfully foolish man
cannot stand aloof from his folly, but the deed and the doer
together make ever one sober fact.  There is but one stage for
the peasant and the actor.  The buffoon cannot bribe you to laugh
always at his grimaces; they shall sculpture themselves in
Egyptian granite, to stand heavy as the pyramids on the ground of
his character.

                           ———

Suns rose and set and found us still on the dank forest path
which meanders up the Pemigewasset, now more like an otter’s or a
marten’s trail, or where a beaver had dragged his trap, than
where the wheels of travel raise a dust; where towns begin to
serve as gores, only to hold the earth together.  The wild pigeon
sat secure above our heads, high on the dead limbs of naval
pines, reduced to a robin’s size.  The very yards of our
hostelries inclined upon the skirts of mountains, and, as we
passed, we looked up at a steep angle at the stems of maples
waving in the clouds.

Far up in the country,—for we would be faithful to our
experience,—in Thornton, perhaps, we met a soldier lad in the
woods, going to muster in full regimentals, and holding the
middle of the road; deep in the forest, with shouldered musket
and military step, and thoughts of war and glory all to himself.
It was a sore trial to the youth, tougher than many a battle, to
get by us creditably and with soldierlike bearing.  Poor man!  He
actually shivered like a reed in his thin military pants, and by
the time we had got up with him, all the sternness that becomes
the soldier had forsaken his face, and he skulked past as if he
were driving his father’s sheep under a sword-proof helmet.  It
was too much for him to carry any extra armor then, who could not
easily dispose of his natural arms.  And for his legs, they were
like heavy artillery in boggy places; better to cut the traces
and forsake them.  His greaves chafed and wrestled one with
another for want of other foes.  But he did get by and get off
with all his munitions, and lived to fight another day; and I do
not record this as casting any suspicion on his honor and real
bravery in the field.

Wandering on through notches which the streams had made, by the
side and over the brows of hoar hills and mountains, across the
stumpy, rocky, forested, and bepastured country, we at length
crossed on prostrate trees over the Amonoosuck, and breathed the
free air of Unappropriated Land.  Thus, in fair days as well as
foul, we had traced up the river to which our native stream is a
tributary, until from Merrimack it became the Pemigewasset that
leaped by our side, and when we had passed its fountain-head, the
Wild Amonoosuck, whose puny channel was crossed at a stride,
guiding us toward its distant source among the mountains, and at
length, without its guidance, we were enabled to reach the summit
of Agiocochook.

                     ———————-

     “Sweet days, so cool, so calm, so bright,
     The bridal of the earth and sky,
     Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night,
                         For thou must die.”

                                     Herbert.

When we returned to Hooksett, a week afterward, the melon man, in
whose corn-barn we had hung our tent and buffaloes and other
things to dry, was already picking his hops, with many women and
children to help him.  We bought one watermelon, the largest in
his patch, to carry with us for ballast.  It was Nathan’s, which
he might sell if he wished, having been conveyed to him in the
green state, and owned daily by his eyes.  After due consultation
with “Father,” the bargain was concluded,—we to buy it at a
venture on the vine, green or ripe, our risk, and pay “what the
gentlemen pleased.” It proved to be ripe; for we had had honest
experience in selecting this fruit.

Finding our boat safe in its harbor, under Uncannunuc Mountain,
with a fair wind and the current in our favor, we commenced our
return voyage at noon, sitting at our ease and conversing, or in
silence watching for the last trace of each reach in the river as
a bend concealed it from our view.  As the season was further
advanced, the wind now blew steadily from the north, and with our
sail set we could occasionally lie on our oars without loss of
time.  The lumbermen throwing down wood from the top of the high
bank, thirty or forty feet above the water, that it might be sent
down stream, paused in their work to watch our retreating sail.
By this time, indeed, we were well known to the boatmen, and were
hailed as the Revenue Cutter of the stream.  As we sailed rapidly
down the river, shut in between two mounds of earth, the sounds
of this timber rolled down the bank enhanced the silence and
vastness of the noon, and we fancied that only the primeval
echoes were awakened.  The vision of a distant scow just heaving
in sight round a headland also increased by contrast the
solitude.

Through the din and desultoriness of noon, even in the most
Oriental city, is seen the fresh and primitive and savage nature,
in which Scythians and Ethiopians and Indians dwell.  What is
echo, what are light and shade, day and night, ocean and stars,
earthquake and eclipse, there?  The works of man are everywhere
swallowed up in the immensity of Nature.  The Ægean Sea is but
Lake Huron still to the Indian.  Also there is all the refinement
of civilized life in the woods under a sylvan garb.  The wildest
scenes have an air of domesticity and homeliness even to the
citizen, and when the flicker’s cackle is heard in the clearing,
he is reminded that civilization has wrought but little change
there.  Science is welcome to the deepest recesses of the forest,
for there too nature obeys the same old civil laws.  The little
red bug on the stump of a pine,—for it the wind shifts and the
sun breaks through the clouds.  In the wildest nature, there is
not only the material of the most cultivated life, and a sort of
anticipation of the last result, but a greater refinement already
than is ever attained by man.  There is papyrus by the river-side,
and rushes for light, and the goose only flies overhead, ages
before the studious are born or letters invented, and that
literature which the former suggest, and even from the first have
rudely served, it may be man does not yet use them to express.
Nature is prepared to welcome into her scenery the finest work of
human art, for she is herself an art so cunning that the artist
never appears in his work.

Art is not tame, and Nature is not wild, in the ordinary sense.
A perfect work of man’s art would also be wild or natural in a
good sense.  Man tames Nature only that he may at last make her
more free even than he found her, though he may never yet have
succeeded.

With this propitious breeze, and the help of our oars, we soon
reached the Falls of Amoskeag, and the mouth of the Piscataquoag,
and recognized, as we swept rapidly by, many a fair bank and
islet on which our eyes had rested in the upward passage.  Our
boat was like that which Chaucer describes in his Dream, in which
the knight took his departure from the island,

     “To journey for his marriage,
     And return with such an host,
     That wedded might be least and most. . . . .
     Which barge was as a man’s thought,
     After his pleasure to him brought,
     The queene herself accustomed aye
     In the same barge to play,
     It needed neither mast ne rother,
     I have not heard of such another,
     No master for the governance,
     Hie sayled by thought and pleasaunce,
     Without labor east and west,
     All was one, calme or tempest.”

So we sailed this afternoon, thinking of the saying of
Pythagoras, though we had no peculiar right to remember it, “It
is beautiful when prosperity is present with intellect, and when
sailing as it were with a prosperous wind, actions are performed
looking to virtue; just as a pilot looks to the motions of the
stars.” All the world reposes in beauty to him who preserves
equipoise in his life, and moves serenely on his path without
secret violence; as he who sails down a stream, he has only to
steer, keeping his bark in the middle, and carry it round the
falls.  The ripples curled away in our wake, like ringlets from
the head of a child, while we steadily held on our course, and
under the bows we watched

                            “The swaying soft,
     Made by the delicate wave parted in front,
     As through the gentle element we move
     Like shadows gliding through untroubled dreams.”

The forms of beauty fall naturally around the path of him who is
in the performance of his proper work; as the curled shavings
drop from the plane, and borings cluster round the auger.
Undulation is the gentlest and most ideal of motions, produced by
one fluid falling on another.  Rippling is a more graceful
flight.  From a hill-top you may detect in it the wings of birds
endlessly repeated.  The two waving lines which represent the
flight of birds appear to have been copied from the ripple.

The trees made an admirable fence to the landscape, skirting the
horizon on every side.  The single trees and the groves left
standing on the interval appeared naturally disposed, though the
farmer had consulted only his convenience, for he too falls into
the scheme of Nature.  Art can never match the luxury and
superfluity of Nature.  In the former all is seen; it cannot
afford concealed wealth, and is niggardly in comparison; but
Nature, even when she is scant and thin outwardly, satisfies us
still by the assurance of a certain generosity at the roots.  In
swamps, where there is only here and there an ever-green tree
amid the quaking moss and cranberry beds, the bareness does not
suggest poverty.  The single-spruce, which I had hardly noticed
in gardens, attracts me in such places, and now first I
understand why men try to make them grow about their houses.  But
though there may be very perfect specimens in front-yard plots,
their beauty is for the most part ineffectual there, for there is
no such assurance of kindred wealth beneath and around them, to
make them show to advantage.  As we have said, Nature is a
greater and more perfect art, the art of God; though, referred to
herself, she is genius; and there is a similarity between her
operations and man’s art even in the details and trifles.  When
the overhanging pine drops into the water, by the sun and water,
and the wind rubbing it against the shore, its boughs are worn
into fantastic shapes, and white and smooth, as if turned in a
lathe.  Man’s art has wisely imitated those forms into which all
matter is most inclined to run, as foliage and fruit.  A hammock
swung in a grove assumes the exact form of a canoe, broader or
narrower, and higher or lower at the ends, as more or fewer
persons are in it, and it rolls in the air with the motion of the
body, like a canoe in the water.  Our art leaves its shavings and
its dust about; her art exhibits itself even in the shavings and
the dust which we make.  She has perfected herself by an eternity
of practice.  The world is well kept; no rubbish accumulates; the
morning air is clear even at this day, and no dust has settled on
the grass.  Behold how the evening now steals over the fields,
the shadows of the trees creeping farther and farther into the
meadow, and erelong the stars will come to bathe in these retired
waters.  Her undertakings are secure and never fail.  If I were
awakened from a deep sleep, I should know which side of the
meridian the sun might be by the aspect of nature, and by the
chirp of the crickets, and yet no painter can paint this
difference.  The landscape contains a thousand dials which
indicate the natural divisions of time, the shadows of a thousand
styles point to the hour.

     “Not only o’er the dial’s face,
       This silent phantom day by day,
     With slow, unseen, unceasing pace
       Steals moments, months, and years away;
     From hoary rock and aged tree,
       From proud Palmyra’s mouldering walls,
     From Teneriffe, towering o’er the sea,
       From every blade of grass it falls.”

It is almost the only game which the trees play at, this
tit-for-tat, now this side in the sun, now that, the drama of the
day.  In deep ravines under the eastern sides of cliffs, Night
forwardly plants her foot even at noonday, and as Day retreats
she steps into his trenches, skulking from tree to tree, from
fence to fence, until at last she sits in his citadel and draws
out her forces into the plain.  It may be that the forenoon is
brighter than the afternoon, not only because of the greater
transparency of its atmosphere, but because we naturally look
most into the west, as forward into the day, and so in the
forenoon see the sunny side of things, but in the afternoon the
shadow of every tree.

The afternoon is now far advanced, and a fresh and leisurely wind
is blowing over the river, making long reaches of bright ripples.
The river has done its stint, and appears not to flow, but lie at
its length reflecting the light, and the haze over the woods is
like the inaudible panting, or rather the gentle perspiration of
resting nature, rising from a myriad of pores into the attenuated
atmosphere.

On the thirty-first day of March, one hundred and forty-two years
before this, probably about this time in the afternoon, there
were hurriedly paddling down this part of the river, between the
pine woods which then fringed these banks, two white women and a
boy, who had left an island at the mouth of the Contoocook before
daybreak.  They were slightly clad for the season, in the English
fashion, and handled their paddles unskilfully, but with nervous
energy and determination, and at the bottom of their canoe lay
the still bleeding scalps of ten of the aborigines.  They were
Hannah Dustan, and her nurse, Mary Neff, both of Haverhill,
eighteen miles from the mouth of this river, and an English boy,
named Samuel Lennardson, escaping from captivity among the
Indians.  On the 15th of March previous, Hannah Dustan had been
compelled to rise from child-bed, and half dressed, with one foot
bare, accompanied by her nurse, commence an uncertain march, in
still inclement weather, through the snow and the wilderness.
She had seen her seven elder children flee with their father, but
knew not of their fate.  She had seen her infant’s brains dashed
out against an apple-tree, and had left her own and her
neighbors’ dwellings in ashes.  When she reached the wigwam of
her captor, situated on an island in the Merrimack, more than
twenty miles above where we now are, she had been told that she
and her nurse were soon to be taken to a distant Indian
settlement, and there made to run the gauntlet naked.  The family
of this Indian consisted of two men, three women, and seven
children, beside an English boy, whom she found a prisoner among
them.  Having determined to attempt her escape, she instructed
the boy to inquire of one of the men, how he should despatch an
enemy in the quickest manner, and take his scalp.  “Strike ’em
there,” said he, placing his finger on his temple, and he also
showed him how to take off the scalp.  On the morning of the 31st
she arose before daybreak, and awoke her nurse and the boy, and
taking the Indians’ tomahawks, they killed them all in their
sleep, excepting one favorite boy, and one squaw who fled wounded
with him to the woods.  The English boy struck the Indian who had
given him the information, on the temple, as he had been
directed.  They then collected all the provision they could find,
and took their master’s tomahawk and gun, and scuttling all the
canoes but one, commenced their flight to Haverhill, distant
about sixty miles by the river.  But after having proceeded a
short distance, fearing that her story would not be believed if
she should escape to tell it, they returned to the silent wigwam,
and taking off the scalps of the dead, put them into a bag as
proofs of what they had done, and then retracing their steps to
the shore in the twilight, recommenced their voyage.

Early this morning this deed was performed, and now, perchance,
these tired women and this boy, their clothes stained with blood,
and their minds racked with alternate resolution and fear, are
making a hasty meal of parched corn and moose-meat, while their
canoe glides under these pine roots whose stumps are still
standing on the bank.  They are thinking of the dead whom they
have left behind on that solitary isle far up the stream, and of
the relentless living warriors who are in pursuit.  Every
withered leaf which the winter has left seems to know their
story, and in its rustling to repeat it and betray them.  An
Indian lurks behind every rock and pine, and their nerves cannot
bear the tapping of a woodpecker.  Or they forget their own
dangers and their deeds in conjecturing the fate of their
kindred, and whether, if they escape the Indians, they shall find
the former still alive.  They do not stop to cook their meals
upon the bank, nor land, except to carry their canoe about the
falls.  The stolen birch forgets its master and does them good
service, and the swollen current bears them swiftly along with
little need of the paddle, except to steer and keep them warm by
exercise.  For ice is floating in the river; the spring is
opening; the muskrat and the beaver are driven out of their holes
by the flood; deer gaze at them from the bank; a few
faint-singing forest birds, perchance, fly across the river to
the northernmost shore; the fish-hawk sails and screams overhead,
and geese fly over with a startling clangor; but they do not
observe these things, or they speedily forget them.  They do not
smile or chat all day.  Sometimes they pass an Indian grave
surrounded by its paling on the bank, or the frame of a wigwam,
with a few coals left behind, or the withered stalks still
rustling in the Indian’s solitary cornfield on the interval.  The
birch stripped of its bark, or the charred stump where a tree has
been burned down to be made into a canoe, these are the only
traces of man,—a fabulous wild man to us.  On either side, the
primeval forest stretches away uninterrupted to Canada, or to the
“South Sea”; to the white man a drear and howling wilderness, but
to the Indian a home, adapted to his nature, and cheerful as the
smile of the Great Spirit.

While we loiter here this autumn evening, looking for a spot
retired enough, where we shall quietly rest to-night, they thus,
in that chilly March evening, one hundred and forty-two years
before us, with wind and current favoring, have already glided
out of sight, not to camp, as we shall, at night, but while two
sleep one will manage the canoe, and the swift stream bear them
onward to the settlements, it may be, even to old John Lovewell’s
house on Salmon Brook to-night.

According to the historian, they escaped as by a miracle all
roving bands of Indians, and reached their homes in safety, with
their trophies, for which the General Court paid them fifty
pounds.  The family of Hannah Dustan all assembled alive once
more, except the infant whose brains were dashed out against the
apple-tree, and there have been many who in later times have
lived to say that they had eaten of the fruit of that apple-tree.

This seems a long while ago, and yet it happened since Milton
wrote his Paradise Lost.  But its antiquity is not the less great
for that, for we do not regulate our historical time by the
English standard, nor did the English by the Roman, nor the Roman
by the Greek.  “We must look a long way back,” says Raleigh, “to
find the Romans giving laws to nations, and their consuls bringing
kings and princes bound in chains to Rome in triumph; to see men
go to Greece for wisdom, or Ophir for gold; when now nothing
remains but a poor paper remembrance of their former condition.”
And yet, in one sense, not so far back as to find the Penacooks
and Pawtuckets using bows and arrows and hatchets of stone, on
the banks of the Merrimack.  From this September afternoon, and
from between these now cultivated shores, those times seemed more
remote than the dark ages.  On beholding an old picture of
Concord, as it appeared but seventy-five years ago, with a fair
open prospect and a light on trees and river, as if it were broad
noon, I find that I had not thought the sun shone in those days,
or that men lived in broad daylight then.  Still less do we
imagine the sun shining on hill and valley during Philip’s war,
on the war-path of Church or Philip, or later of Lovewell or
Paugus, with serene summer weather, but they must have lived and
fought in a dim twilight or night.

The age of the world is great enough for our imaginations, even
according to the Mosaic account, without borrowing any years from
the geologist.  From Adam and Eve at one leap sheer down to the
deluge, and then through the ancient monarchies, through Babylon
and Thebes, Brahma and Abraham, to Greece and the Argonauts;
whence we might start again with Orpheus and the Trojan war, the
Pyramids and the Olympic games, and Homer and Athens, for our
stages; and after a breathing space at the building of Rome,
continue our journey down through Odin and Christ to—America.
It is a wearisome while.  And yet the lives of but sixty old
women, such as live under the hill, say of a century each, strung
together, are sufficient to reach over the whole ground.  Taking
hold of hands they would span the interval from Eve to my own
mother.  A respectable tea-party merely,—whose gossip would be
Universal History.  The fourth old woman from myself suckled
Columbus,—the ninth was nurse to the Norman Conqueror,—the
nineteenth was the Virgin Mary,—the twenty-fourth the Cumæan
Sibyl,—the thirtieth was at the Trojan war and Helen her
name,—the thirty-eighth was Queen Semiramis,—the sixtieth was
Eve the mother of mankind.  So much for the

     “Old woman that lives under the hill,
     And if she’s not gone she lives there still.”

It will not take a very great-granddaughter of hers to be in at
the death of Time.

We can never safely exceed the actual facts in our narratives.
Of pure invention, such as some suppose, there is no instance.
To write a true work of fiction even, is only to take leisure and
liberty to describe some things more exactly as they are.  A true
account of the actual is the rarest poetry, for common sense
always takes a hasty and superficial view.  Though I am not much
acquainted with the works of Goethe, I should say that it was one
of his chief excellences as a writer, that he was satisfied with
giving an exact description of things as they appeared to him,
and their effect upon him.  Most travellers have not self-respect
enough to do this simply, and make objects and events stand
around them as the centre, but still imagine more favorable
positions and relations than the actual ones, and so we get no
valuable report from them at all.  In his Italian Travels Goethe
jogs along at a snail’s pace, but always mindful that the earth
is beneath and the heavens are above him.  His Italy is not
merely the fatherland of lazzaroni and virtuosi, and scene of
splendid ruins, but a solid turf-clad soil, daily shined on by
the sun, and nightly by the moon.  Even the few showers are
faithfully recorded.  He speaks as an unconcerned spectator,
whose object is faithfully to describe what he sees, and that,
for the most part, in the order in which he sees it.  Even his
reflections do not interfere with his descriptions.  In one place
he speaks of himself as giving so glowing and truthful a
description of an old tower to the peasants who had gathered
around him, that they who had been born and brought up in the
neighborhood must needs look over their shoulders, “that,” to use
his own words, “they might behold with their eyes, what I had
praised to their ears,”—“and I added nothing, not even the ivy
which for centuries had decorated the walls.” It would thus be
possible for inferior minds to produce invaluable books, if this
very moderation were not the evidence of superiority; for the
wise are not so much wiser than others as respecters of their own
wisdom.  Some, poor in spirit, record plaintively only what has
happened to them; but others how they have happened to the
universe, and the judgment which they have awarded to
circumstances.  Above all, he possessed a hearty good-will to all
men, and never wrote a cross or even careless word.  On one
occasion the post-boy snivelling, “Signor perdonate, quésta è la
mia patria,” he confesses that “to me poor northerner came
something tear-like into the eyes.”

Goethe’s whole education and life were those of the artist.  He
lacks the unconsciousness of the poet.  In his autobiography he
describes accurately the life of the author of Wilhelm Meister.
For as there is in that book, mingled with a rare and serene
wisdom, a certain pettiness or exaggeration of trifles, wisdom
applied to produce a constrained and partial and merely well-bred
man,—a magnifying of the theatre till life itself is turned into
a stage, for which it is our duty to study our parts well, and
conduct with propriety and precision,—so in the autobiography,
the fault of his education is, so to speak, its merely artistic
completeness.  Nature is hindered, though she prevails at last in
making an unusually catholic impression on the boy.  It is the
life of a city boy, whose toys are pictures and works of art,
whose wonders are the theatre and kingly processions and
crownings.  As the youth studied minutely the order and the
degrees in the imperial procession, and suffered none of its
effect to be lost on him, so the man aimed to secure a rank in
society which would satisfy his notion of fitness and
respectability.  He was defrauded of much which the savage boy
enjoys.  Indeed, he himself has occasion to say in this very
autobiography, when at last he escapes into the woods without the
gates: “Thus much is certain, that only the undefinable,
wide-expanding feelings of youth and of uncultivated nations are
adapted to the sublime, which, whenever it may be excited in us
through external objects, since it is either formless, or else
moulded into forms which are incomprehensible, must surround us
with a grandeur which we find above our reach.” He further says
of himself: “I had lived among painters from my childhood, and
had accustomed myself to look at objects, as they did, with
reference to art.”  And this was his practice to the last.  He
was even too well-bred to be thoroughly bred.  He says that he
had had no intercourse with the lowest class of his towns-boys.
The child should have the advantage of ignorance as well as of
knowledge, and is fortunate if he gets his share of neglect and
exposure.

     “The laws of Nature break the rules of Art.”

The Man of Genius may at the same time be, indeed is commonly, an
Artist, but the two are not to be confounded.  The Man of Genius,
referred to mankind, is an originator, an inspired or demonic
man, who produces a perfect work in obedience to laws yet
unexplored.  The Artist is he who detects and applies the law
from observation of the works of Genius, whether of man or
nature.  The Artisan is he who merely applies the rules which
others have detected.  There has been no man of pure Genius; as
there has been none wholly destitute of Genius.

Poetry is the mysticism of mankind.

The expressions of the poet cannot be analyzed; his sentence is
one word, whose syllables are words.  There are indeed no words
quite worthy to be set to his music.  But what matter if we do
not hear the words always, if we hear the music?

Much verse fails of being poetry because it was not written
exactly at the right crisis, though it may have been
inconceivably near to it.  It is only by a miracle that poetry is
written at all.  It is not recoverable thought, but a hue caught
from a vaster receding thought.

A poem is one undivided unimpeded expression fallen ripe into
literature, and it is undividedly and unimpededly received by
those for whom it was matured.

If you can speak what you will never hear, if you can write what
you will never read, you have done rare things.

     The work we choose should be our own,
     God lets alone.

The unconsciousness of man is the consciousness of God.

Deep are the foundations of sincerity.  Even stone walls have
their foundation below the frost.

What is produced by a free stroke charms us, like the forms of
lichens and leaves.  There is a certain perfection in accident
which we never consciously attain.  Draw a blunt quill filled
with ink over a sheet of paper, and fold the paper before the ink
is dry, transversely to this line, and a delicately shaded and
regular figure will be produced, in some respects more pleasing
than an elaborate drawing.

The talent of composition is very dangerous,—the striking out
the heart of life at a blow, as the Indian takes off a scalp.  I
feel as if my life had grown more outward when I can express it.

On his journey from Brenner to Verona, Goethe writes:

“The Tees flows now more gently, and makes in many places broad
sands.  On the land, near to the water, upon the hillsides,
everything is so closely planted one to another, that you think
they must choke one another,—vineyards, maize, mulberry-trees,
apples, pears, quinces, and nuts.  The dwarf elder throws itself
vigorously over the walls.  Ivy grows with strong stems up the
rocks, and spreads itself wide over them, the lizard glides
through the intervals, and everything that wanders to and fro
reminds one of the loveliest pictures of art.  The women’s tufts
of hair bound up, the men’s bare breasts and light jackets, the
excellent oxen which they drive home from market, the little
asses with their loads,—everything forms a living, animated
Heinrich Roos.  And now that it is evening, in the mild air a few
clouds rest upon the mountains, in the heavens more stand still
than move, and immediately after sunset the chirping of crickets
begins to grow more loud; then one feels for once at home in the
world, and not as concealed or in exile.  I am contented as
though I had been born and brought up here, and were now
returning from a Greenland or whaling voyage.  Even the dust of
my Fatherland, which is often whirled about the wagon, and which
for so long a time I had not seen, is greeted.  The
clock-and-bell jingling of the crickets is altogether lovely,
penetrating, and agreeable.  It sounds bravely when roguish boys
whistle in emulation of a field of such songstresses.  One
fancies that they really enhance one another.  Also the evening
is perfectly mild as the day.”

“If one who dwelt in the south, and came hither from the south,
should hear of my rapture hereupon, he would deem me very
childish.  Alas!  what I here express I have long known while I
suffered under an unpropitious heaven, and now may I joyful feel
this joy as an exception, which we should enjoy everforth as an
eternal necessity of our nature.”

Thus we “sayled by thought and pleasaunce,” as Chaucer says, and
all things seemed with us to flow; the shore itself, and the
distant cliffs, were dissolved by the undiluted air.  The hardest
material seemed to obey the same law with the most fluid, and so
indeed in the long run it does.  Trees were but rivers of sap and
woody fibre, flowing from the atmosphere, and emptying into the
earth by their trunks, as their roots flowed upward to the
surface.  And in the heavens there were rivers of stars, and
milky-ways, already beginning to gleam and ripple over our heads.
There were rivers of rock on the surface of the earth, and rivers
of ore in its bowels, and our thoughts flowed and circulated, and
this portion of time was but the current hour.  Let us wander
where we will, the universe is built round about us, and we are
central still.  If we look into the heavens they are concave, and
if we were to look into a gulf as bottomless, it would be concave
also.  The sky is curved downward to the earth in the horizon,
because we stand on the plain.  I draw down its skirts.  The
stars so low there seem loath to depart, but by a circuitous path
to be remembering me, and returning on their steps.

We had already passed by broad daylight the scene of our
encampment at Coos Falls, and at length we pitched our camp on
the west bank, in the northern part of Merrimack, nearly opposite
to the large island on which we had spent the noon in our way up
the river.

There we went to bed that summer evening, on a sloping shelf in
the bank, a couple of rods from our boat, which was drawn up on
the sand, and just behind a thin fringe of oaks which bordered
the river; without having disturbed any inhabitants but the
spiders in the grass, which came out by the light of our lamp,
and crawled over our buffaloes.  When we looked out from under
the tent, the trees were seen dimly through the mist, and a cool
dew hung upon the grass, which seemed to rejoice in the night,
and with the damp air we inhaled a solid fragrance.  Having eaten
our supper of hot cocoa and bread and watermelon, we soon grew
weary of conversing, and writing in our journals, and, putting
out the lantern which hung from the tent-pole, fell asleep.

Unfortunately, many things have been omitted which should have
been recorded in our journal; for though we made it a rule to set
down all our experiences therein, yet such a resolution is very
hard to keep, for the important experience rarely allows us to
remember such obligations, and so indifferent things get
recorded, while that is frequently neglected.  It is not easy to
write in a journal what interests us at any time, because to
write it is not what interests us.

Whenever we awoke in the night, still eking out our dreams with
half-awakened thoughts, it was not till after an interval, when
the wind breathed harder than usual, flapping the curtains of the
tent, and causing its cords to vibrate, that we remembered that
we lay on the bank of the Merrimack, and not in our chamber at
home.  With our heads so low in the grass, we heard the river
whirling and sucking, and lapsing downward, kissing the shore as
it went, sometimes rippling louder than usual, and again its
mighty current making only a slight limpid, trickling sound, as
if our water-pail had sprung a leak, and the water were flowing
into the grass by our side.  The wind, rustling the oaks and
hazels, impressed us like a wakeful and inconsiderate person up
at midnight, moving about, and putting things to rights,
occasionally stirring up whole drawers full of leaves at a puff.
There seemed to be a great haste and preparation throughout
Nature, as for a distinguished visitor; all her aisles had to be
swept in the night, by a thousand hand-maidens, and a thousand
pots to be boiled for the next day’s feasting;—such a whispering
bustle, as if ten thousand fairies made their fingers fly,
silently sewing at the new carpet with which the earth was to be
clothed, and the new drapery which was to adorn the trees.  And
then the wind would lull and die away, and we like it fell asleep
again.

    
      
 
 
       
    
    
      


    

FRIDAY.

                               “The Boteman strayt
     Held on his course with stayed stedfastnesse,
     Ne ever shroncke, ne ever sought to bayt
     His tryed armes for toylesome wearinesse;
     But with his oares did sweepe the watry wildernesse.”

                                                Spenser.

                “Summer’s robe grows
     Dusky, and like an oft-dyed garment shows.”

                                                Donne.


FRIDAY.


As we lay awake long before daybreak, listening to the rippling
of the river, and the rustling of the leaves, in suspense whether
the wind blew up or down the stream, was favorable or unfavorable
to our voyage, we already suspected that there was a change in
the weather, from a freshness as of autumn in these sounds.  The
wind in the woods sounded like an incessant waterfall dashing and
roaring amid rocks, and we even felt encouraged by the unusual
activity of the elements.  He who hears the rippling of rivers in
these degenerate days will not utterly despair.  That night was
the turning-point in the season.  We had gone to bed in summer,
and we awoke in autumn; for summer passes into autumn in some
unimaginable point of time, like the turning of a leaf.

We found our boat in the dawn just as we had left it, and as if
waiting for us, there on the shore, in autumn, all cool and
dripping with dew, and our tracks still fresh in the wet sand
around it, the fairies all gone or concealed.  Before five
o’clock we pushed it into the fog, and, leaping in, at one shove
were out of sight of the shores, and began to sweep downward with
the rushing river, keeping a sharp lookout for rocks.  We could
see only the yellow gurgling water, and a solid bank of fog on
every side, forming a small yard around us.  We soon passed the
mouth of the Souhegan, and the village of Merrimack, and as the
mist gradually rolled away, and we were relieved from the trouble
of watching for rocks, we saw by the flitting clouds, by the
first russet tinge on the hills, by the rushing river, the
cottages on shore, and the shore itself, so coolly fresh and
shining with dew, and later in the day, by the hue of the
grape-vine, the goldfinch on the willow, the flickers flying in
flocks, and when we passed near enough to the shore, as we
fancied, by the faces of men, that the Fall had commenced.  The
cottages looked more snug and comfortable, and their inhabitants
were seen only for a moment, and then went quietly in and shut
the door, retreating inward to the haunts of summer.

     “And now the cold autumnal dews are seen
     To cobweb ev’ry green;
     And by the low-shorn rowens doth appear
     The fast-declining year.”

We heard the sigh of the first autumnal wind, and even the water
had acquired a grayer hue.  The sumach, grape, and maple were
already changed, and the milkweed had turned to a deep rich
yellow.  In all woods the leaves were fast ripening for their
fall; for their full veins and lively gloss mark the ripe leaf,
and not the sered one of the poets; and we knew that the maples,
stripped of their leaves among the earliest, would soon stand
like a wreath of smoke along the edge of the meadow.  Already the
cattle were heard to low wildly in the pastures and along the
highways, restlessly running to and fro, as if in apprehension of
the withering of the grass and of the approach of winter.  Our
thoughts, too, began to rustle.

As I pass along the streets of our village of Concord on the day
of our annual Cattle-Show, when it usually happens that the
leaves of the elms and buttonwoods begin first to strew the
ground under the breath of the October wind, the lively spirits
in their sap seem to mount as high as any plough-boy’s let loose
that day; and they lead my thoughts away to the rustling woods,
where the trees are preparing for their winter campaign.  This
autumnal festival, when men are gathered in crowds in the streets
as regularly and by as natural a law as the leaves cluster and
rustle by the wayside, is naturally associated in my mind with
the fall of the year.  The low of cattle in the streets sounds
like a hoarse symphony or running bass to the rustling of the
leaves.  The wind goes hurrying down the country, gleaning every
loose straw that is left in the fields, while every farmer lad
too appears to scud before it,—having donned his best pea-jacket
and pepper-and-salt waistcoat, his unbent trousers, outstanding
rigging of duck or kerseymere or corduroy, and his furry hat
withal,—to country fairs and cattle-shows, to that Rome among
the villages where the treasures of the year are gathered.  All
the land over they go leaping the fences with their tough, idle
palms, which have never learned to hang by their sides, amid the
low of calves and the bleating of sheep,—Amos, Abner, Elnathan,
Elbridge,—

     “From steep pine-bearing mountains to the plain.”

I love these sons of earth every mother’s son of them, with their
great hearty hearts rushing tumultuously in herds from spectacle
to spectacle, as if fearful lest there should not be time between
sun and sun to see them all, and the sun does not wait more than
in haying-time.

     “Wise Nature’s darlings, they live in the world
     Perplexing not themselves how it is hurled.”

Running hither and thither with appetite for the coarse pastimes
of the day, now with boisterous speed at the heels of the
inspired <DW64> from whose larynx the melodies of all Congo and
Guinea Coast have broke loose into our streets; now to see the
procession of a hundred yoke of oxen, all as august and grave as
Osiris, or the droves of neat cattle and milch cows as unspotted
as Isis or Io.  Such as had no love for Nature

                                    “at all,
       Came lovers home from this great festival.”

They may bring their fattest cattle and richest fruits to the
fair, but they are all eclipsed by the show of men.  These are
stirring autumn days, when men sweep by in crowds, amid the
rustle of leaves, like migrating finches; this is the true
harvest of the year, when the air is but the breath of men, and
the rustling of leaves is as the trampling of the crowd.  We read
now-a-days of the ancient festivals, games, and processions of
the Greeks and Etruscans, with a little incredulity, or at least
with little sympathy; but how natural and irrepressible in every
people is some hearty and palpable greeting of Nature.  The
Corybantes, the Bacchantes, the rude primitive tragedians with
their procession and goat-song, and the whole paraphernalia of
the Panathenæa, which appear so antiquated and peculiar, have
their parallel now.  The husbandman is always a better Greek than
the scholar is prepared to appreciate, and the old custom still
survives, while antiquarians and scholars grow gray in
commemorating it.  The farmers crowd to the fair to-day in
obedience to the same ancient law, which Solon or Lycurgus did
not enact, as naturally as bees swarm and follow their queen.

It is worth the while to see the country’s people, how they pour
into the town, the sober farmer folk, now all agog, their very
shirt and coat-collars pointing forward,—collars so broad as if
they had put their shirts on wrong end upward, for the fashions
always tend to superfluity,—and with an unusual springiness in
their gait, jabbering earnestly to one another.  The more supple
vagabond, too, is sure to appear on the least rumor of such a
gathering, and the next day to disappear, and go into his hole
like the seventeen-year locust, in an ever-shabby coat, though
finer than the farmer’s best, yet never dressed; come to see the
sport, and have a hand in what is going,—to know “what’s the
row,” if there is any; to be where some men are drunk, some
horses race, some cockerels fight; anxious to be shaking props
under a table, and above all to see the “striped pig.” He
especially is the creature of the occasion.  He empties both his
pockets and his character into the stream, and swims in such a
day.  He dearly loves the social slush.  There is no reserve of
soberness in him.

I love to see the herd of men feeding heartily on coarse and
succulent pleasures, as cattle on the husks and stalks of
vegetables.  Though there are many crooked and crabbled specimens
of humanity among them, run all to thorn and rind, and crowded
out of shape by adverse circumstances, like the third chestnut in
the burr, so that you wonder to see some heads wear a whole hat,
yet fear not that the race will fail or waver in them; like the
crabs which grow in hedges, they furnish the stocks of sweet and
thrifty fruits still.  Thus is nature recruited from age to age,
while the fair and palatable varieties die out, and have their
period.  This is that mankind.  How cheap must be the material of
which so many men are made.

The wind blew steadily down the stream, so that we kept our sails
set, and lost not a moment of the forenoon by delays, but from
early morning until noon were continually dropping downward.
With our hands on the steering-paddle, which was thrust deep into
the river, or bending to the oar, which indeed we rarely
relinquished, we felt each palpitation in the veins of our steed,
and each impulse of the wings which drew us above.  The current
of our thoughts made as sudden bends as the river, which was
continually opening new prospects to the east or south, but we
are aware that rivers flow most rapidly and shallowest at these
points.  The steadfast shores never once turned aside for us, but
still trended as they were made; why then should we always turn
aside for them?

A man cannot wheedle nor overawe his Genius.  It requires to be
conciliated by nobler conduct than the world demands or can
appreciate.  These winged thoughts are like birds, and will not
be handled; even hens will not let you touch them like
quadrupeds.  Nothing was ever so unfamiliar and startling to a
man as his own thoughts.

To the rarest genius it is the most expensive to succumb and
conform to the ways of the world.  Genius is the worst of lumber,
if the poet would float upon the breeze of popularity.  The bird
of paradise is obliged constantly to fly against the wind, lest
its gay trappings, pressing close to its body, impede its free
movements.

He is the best sailor who can steer within the fewest points of
the wind, and extract a motive power out of the greatest
obstacles.  Most begin to veer and tack as soon as the wind
changes from aft, and as within the tropics it does not blow from
all points of the compass, there are some harbors which they can
never reach.

The poet is no tender slip of fairy stock, who requires peculiar
institutions and edicts for his defence, but the toughest son of
earth and of Heaven, and by his greater strength and endurance
his fainting companions will recognize the God in him.  It is the
worshippers of beauty, after all, who have done the real pioneer
work of the world.

The poet will prevail to be popular in spite of his faults, and
in spite of his beauties too.  He will hit the nail on the head,
and we shall not know the shape of his hammer.  He makes us free
of his hearth and heart, which is greater than to offer one the
freedom of a city.

Great men, unknown to their generation, have their fame among the
great who have preceded them, and all true worldly fame subsides
from their high estimate beyond the stars.

Orpheus does not hear the strains which issue from his lyre, but
only those which are breathed into it; for the original strain
precedes the sound, by as much as the echo follows after.  The
rest is the perquisite of the rocks and trees and beasts.

When I stand in a library where is all the recorded wit of the
world, but none of the recording, a mere accumulated, and not
truly cumulative treasure, where immortal works stand side by
side with anthologies which did not survive their month, and
cobweb and mildew have already spread from these to the binding
of those; and happily I am reminded of what poetry is,—I
perceive that Shakespeare and Milton did not foresee into what
company they were to fall.  Alas! that so soon the work of a true
poet should be swept into such a dust-hole!

The poet will write for his peers alone.  He will remember only
that he saw truth and beauty from his position, and expect the
time when a vision as broad shall overlook the same field as
freely.

We are often prompted to speak our thoughts to our neighbors, or
the single travellers whom we meet on the road, but poetry is a
communication from our home and solitude addressed to all
Intelligence.  It never whispers in a private ear.  Knowing this,
we may understand those sonnets said to be addressed to
particular persons, or “To a Mistress’s Eyebrow.” Let none feel
flattered by them.  For poetry write love, and it will be equally
true.

No doubt it is an important difference between men of genius or
poets, and men not of genius, that the latter are unable to grasp
and confront the thought which visits them.  But it is because it
is too faint for expression, or even conscious impression.  What
merely quickens or <DW44>s the blood in their veins and fills
their afternoons with pleasure they know not whence, conveys a
distinct assurance to the finer organization of the poet.

We talk of genius as if it were a mere knack, and the poet could
only express what other men conceived.  But in comparison with
his task, the poet is the least talented of any; the writer of
prose has more skill.  See what talent the smith has.  His
material is pliant in his hands.  When the poet is most inspired,
is stimulated by an aura which never even colors the afternoons
of common men, then his talent is all gone, and he is no longer a
poet.  The gods do not grant him any skill more than another.
They never put their gifts into his hands, but they encompass and
sustain him with their breath.

To say that God has given a man many and great talents,
frequently means that he has brought his heavens down within
reach of his hands.

When the poetic frenzy seizes us, we run and scratch with our
pen, intent only on worms, calling our mates around us, like the
cock, and delighting in the dust we make, but do not detect where
the jewel lies, which, perhaps, we have in the mean time cast to
a distance, or quite covered up again.

The poet’s body even is not fed like other men’s, but he sometimes
tastes the genuine nectar and ambrosia of the gods, and lives a
divine life.  By the healthful and invigorating thrills of
inspiration his life is preserved to a serene old age.

Some poems are for holidays only.  They are polished and sweet,
but it is the sweetness of sugar, and not such as toil gives to
sour bread.  The breath with which the poet utters his verse must
be that by which he lives.

Great prose, of equal elevation, commands our respect more than
great verse, since it implies a more permanent and level height,
a life more pervaded with the grandeur of the thought.  The poet
often only makes an irruption, like a Parthian, and is off again,
shooting while he retreats; but the prose writer has conquered
like a Roman, and settled colonies.

The true poem is not that which the public read.  There is always
a poem not printed on paper, coincident with the production of
this, stereotyped in the poet’s life.  It is what he has become
through his work.  Not how is the idea expressed in stone, or on
canvas or paper, is the question, but how far it has obtained
form and expression in the life of the artist.  His true work
will not stand in any prince’s gallery.

   My life has been the poem I would have writ,
   But I could not both live and utter it.

            THE POET’S DELAY.

     In vain I see the morning rise,
       In vain observe the western blaze,
     Who idly look to other skies,
       Expecting life by other ways.
     Amidst such boundless wealth without,
       I only still am poor within,
     The birds have sung their summer out,
       But still my spring does not begin.
     Shall I then wait the autumn wind,
       Compelled to seek a milder day,
     And leave no curious nest behind,
       No woods still echoing to my lay?

This raw and gusty day, and the creaking of the oaks and pines on
shore, reminded us of more northern climes than Greece, and more
wintry seas than the Ægean.

The genuine remains of Ossian, or those ancient poems which bear
his name, though of less fame and extent, are, in many respects,
of the same stamp with the Iliad itself.  He asserts the dignity
of the bard no less than Homer, and in his era we hear of no
other priest than he.  It will not avail to call him a heathen,
because he personifies the sun and addresses it; and what if his
heroes did “worship the ghosts of their fathers,” their thin,
airy, and unsubstantial forms? we worship but the ghosts of our
fathers in more substantial forms.  We cannot but respect the
vigorous faith of those heathen, who sternly believed somewhat,
and are inclined to say to the critics, who are offended by their
superstitious rites,—Don’t interrupt these men’s prayers.  As if
we knew more about human life and a God, than the heathen and
ancients.  Does English theology contain the recent discoveries!

Ossian reminds us of the most refined and rudest eras, of Homer,
Pindar, Isaiah, and the American Indian.  In his poetry, as in
Homer’s, only the simplest and most enduring features of humanity
are seen, such essential parts of a man as Stonehenge exhibits of
a temple; we see the circles of stone, and the upright shaft
alone.  The phenomena of life acquire almost an unreal and
gigantic size seen through his mists.  Like all older and grander
poetry, it is distinguished by the few elements in the lives of
its heroes.  They stand on the heath, between the stars and the
earth, shrunk to the bones and sinews.  The earth is a boundless
plain for their deeds.  They lead such a simple, dry, and
everlasting life, as hardly needs depart with the flesh, but is
transmitted entire from age to age.  There are but few objects to
distract their sight, and their life is as unencumbered as the
course of the stars they gaze at.

     “The wrathful kings, on cairns apart,
     Look forward from behind their shields,
     And mark the wandering stars,
     That brilliant westward move.”

It does not cost much for these heroes to live; they do not want
much furniture.  They are such forms of men only as can be seen
afar through the mist, and have no costume nor dialect, but for
language there is the tongue itself, and for costume there are
always the skins of beasts and the bark of trees to be had.  They
live out their years by the vigor of their constitutions.  They
survive storms and the spears of their foes, and perform a few
heroic deeds, and then

     “Mounds will answer questions of them,
     For many future years.”

Blind and infirm, they spend the remnant of their days listening
to the lays of the bards, and feeling the weapons which laid
their enemies low, and when at length they die, by a convulsion
of nature, the bard allows us a short and misty glance into
futurity, yet as clear, perchance, as their lives had been.  When
Mac-Roine was slain,

     “His soul departed to his warlike sires,
     To follow misty forms of boars,
     In tempestuous islands bleak.”

The hero’s cairn is erected, and the bard sings a brief
significant strain, which will suffice for epitaph and biography.

     “The weak will find his bow in the dwelling,
     The feeble will attempt to bend it.”

Compared with this simple, fibrous life, our civilized history
appears the chronicle of debility, of fashion, and the arts of
luxury.  But the civilized man misses no real refinement in the
poetry of the rudest era.  It reminds him that civilization does
but dress men.  It makes shoes, but it does not toughen the soles
of the feet.  It makes cloth of finer texture, but it does not
touch the skin.  Inside the civilized man stand the savage still
in the place of honor.  We are those blue-eyed, yellow-haired
Saxons, those slender, dark-haired Normans.

The profession of the bard attracted more respect in those days
from the importance attached to fame.  It was his province to
record the deeds of heroes.  When Ossian hears the traditions of
inferior bards, he exclaims,—

     “I straightway seize the unfutile tales,
     And send them down in faithful verse.”

His philosophy of life is expressed in the opening of the third

Duan of Ca-Lodin.

     “Whence have sprung the things that are?
     And whither roll the passing years?
     Where does Time conceal its two heads,
     In dense impenetrable gloom,
     Its surface marked with heroes’ deeds alone?
     I view the generations gone;
     The past appears but dim;
     As objects by the moon’s faint beams,
     Reflected from a distant lake.
     I see, indeed, the thunderbolts of war,
     But there the unmighty joyless dwell,
     All those who send not down their deeds
     To far, succeeding times.”

The ignoble warriors die and are forgotten;

     “Strangers come to build a tower,
     And throw their ashes overhand;
     Some rusted swords appear in dust;
     One, bending forward, says,
     ‘The arms belonged to heroes gone;
     We never heard their praise in song.’”

The grandeur of the similes is another feature which characterizes
great poetry.  Ossian seems to speak a gigantic and universal
language.  The images and pictures occupy even much space in the
landscape, as if they could be seen only from the sides of
mountains, and plains with a wide horizon, or across arms of the
sea.  The machinery is so massive that it cannot be less than
natural.  Oivana says to the spirit of her father, “Gray-haired
Torkil of Torne,” seen in the skies,

     “Thou glidest away like receding ships.”

So when the hosts of Fingal and Starne approach to battle,

     “With murmurs loud, like rivers far,
     The race of Torne hither moved.”

And when compelled to retire,

     “dragging his spear behind,
     Cudulin sank in the distant wood,
     Like a fire upblazing ere it dies.”

Nor did Fingal want a proper audience when he spoke;

     “A thousand orators inclined
     To hear the lay of Fingal.”

The threats too would have deterred a man.  Vengeance and terror
were real.  Trenmore threatens the young warrior whom he meets on
a foreign strand,

     “Thy mother shall find thee pale on the shore,
     While lessening on the waves she spies
     The sails of him who slew her son.”

If Ossian’s heroes weep, it is from excess of strength, and not
from weakness, a sacrifice or libation of fertile natures, like
the perspiration of stone in summer’s heat.  We hardly know that
tears have been shed, and it seems as if weeping were proper only
for babes and heroes.  Their joy and their sorrow are made of one
stuff, like rain and snow, the rainbow and the mist.  When Fillan
was worsted in fight, and ashamed in the presence of Fingal,

     “He strode away forthwith,
     And bent in grief above a stream,
     His cheeks bedewed with tears.
     From time to time the thistles gray
     He lopped with his inverted lance.”

Crodar, blind and old, receives Ossian, son of Fingal, who comes
to aid him in war;—

     “‘My eyes have failed,’ says he, ‘Crodar is blind,
     Is thy strength like that of thy fathers?
     Stretch, Ossian, thine arm to the hoary-haired.’
        I gave my arm to the king.
     The aged hero seized my hand;
     He heaved a heavy sigh;
     Tears flowed incessant down his cheek.
     ’Strong art thou, son of the mighty,
     Though not so dreadful as Morven’s prince.
     Let my feast be spread in the hall,
     Let every sweet-voiced minstrel sing;
     Great is he who is within my walls,
     Sons of wave-echoing Croma.’”

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

     “How beauteous, mighty man, was thy mind,
     Why succeeded Ossian without its strength?”

                    ————————

While we sailed fleetly before the wind, with the river gurgling
under our stern, the thoughts of autumn coursed as steadily
through our minds, and we observed less what was passing on the
shore, than the dateless associations and impressions which the
season awakened, anticipating in some measure the progress of the
year.

     I hearing get, who had but ears,
       And sight, who had but eyes before,
     I moments live, who lived but years,
       And truth discern, who knew but learning’s lore.

Sitting with our faces now up stream, we studied the landscape by
degrees, as one unrolls a map, rock, tree, house, hill, and
meadow, assuming new and varying positions as wind and water
shifted the scene, and there was variety enough for our
entertainment in the metamorphoses of the simplest objects.
Viewed from this side the scenery appeared new to us.

The most familiar sheet of water viewed from a new hill-top,
yields a novel and unexpected pleasure.  When we have travelled a
few miles, we do not recognize the profiles even of the hills
which overlook our native village, and perhaps no man is quite
familiar with the horizon as seen from the hill nearest to his
house, and can recall its outline distinctly when in the valley.
We do not commonly know, beyond a short distance, which way the
hills range which take in our houses and farms in their sweep.
As if our birth had at first sundered things, and we had been
thrust up through into nature like a wedge, and not till the
wound heals and the scar disappears, do we begin to discover
where we are, and that nature is one and continuous everywhere.
It is an important epoch when a man who has always lived on the
east side of a mountain, and seen it in the west, travels round
and sees it in the east.  Yet the universe is a sphere whose
centre is wherever there is intelligence.  The sun is not so
central as a man.  Upon an isolated hill-top, in an open country,
we seem to ourselves to be standing on the boss of an immense
shield, the immediate landscape being apparently depressed below
the more remote, and rising gradually to the horizon, which is
the rim of the shield, villas, steeples, forests, mountains, one
above another, till they are swallowed up in the heavens.  The
most distant mountains in the horizon appear to rise directly
from the shore of that lake in the woods by which we chance to be
standing, while from the mountain-top, not only this, but a
thousand nearer and larger lakes, are equally unobserved.

Seen through this clear atmosphere, the works of the farmer, his
ploughing and reaping, had a beauty to our eyes which he never
saw.  How fortunate were we who did not own an acre of these
shores, who had not renounced our title to the whole.  One who
knew how to appropriate the true value of this world would be the
poorest man in it.  The poor rich man! all he has is what he has
bought.  What I see is mine.  I am a large owner in the Merrimack
intervals.

     Men dig and dive but cannot my wealth spend,
       Who yet no partial store appropriate,
     Who no armed ship into the Indies send,
       To rob me of my orient estate.

He is the rich man, and enjoys the fruits of riches, who summer
and winter forever can find delight in his own thoughts.  Buy a
farm! What have I to pay for a farm which a farmer will take?

When I visit again some haunt of my youth, I am glad to find that
nature wears so well.  The landscape is indeed something real,
and solid, and sincere, and I have not put my foot through it
yet.  There is a pleasant tract on the bank of the Concord,
called Conantum, which I have in my mind;—the old deserted
farm-house, the desolate pasture with its bleak cliff, the open
wood, the river-reach, the green meadow in the midst, and the
moss-grown wild-apple orchard,—places where one may have many
thoughts and not decide anything.  It is a scene which I can not
only remember, as I might a vision, but when I will can bodily
revisit, and find it even so, unaccountable, yet unpretending in
its pleasant dreariness.  When my thoughts are sensible of
change, I love to see and sit on rocks which I have known, and
pry into their moss, and see unchangeableness so established.  I
not yet gray on rocks forever gray, I no longer green under the
evergreens.  There is something even in the lapse of time by
which time recovers itself.

As we have said, it proved a cool as well as breezy day, and by
the time we reached Penichook Brook we were obliged to sit
muffled in our cloaks, while the wind and current carried us
along.  We bounded swiftly over the rippling surface, far by many
cultivated lands and the ends of fences which divided innumerable
farms, with hardly a thought for the various lives which they
separated; now by long rows of alders or groves of pines or oaks,
and now by some homestead where the women and children stood
outside to gaze at us, till we had swept out of their sight, and
beyond the limit of their longest Saturday ramble.  We glided
past the mouth of the Nashua, and not long after, of Salmon
Brook, without more pause than the wind.

     Salmon Brook,
     Penichook,
     Ye sweet waters of my brain,
     When shall I look,
     Or cast the hook,
     In your waves again?
     Silver eels,
     Wooden creels,
     These the baits that still allure,
     And dragon-fly
     That floated by,
     May they still endure?

The shadows chased one another swiftly over wood and meadow, and
their alternation harmonized with our mood.  We could distinguish
the clouds which cast each one, though never so high in the
heavens.  When a shadow flits across the landscape of the soul,
where is the substance?  Probably, if we were wise enough, we
should see to what virtue we are indebted for any happier moment
we enjoy.  No doubt we have earned it at some time; for the gifts
of Heaven are never quite gratuitous.  The constant abrasion and
decay of our lives makes the soil of our future growth.  The wood
which we now mature, when it becomes virgin mould, determines the
character of our second growth, whether that be oaks or pines.
Every man casts a shadow; not his body only, but his imperfectly
mingled spirit.  This is his grief.  Let him turn which way he
will, it falls opposite to the sun; short at noon, long at eve.
Did you never see it?—But, referred to the sun, it is widest at
its base, which is no greater than his own opacity.  The divine
light is diffused almost entirely around us, and by means of the
refraction of light, or else by a certain self-luminousness, or,
as some will have it, transparency, if we preserve ourselves
untarnished, we are able to enlighten our shaded side.  At any
rate, our darkest grief has that bronze color of the moon
eclipsed.  There is no ill which may not be dissipated, like the
dark, if you let in a stronger light upon it.  Shadows, referred
to the source of light, are pyramids whose bases are never
greater than those of the substances which cast them, but light
is a spherical congeries of pyramids, whose very apexes are the
sun itself, and hence the system shines with uninterrupted light.
But if the light we use is but a paltry and narrow taper, most
objects will cast a shadow wider than themselves.

The places where we had stopped or spent the night in our way up
the river, had already acquired a slight historical interest for
us; for many upward day’s voyaging were unravelled in this rapid
downward passage.  When one landed to stretch his limbs by
walking, he soon found himself falling behind his companion, and
was obliged to take advantage of the curves, and ford the brooks
and ravines in haste, to recover his ground.  Already the banks
and the distant meadows wore a sober and deepened tinge, for the
September air had shorn them of their summer’s pride.

     “And what’s a life? The flourishing array
     Of the proud summer meadow, which to-day
     Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay.”

The air was really the “fine element” which the poets describe.
It had a finer and sharper grain, seen against the russet
pastures and meadows, than before, as if cleansed of the summer’s
impurities.

Having passed the New Hampshire line and reached the Horseshoe
Interval in Tyngsborough, where there is a high and regular
second bank, we climbed up this in haste to get a nearer sight of
the autumnal flowers, asters, golden-rod, and yarrow, and
blue-curls (Trichostema dichotoma), humble roadside blossoms,
and, lingering still, the harebell and the Rhexia Virginica.
The last, growing in patches of lively pink flowers on the edge
of the meadows, had almost too gay an appearance for the rest of
the landscape, like a pink ribbon on the bonnet of a Puritan
woman.  Asters and golden-rods were the livery which nature wore
at present.  The latter alone expressed all the ripeness of the
season, and shed their mellow lustre over the fields, as if the
now declining summer’s sun had bequeathed its hues to them.  It
is the floral solstice a little after midsummer, when the
particles of golden light, the sun-dust, have, as it were, fallen
like seeds on the earth, and produced these blossoms.  On every
hillside, and in every valley, stood countless asters, coreopses,
tansies, golden-rods, and the whole race of yellow flowers, like
Brahminical devotees, turning steadily with their luminary from
morning till night.

     “I see the golden-rod shine bright,
       As sun-showers at the birth of day,
     A golden plume of yellow light,
      That robs the Day-god’s splendid ray.
     “The aster’s violet rays divide
       The bank with many stars for me,
     And yarrow in blanch tints is dyed,
       As moonlight floats across the sea.
     “I see the emerald woods prepare
       To shed their vestiture once more,
     And distant elm-trees spot the air
       With yellow pictures softly o’er.
          .    .    .    .    .
     “No more the water-lily’s pride
       In milk-white circles swims content,
     No more the blue-weed’s clusters ride
       And mock the heavens’ element.
          .    .    .    .    .
     “Autumn, thy wreath and mine are blent
       With the same colors, for to me
     A richer sky than all is lent,
       While fades my dream-like company.
     “Our skies glow purple, but the wind
       Sobs chill through green trees and bright grass,
     To-day shines fair, and lurk behind
       The times that into winter pass.
     “So fair we seem, so cold we are,
       So fast we hasten to decay,
     Yet through our night glows many a star,
       That still shall claim its sunny day.”

So sang a Concord poet once.

There is a peculiar interest belonging to the still later
flowers, which abide with us the approach of winter.  There is
something witch-like in the appearance of the witch-hazel, which
blossoms late in October and in November, with its irregular and
angular spray and petals like furies’ hair, or small ribbon
streamers.  Its blossoming, too, at this irregular period, when
other shrubs have lost their leaves, as well as blossoms, looks
like witches’ craft.  Certainly it blooms in no garden of man’s.
There is a whole fairy-land on the hillside where it grows.

Some have thought that the gales do not at present waft to the
voyager the natural and original fragrance of the land, such as
the early navigators described, and that the loss of many
odoriferous native plants, sweet-scented grasses and medicinal
herbs, which formerly sweetened the atmosphere, and rendered it
salubrious,—by the grazing of cattle and the rooting of swine,
is the source of many diseases which now prevail; the earth, say
they, having been long subjected to extremely artificial and
luxurious modes of cultivation, to gratify the appetite,
converted into a stye and hot-bed, where men for profit increase
the ordinary decay of nature.

According to the record of an old inhabitant of Tyngsborough, now
dead, whose farm we were now gliding past, one of the greatest
freshets on this river took place in October, 1785, and its
height was marked by a nail driven into an apple-tree behind his
house.  One of his descendants has shown this to me, and I judged
it to be at least seventeen or eighteen feet above the level of
the river at the time.  According to Barber, the river rose
twenty-one feet above the common high-water mark, at Bradford in
the year 1818.  Before the Lowell and Nashua railroad was built,
the engineer made inquiries of the inhabitants along the banks as
to how high they had known the river to rise.  When he came to
this house he was conducted to the apple-tree, and as the nail
was not then visible, the lady of the house placed her hand on
the trunk where she said that she remembered the nail to have
been from her childhood.  In the mean while the old man put his
arm inside the tree, which was hollow, and felt the point of the
nail sticking through, and it was exactly opposite to her hand.
The spot is now plainly marked by a notch in the bark.  But as no
one else remembered the river to have risen so high as this, the
engineer disregarded this statement, and I learn that there has
since been a freshet which rose within nine inches of the rails
at Biscuit Brook, and such a freshet as that of 1785 would have
covered the railroad two feet deep.

The revolutions of nature tell as fine tales, and make as
interesting revelations, on this river’s banks, as on the
Euphrates or the Nile.  This apple-tree, which stands within a
few rods of the river, is called “Elisha’s apple-tree,” from a
friendly Indian, who was anciently in the service of Jonathan
Tyng, and, with one other man, was killed here by his own race in
one of the Indian wars,—the particulars of which affair were
told us on the spot.  He was buried close by, no one knew exactly
where, but in the flood of 1785, so great a weight of water
standing over the grave, caused the earth to settle where it had
once been disturbed, and when the flood went down, a sunken spot,
exactly of the form and size of the grave, revealed its locality;
but this was now lost again, and no future flood can detect it;
yet, no doubt, Nature will know how to point it out in due time,
if it be necessary, by methods yet more searching and unexpected.
Thus there is not only the crisis when the spirit ceases to
inspire and expand the body, marked by a fresh mound in the
churchyard, but there is also a crisis when the body ceases to
take up room as such in nature, marked by a fainter depression in
the earth.

We sat awhile to rest us here upon the brink of the western bank,
surrounded by the glossy leaves of the red variety of the
mountain laurel, just above the head of Wicasuck Island, where we
could observe some scows which were loading with clay from the
opposite shore, and also overlook the grounds of the farmer, of
whom I have spoken, who once hospitably entertained us for a
night.  He had on his pleasant farm, besides an abundance of the
beach-plum, or Prunus littoralis, which grew wild, the Canada
plum under cultivation, fine Porter apples, some peaches, and
large patches of musk and water melons, which he cultivated for
the Lowell market.  Elisha’s apple-tree, too, bore a native
fruit, which was prized by the family.  He raised the blood
peach, which, as he showed us with satisfaction, was more like
the oak in the color of its bark and in the setting of its
branches, and was less liable to break down under the weight of
the fruit, or the snow, than other varieties.  It was of slower
growth, and its branches strong and tough.  There, also, was his
nursery of native apple-trees, thickly set upon the bank, which
cost but little care, and which he sold to the neighboring
farmers when they were five or six years old.  To see a single
peach upon its stem makes an impression of paradisaical fertility
and luxury.  This reminded us even of an old Roman farm, as
described by Varro:—Cæsar Vopiscus Ædilicius, when he pleaded
before the Censors, said that the grounds of Rosea were the
garden (sumen the tid-bit) of Italy, in which a pole being left
would not be visible the day after, on account of the growth of
the herbage.  This soil may not have been remarkably fertile,
yet at this distance we thought that this anecdote might be told
of the Tyngsborough farm.

When we passed Wicasuck Island, there was a pleasure-boat
containing a youth and a maiden on the island brook, which we
were pleased to see, since it proved that there were some
hereabouts to whom our excursion would not be wholly strange.
Before this, a canal-boatman, of whom we made some inquiries
respecting Wicasuck Island, and who told us that it was disputed
property, suspected that we had a claim upon it, and though we
assured him that all this was news to us, and explained, as well
as we could, why we had come to see it, he believed not a word of
it, and seriously offered us one hundred dollars for our title.
The only other small boats which we met with were used to pick up
driftwood.  Some of the poorer class along the stream collect, in
this way, all the fuel which they require.  While one of us
landed not far from this island to forage for provisions among
the farm-houses whose roofs we saw, for our supply was now
exhausted, the other, sitting in the boat, which was moored to
the shore, was left alone to his reflections.

If there is nothing new on the earth, still the traveller always
has a resource in the skies.  They are constantly turning a new
page to view.  The wind sets the types on this blue ground, and
the inquiring may always read a new truth there.  There are
things there written with such fine and subtile tinctures, paler
than the juice of limes, that to the diurnal eye they leave no
trace, and only the chemistry of night reveals them.  Every man’s
daylight firmament answers in his mind to the brightness of the
vision in his starriest hour.

These continents and hemispheres are soon run over, but an always
unexplored and infinite region makes off on every side from the
mind, further than to sunset, and we can make no highway or
beaten track into it, but the grass immediately springs up in the
path, for we travel there chiefly with our wings.

Sometimes we see objects as through a thin haze, in their eternal
relations, and they stand like Palenque and the Pyramids, and we
wonder who set them up, and for what purpose.  If we see the
reality in things, of what moment is the superficial and apparent
longer?  What are the earth and all its interests beside the deep
surmise which pierces and scatters them?  While I sit here
listening to the waves which ripple and break on this shore, I am
absolved from all obligation to the past, and the council of
nations may reconsider its votes.  The grating of a pebble annuls
them.  Still occasionally in my dreams I remember that rippling
water.

     Oft, as I turn me on my pillow o’er,
     I hear the lapse of waves upon the shore,
     Distinct as if it were at broad noonday,
     And I were drifting down from Nashua.

With a bending sail we glided rapidly by Tyngsborough and
Chelmsford, each holding in one hand half of a tart country
apple-pie which we had purchased to celebrate our return, and in
the other a fragment of the newspaper in which it was wrapped,
devouring these with divided relish, and learning the news which
had transpired since we sailed.  The river here opened into a
broad and straight reach of great length, which we bounded
merrily over before a smacking breeze, with a devil-may-care look
in our faces, and our boat a white bone in its mouth, and a speed
which greatly astonished some scow boatmen whom we met.  The wind
in the horizon rolled like a flood over valley and plain, and
every tree bent to the blast, and the mountains like school-boys
turned their cheeks to it.  They were great and current motions,
the flowing sail, the running stream, the waving tree, the roving
wind.  The north-wind stepped readily into the harness which we
had provided, and pulled us along with good will.  Sometimes we
sailed as gently and steadily as the clouds overhead, watching
the receding shores and the motions of our sail; the play of its
pulse so like our own lives, so thin and yet so full of life, so
noiseless when it labored hardest, so noisy and impatient when
least effective; now bending to some generous impulse of the
breeze, and then fluttering and flapping with a kind of human
suspense.  It was the scale on which the varying temperature of
distant atmospheres was graduated, and it was some attraction for
us that the breeze it played with had been out of doors so long.
Thus we sailed, not being able to fly, but as next best, making a
long furrow in the fields of the Merrimack toward our home, with
our wings spread, but never lifting our heel from the watery
trench; gracefully ploughing homeward with our brisk and willing
team, wind and stream, pulling together, the former yet a wild
steer, yoked to his more sedate fellow.  It was very near flying,
as when the duck rushes through the water with an impulse of her
wings, throwing the spray about her, before she can rise.  How we
had stuck fast if drawn up but a few feet on the shore!

When we reached the great bend just above Middlesex, where the
river runs east thirty-five miles to the sea, we at length lost
the aid of this propitious wind, though we contrived to make one
long and judicious tack carry us nearly to the locks of the
canal.  We were here locked through at noon by our old friend,
the lover of the higher mathematics, who seemed glad to see us
safe back again through so many locks; but we did not stop to
consider any of his problems, though we could cheerfully have
spent a whole autumn in this way another time, and never have
asked what his religion was.  It is so rare to meet with a man
out-doors who cherishes a worthy thought in his mind, which is
independent of the labor of his hands.  Behind every man’s
busy-ness there should be a level of undisturbed serenity and
industry, as within the reef encircling a coral isle there is
always an expanse of still water, where the depositions are going
on which will finally raise it above the surface.

The eye which can appreciate the naked and absolute beauty of a
scientific truth is far more rare than that which is attracted by
a moral one.  Few detect the morality in the former, or the
science in the latter.  Aristotle defined art to be Λόγος
τοῦ ἔργου ἄνευ
ὕλης, The principle of the work without the
wood; but most men prefer to have some of the wood along with
the principle; they demand that the truth be clothed in flesh and
blood and the warm colors of life.  They prefer the partial
statement because it fits and measures them and their commodities
best.  But science still exists everywhere as the sealer of
weights and measures at least.

We have heard much about the poetry of mathematics, but very
little of it has yet been sung.  The ancients had a juster notion
of their poetic value than we.  The most distinct and beautiful
statement of any truth must take at last the mathematical form.
We might so simplify the rules of moral philosophy, as well as of
arithmetic, that one formula would express them both.  All the
moral laws are readily translated into natural philosophy, for
often we have only to restore the primitive meaning of the words
by which they are expressed, or to attend to their literal
instead of their metaphorical sense.  They are already
supernatural philosophy.  The whole body of what is now called
moral or ethical truth existed in the golden age as abstract
science.  Or, if we prefer, we may say that the laws of Nature
are the purest morality.  The Tree of Knowledge is a Tree of
Knowledge of good and evil.  He is not a true man of science who
does not bring some sympathy to his studies, and expect to learn
something by behavior as well as by application.  It is childish
to rest in the discovery of mere coincidences, or of partial and
extraneous laws.  The study of geometry is a petty and idle
exercise of the mind, if it is applied to no larger system than
the starry one.  Mathematics should be mixed not only with
physics but with ethics, that is mixed mathematics.  The fact
which interests us most is the life of the naturalist.  The
purest science is still biographical.  Nothing will dignify and
elevate science while it is sundered so wholly from the moral
life of its devotee, and he professes another religion than it
teaches, and worships at a foreign shrine.  Anciently the faith
of a philosopher was identical with his system, or, in other
words, his view of the universe.

My friends mistake when they communicate facts to me with so much
pains.  Their presence, even their exaggerations and loose
statements, are equally good facts for me.  I have no respect for
facts even except when I would use them, and for the most part I
am independent of those which I hear, and can afford to be
inaccurate, or, in other words, to substitute more present and
pressing facts in their place.

The poet uses the results of science and philosophy, and
generalizes their widest deductions.

The process of discovery is very simple.  An unwearied and
systematic application of known laws to nature, causes the
unknown to reveal themselves.  Almost any mode of observation
will be successful at last, for what is most wanted is method.
Only let something be determined and fixed around which
observation may rally.  How many new relations a foot-rule alone
will reveal, and to how many things still this has not been
applied!  What wonderful discoveries have been, and may still be,
made, with a plumb-line, a level, a surveyor’s compass, a
thermometer, or a barometer!  Where there is an observatory and a
telescope, we expect that any eyes will see new worlds at once.
I should say that the most prominent scientific men of our
country, and perhaps of this age, are either serving the arts and
not pure science, or are performing faithful but quite
subordinate labors in particular departments.  They make no
steady and systematic approaches to the central fact.  A
discovery is made, and at once the attention of all observers is
distracted to that, and it draws many analogous discoveries in
its train; as if their work were not already laid out for them,
but they had been lying on their oars.  There is wanting constant
and accurate observation with enough of theory to direct and
discipline it.

But, above all, there is wanting genius.  Our books of science,
as they improve in accuracy, are in danger of losing the freshness
and vigor and readiness to appreciate the real laws of Nature,
which is a marked merit in the ofttimes false theories of the
ancients.  I am attracted by the slight pride and satisfaction,
the emphatic and even exaggerated style in which some of the
older naturalists speak of the operations of Nature, though they
are better qualified to appreciate than to discriminate the
facts.  Their assertions are not without value when disproved.
If they are not facts, they are suggestions for Nature herself to
act upon.  “The Greeks,” says Gesner, “had a common proverb
(Λαγος καθευδον)
a sleeping hare, for a dissembler or counterfeit; because the hare sees when she
sleeps; for this is an admirable and rare work of Nature, that all the residue
of her bodily parts take their rest, but the eye standeth continually
sentinel.”

Observation is so wide awake, and facts are being so rapidly
added to the sum of human experience, that it appears as if the
theorizer would always be in arrears, and were doomed forever to
arrive at imperfect conclusions; but the power to perceive a law
is equally rare in all ages of the world, and depends but little
on the number of facts observed.  The senses of the savage will
furnish him with facts enough to set him up as a philosopher.
The ancients can still speak to us with authority, even on the
themes of geology and chemistry, though these studies are thought
to have had their birth in modern times.  Much is said about the
progress of science in these centuries.  I should say that the
useful results of science had accumulated, but that there had
been no accumulation of knowledge, strictly speaking, for
posterity; for knowledge is to be acquired only by a corresponding
experience.  How can we know what we are told merely?  Each
man can interpret another’s experience only by his own.  We read
that Newton discovered the law of gravitation, but how many who
have heard of his famous discovery have recognized the same truth
that he did?  It may be not one.  The revelation which was then
made to him has not been superseded by the revelation made to any
successor.

     We see the planet fall,
     And that is all.

In a review of Sir James Clark Ross’s Antarctic Voyage of
Discovery, there is a passage which shows how far a body of men
are commonly impressed by an object of sublimity, and which is
also a good instance of the step from the sublime to the
ridiculous.  After describing the discovery of the Antarctic
Continent, at first seen a hundred miles distant over fields of
ice,—stupendous ranges of mountains from seven and eight to
twelve and fourteen thousand feet high, covered with eternal snow
and ice, in solitary and inaccessible grandeur, at one time the
weather being beautifully clear, and the sun shining on the icy
landscape; a continent whose islands only are accessible, and
these exhibited “not the smallest trace of vegetation,” only in a
few places the rocks protruding through their icy covering, to
convince the beholder that land formed the nucleus, and that it
was not an iceberg;—the practical British reviewer proceeds
thus, sticking to his last, “On the 22d of January, afternoon,
the Expedition made the latitude of 74 degrees 20’ and by 7h
P.M., having ground (ground! where did they get ground?) to
believe that they were then in a higher southern latitude than
had been attained by that enterprising seaman, the late Captain
James Weddel, and therefore higher than all their predecessors,
an extra allowance of grog was issued to the crews as a reward
for their perseverance.”

Let not us sailors of late centuries take upon ourselves any airs
on account of our Newtons and our Cuviers; we deserve an extra
allowance of grog only.

We endeavored in vain to persuade the wind to blow through the
long corridor of the canal, which is here cut straight through
the woods, and were obliged to resort to our old expedient of
drawing by a cord.  When we reached the Concord, we were forced
to row once more in good earnest, with neither wind nor current
in our favor, but by this time the rawness of the day had
disappeared, and we experienced the warmth of a summer afternoon.
This change in the weather was favorable to our contemplative
mood, and disposed us to dream yet deeper at our oars, while we
floated in imagination farther down the stream of time, as we had
floated down the stream of the Merrimack, to poets of a milder
period than had engaged us in the morning.  Chelmsford and
Billerica appeared like old English towns, compared with
Merrimack and Nashua, and many generations of civil poets might
have lived and sung here.

What a contrast between the stern and desolate poetry of Ossian,
and that of Chaucer, and even of Shakespeare and Milton, much
more of Dryden, and Pope, and Gray.  Our summer of English poetry
like the Greek and Latin before it, seems well advanced toward
its fall, and laden with the fruit and foliage of the season,
with bright autumnal tints, but soon the winter will scatter its
myriad clustering and shading leaves, and leave only a few
desolate and fibrous boughs to sustain the snow and rime, and
creak in the blasts of ages.  We cannot escape the impression
that the Muse has stooped a little in her flight, when we come to
the literature of civilized eras.  Now first we hear of various
ages and styles of poetry; it is pastoral, and lyric, and
narrative, and didactic; but the poetry of runic monuments is of
one style, and for every age.  The bard has in a great measure
lost the dignity and sacredness of his office.  Formerly he was
called a seer, but now it is thought that one man sees as much
as another.  He has no longer the bardic rage, and only conceives
the deed, which he formerly stood ready to perform.  Hosts of
warriors earnest for battle could not mistake nor dispense with
the ancient bard.  His lays were heard in the pauses of the
fight.  There was no danger of his being overlooked by his
contemporaries.  But now the hero and the bard are of different
professions.  When we come to the pleasant English verse, the
storms have all cleared away and it will never thunder and
lighten more.  The poet has come within doors, and exchanged the
forest and crag for the fireside, the hut of the Gael, and
Stonehenge with its circles of stones, for the house of the
Englishman.  No hero stands at the door prepared to break forth
into song or heroic action, but a homely Englishman, who
cultivates the art of poetry.  We see the comfortable fireside,
and hear the crackling fagots in all the verse.

Notwithstanding the broad humanity of Chaucer, and the many
social and domestic comforts which we meet with in his verse, we
have to narrow our vision somewhat to consider him, as if he
occupied less space in the landscape, and did not stretch over
hill and valley as Ossian does.  Yet, seen from the side of
posterity, as the father of English poetry, preceded by a long
silence or confusion in history, unenlivened by any strain of
pure melody, we easily come to reverence him.  Passing over the
earlier continental poets, since we are bound to the pleasant
archipelago of English poetry, Chaucer’s is the first name after
that misty weather in which Ossian lived, which can detain us
long.  Indeed, though he represents so different a culture and
society, he may be regarded as in many respects the Homer of the
English poets.  Perhaps he is the youthfullest of them all.  We
return to him as to the purest well, the fountain farthest
removed from the highway of desultory life.  He is so natural and
cheerful, compared with later poets, that we might almost regard
him as a personification of spring.  To the faithful reader his
muse has even given an aspect to his times, and when he is fresh
from perusing him, they seem related to the golden age.  It is
still the poetry of youth and life, rather than of thought; and
though the moral vein is obvious and constant, it has not yet
banished the sun and daylight from his verse.  The loftiest
strains of the muse are, for the most part, sublimely plaintive,
and not a carol as free as nature’s.  The content which the sun
shines to celebrate from morning to evening, is unsung.  The muse
solaces herself, and is not ravished but consoled.  There is a
catastrophe implied, and a tragic element in all our verse, and
less of the lark and morning dews, than of the nightingale and
evening shades.  But in Homer and Chaucer there is more of the
innocence and serenity of youth than in the more modern and moral
poets.  The Iliad is not Sabbath but morning reading, and men
cling to this old song, because they still have moments of
unbaptized and uncommitted life, which give them an appetite for
more.  To the innocent there are neither cherubim nor angels.  At
rare intervals we rise above the necessity of virtue into an
unchangeable morning light, in which we have only to live right
on and breathe the ambrosial air.  The Iliad represents no creed
nor opinion, and we read it with a rare sense of freedom and
irresponsibility, as if we trod on native ground, and were
autochthones of the soil.

Chaucer had eminently the habits of a literary man and a scholar.
There were never any times so stirring that there were not to be
found some sedentary still.  He was surrounded by the din of
arms.  The battles of Hallidon Hill and Neville’s Cross, and the
still more memorable battles of Cressy and Poictiers, were fought
in his youth; but these did not concern our poet much, Wickliffe
and his reform much more.  He regarded himself always as one
privileged to sit and converse with books.  He helped to
establish the literary class.  His character as one of the
fathers of the English language would alone make his works
important, even those which have little poetical merit.  He was
as simple as Wordsworth in preferring his homely but vigorous
Saxon tongue, when it was neglected by the court, and had not yet
attained to the dignity of a literature, and rendered a similar
service to his country to that which Dante rendered to Italy.  If
Greek sufficeth for Greek, and Arabic for Arabian, and Hebrew for
Jew, and Latin for Latin, then English shall suffice for him, for
any of these will serve to teach truth “right as divers pathes
leaden divers folke the right waye to Rome.” In the Testament of
Love he writes, “Let then clerkes enditen in Latin, for they have
the propertie of science, and the knowinge in that facultie, and
lette Frenchmen in their Frenche also enditen their queinte
termes, for it is kyndely to their mouthes, and let us shewe our
fantasies in soche wordes as we lerneden of our dames tonge.”

He will know how to appreciate Chaucer best, who has come down to
him the natural way, through the meagre pastures of Saxon and
ante-Chaucerian poetry; and yet, so human and wise he appears
after such diet, that we are liable to misjudge him still.  In
the Saxon poetry extant, in the earliest English, and the
contemporary Scottish poetry, there is less to remind the reader
of the rudeness and vigor of youth, than of the feebleness of a
declining age.  It is for the most part translation of imitation
merely, with only an occasional and slight tinge of poetry,
oftentimes the falsehood and exaggeration of fable, without its
imagination to redeem it, and we look in vain to find antiquity
restored, humanized, and made blithe again by some natural
sympathy between it and the present.  But Chaucer is fresh and
modern still, and no dust settles on his true passages.  It
lightens along the line, and we are reminded that flowers have
bloomed, and birds sung, and hearts beaten in England.  Before
the earnest gaze of the reader, the rust and moss of time
gradually drop off, and the original green life is revealed.  He
was a homely and domestic man, and did breathe quite as modern
men do.

There is no wisdom that can take place of humanity, and we find
that in Chaucer.  We can expand at last in his breadth, and we
think that we could have been that man’s acquaintance.  He was
worthy to be a citizen of England, while Petrarch and Boccacio
lived in Italy, and Tell and Tamerlane in Switzerland and in
Asia, and Bruce in Scotland, and Wickliffe, and Gower, and Edward
the Third, and John of Gaunt, and the Black Prince, were his own
countrymen as well as contemporaries; all stout and stirring
names.  The fame of Roger Bacon came down from the preceding
century, and the name of Dante still possessed the influence of a
living presence.  On the whole, Chaucer impresses us as greater
than his reputation, and not a little like Homer and Shakespeare,
for he would have held up his head in their company.  Among early
English poets he is the landlord and host, and has the authority
of such.  The affectionate mention which succeeding early poets
make of him, coupling him with Homer and Virgil, is to be taken
into the account in estimating his character and influence.  King
James and Dunbar of Scotland speak of him with more love and
reverence than any modern author of his predecessors of the last
century.  The same childlike relation is without a parallel now.
For the most part we read him without criticism, for he does not
plead his own cause, but speaks for his readers, and has that
greatness of trust and reliance which compels popularity.  He
confides in the reader, and speaks privily with him, keeping
nothing back.  And in return the reader has great confidence in
him, that he tells no lies, and reads his story with indulgence,
as if it were the circumlocution of a child, but often discovers
afterwards that he has spoken with more directness and economy of
words than a sage.  He is never heartless,

     “For first the thing is thought within the hart,
     Er any word out from the mouth astart.”

And so new was all his theme in those days, that he did not have
to invent, but only to tell.

We admire Chaucer for his sturdy English wit.  The easy height he
speaks from in his Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, as if he
were equal to any of the company there assembled, is as good as
any particular excellence in it.  But though it is full of good
sense and humanity, it is not transcendent poetry.  For
picturesque description of persons it is, perhaps, without a
parallel in English poetry; yet it is essentially humorous, as
the loftiest genius never is.  Humor, however broad and genial,
takes a narrower view than enthusiasm.  To his own finer vein he
added all the common wit and wisdom of his time, and everywhere
in his works his remarkable knowledge of the world, and nice
perception of character, his rare common sense and proverbial
wisdom, are apparent.  His genius does not soar like Milton’s,
but is genial and familiar.  It shows great tenderness and
delicacy, but not the heroic sentiment.  It is only a greater
portion of humanity with all its weakness.  He is not heroic, as
Raleigh, nor pious, as Herbert, nor philosophical, as
Shakespeare, but he is the child of the English muse, that child
which is the father of the man.  The charm of his poetry consists
often only in an exceeding naturalness, perfect sincerity, with
the behavior of a child rather than of a man.

Gentleness and delicacy of character are everywhere apparent in
his verse.  The simplest and humblest words come readily to his
lips.  No one can read the Prioress’s tale, understanding the
spirit in which it was written, and in which the child sings O
alma redemptoris mater, or the account of the departure of
Constance with her child upon the sea, in the Man of Lawe’s tale,
without feeling the native innocence and refinement of the
author.  Nor can we be mistaken respecting the essential purity
of his character, disregarding the apology of the manners of the
age.  A simple pathos and feminine gentleness, which Wordsworth
only occasionally approaches, but does not equal, are peculiar to
him.  We are tempted to say that his genius was feminine, not
masculine.  It was such a feminineness, however, as is rarest to
find in woman, though not the appreciation of it; perhaps it is
not to be found at all in woman, but is only the feminine in man.

Such pure and genuine and childlike love of Nature is hardly to
be found in any poet.

Chaucer’s remarkably trustful and affectionate character appears
in his familiar, yet innocent and reverent, manner of speaking of
his God.  He comes into his thought without any false reverence,
and with no more parade than the zephyr to his ear.  If Nature is
our mother, then God is our father.  There is less love and
simple, practical trust in Shakespeare and Milton.  How rarely in
our English tongue do we find expressed any affection for God.
Certainly, there is no sentiment so rare as the love of God.
Herbert almost alone expresses it, “Ah, my dear God!” Our poet
uses similar words with propriety; and whenever he sees a
beautiful person, or other object, prides himself on the
“maistry” of his God.  He even recommends Dido to be his bride,—

     “if that God that heaven and yearth made,
     Would have a love for beauty and goodnesse,
     And womanhede, trouth, and semeliness.”

But in justification of our praise, we must refer to his works
themselves; to the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, the account
of Gentilesse, the Flower and the Leaf, the stories of Griselda,
Virginia, Ariadne, and Blanche the Dutchesse, and much more of
less distinguished merit.  There are many poets of more taste,
and better manners, who knew how to leave out their dulness; but
such negative genius cannot detain us long; we shall return to
Chaucer still with love.  Some natures, which are really rude and
ill-developed, have yet a higher standard of perfection than
others which are refined and well balanced.  Even the clown has
taste, whose dictates, though he disregards them, are higher and
purer than those which the artist obeys.  If we have to wander
through many dull and prosaic passages in Chaucer, we have at
least the satisfaction of knowing that it is not an artificial
dulness, but too easily matched by many passages in life.  We
confess that we feel a disposition commonly to concentrate
sweets, and accumulate pleasures; but the poet may be presumed
always to speak as a traveller, who leads us through a varied
scenery, from one eminence to another, and it is, perhaps, more
pleasing, after all, to meet with a fine thought in its natural
setting.  Surely fate has enshrined it in these circumstances for
some end.  Nature strews her nuts and flowers broadcast, and
never collects them into heaps.  This was the soil it grew in,
and this the hour it bloomed in; if sun, wind, and rain came here
to cherish and expand the flower, shall not we come here to pluck
it?

A true poem is distinguished not so much by a felicitous
expression, or any thought it suggests, as by the atmosphere
which surrounds it.  Most have beauty of outline merely, and are
striking as the form and bearing of a stranger; but true verses
come toward us indistinctly, as the very breath of all
friendliness, and envelop us in their spirit and fragrance.  Much
of our poetry has the very best manners, but no character.  It is
only an unusual precision and elasticity of speech, as if its
author had taken, not an intoxicating draught, but an electuary.
It has the distinct outline of sculpture, and chronicles an early
hour.  Under the influence of passion all men speak thus
distinctly, but wrath is not always divine.

There are two classes of men called poets.  The one cultivates
life, the other art,—one seeks food for nutriment, the other for
flavor; one satisfies hunger, the other gratifies the palate.
There are two kinds of writing, both great and rare; one that of
genius, or the inspired, the other of intellect and taste, in the
intervals of inspiration.  The former is above criticism, always
correct, giving the law to criticism.  It vibrates and pulsates
with life forever.  It is sacred, and to be read with reverence,
as the works of nature are studied.  There are few instances of a
sustained style of this kind; perhaps every man has spoken words,
but the speaker is then careless of the record.  Such a style
removes us out of personal relations with its author; we do not
take his words on our lips, but his sense into our hearts.  It is
the stream of inspiration, which bubbles out, now here, now
there, now in this man, now in that.  It matters not through what
ice-crystals it is seen, now a fountain, now the ocean stream
running under ground.  It is in Shakespeare, Alpheus, in Burns,
Arethuse; but ever the same.  The other is self-possessed and
wise.  It is reverent of genius, and greedy of inspiration.  It
is conscious in the highest and the least degree.  It consists
with the most perfect command of the faculties.  It dwells in a
repose as of the desert, and objects are as distinct in it as
oases or palms in the horizon of sand.  The train of thought
moves with subdued and measured step, like a caravan.  But the
pen is only an instrument in its hand, and not instinct with
life, like a longer arm.  It leaves a thin varnish or glaze over
all its work.  The works of Goethe furnish remarkable instances
of the latter.

There is no just and serene criticism as yet.  Nothing is
considered simply as it lies in the lap of eternal beauty, but
our thoughts, as well as our bodies, must be dressed after the
latest fashions.  Our taste is too delicate and particular.  It
says nay to the poet’s work, but never yea to his hope.  It
invites him to adorn his deformities, and not to cast them off by
expansion, as the tree its bark.  We are a people who live in a
bright light, in houses of pearl and porcelain, and drink only
light wines, whose teeth are easily set on edge by the least
natural sour.  If we had been consulted, the backbone of the
earth would have been made, not of granite, but of Bristol spar.
A modern author would have died in infancy in a ruder age.  But
the poet is something more than a scald, “a smoother and polisher
of language”; he is a Cincinnatus in literature, and occupies no
west end of the world.  Like the sun, he will indifferently
select his rhymes, and with a liberal taste weave into his verse
the planet and the stubble.

In these old books the stucco has long since crumbled away, and
we read what was sculptured in the granite.  They are rude and
massive in their proportions, rather than smooth and delicate in
their finish.  The workers in stone polish only their chimney
ornaments, but their pyramids are roughly done.  There is a
soberness in a rough aspect, as of unhewn granite, which
addresses a depth in us, but a polished surface hits only the
ball of the eye.  The true finish is the work of time, and the
use to which a thing is put.  The elements are still polishing
the pyramids.  Art may varnish and gild, but it can do no more.
A work of genius is rough-hewn from the first, because it
anticipates the lapse of time, and has an ingrained polish, which
still appears when fragments are broken off, an essential quality
of its substance.  Its beauty is at the same time its strength,
and it breaks with a lustre.

The great poem must have the stamp of greatness as well as its
essence.  The reader easily goes within the shallowest
contemporary poetry, and informs it with all the life and promise
of the day, as the pilgrim goes within the temple, and hears the
faintest strains of the worshippers; but it will have to speak to
posterity, traversing these deserts, through the ruins of its
outmost walls, by the grandeur and beauty of its proportions.

———————-

But here on the stream of the Concord, where we have all the
while been bodily, Nature, who is superior to all styles and
ages, is now, with pensive face, composing her poem Autumn, with
which no work of man will bear to be compared.

In summer we live out of doors, and have only impulses and
feelings, which are all for action, and must wait commonly for
the stillness and longer nights of autumn and winter before any
thought will subside; we are sensible that behind the rustling
leaves, and the stacks of grain, and the bare clusters of the
grape, there is the field of a wholly new life, which no man has
lived; that even this earth was made for more mysterious and
nobler inhabitants than men and women.  In the hues of October
sunsets, we see the portals to other mansions than those which we
occupy, not far off geographically,—

     “There is a place beyond that flaming hill,
     From whence the stars their thin appearance shed,
     A place beyond all place, where never ill,
     Nor impure thought was ever harbored.”

Sometimes a mortal feels in himself Nature, not his Father but
his Mother stirs within him, and he becomes immortal with her
immortality.  From time to time she claims kindredship with us,
and some globule from her veins steals up into our own.

     I am the autumnal sun,
     With autumn gales my race is run;
     When will the hazel put forth its flowers,
     Or the grape ripen under my bowers?
     When will the harvest or the hunter’s moon,
     Turn my midnight into mid-noon?
     I am all sere and yellow,
     And to my core mellow.
     The mast is dropping within my woods,
     The winter is lurking within my moods,
     And the rustling of the withered leaf
     Is the constant music of my grief.

To an unskilful rhymer the Muse thus spoke in prose:

The moon no longer reflects the day, but rises to her absolute
rule, and the husbandman and hunter acknowledge her for their
mistress.  Asters and golden-rods reign along the way, and the
life-everlasting withers not.  The fields are reaped and shorn of
their pride, but an inward verdure still crowns them.  The
thistle scatters its down on the pool, and yellow leaves clothe
the vine, and naught disturbs the serious life of men.  But
behind the sheaves, and under the sod, there lurks a ripe fruit,
which the reapers have not gathered, the true harvest of the
year, which it bears forever, annually watering and maturing it,
and man never severs the stalk which bears this palatable fruit.

Men nowhere, east or west, live yet a natural life, round which
the vine clings, and which the elm willingly shadows.  Man would
desecrate it by his touch, and so the beauty of the world remains
veiled to him.  He needs not only to be spiritualized, but
naturalized, on the soil of earth.  Who shall conceive what
kind of roof the heavens might extend over him, what seasons
minister to him, and what employment dignify his life!  Only the
convalescent raise the veil of nature.  An immortality in his
life would confer immortality on his abode.  The winds should be
his breath, the seasons his moods, and he should impart of his
serenity to Nature herself.  But such as we know him he is
ephemeral like the scenery which surrounds him, and does not
aspire to an enduring existence.  When we come down into the
distant village, visible from the mountain-top, the nobler
inhabitants with whom we peopled it have departed, and left only
vermin in its desolate streets.  It is the imagination of poets
which puts those brave speeches into the mouths of their heroes.
They may feign that Cato’s last words were

     “The earth, the air, and seas I know, and all
     The joys and horrors of their peace and wars;
     And now will view the Gods’ state and the stars,”

but such are not the thoughts nor the destiny of common men.
What is this heaven which they expect, if it is no better than
they expect?  Are they prepared for a better than they can now
imagine?  Where is the heaven of him who dies on a stage, in a
theatre?  Here or nowhere is our heaven.

     “Although we see celestial bodies move
     Above the earth, the earth we till and love.”

We can conceive of nothing more fair than something which we have
experienced.  “The remembrance of youth is a sigh.” We linger in
manhood to tell the dreams of our childhood, and they are half
forgotten ere we have learned the language.  We have need to be
earth-born as well as heaven-born, γηγενεὶς,
as was said of the Titans of old, or in a better sense than they.  There have
been heroes for whom this world seemed expressly prepared, as if
creation had at last succeeded; whose daily life was the stuff of
which our dreams are made, and whose presence enhanced the beauty
and ampleness of Nature herself.  Where they walked,

     “Largior hic campos æther et lumine vestit
     Purpureo: Solemque suum, sua sidera nôrunt.”

“Here a more copious air invests the fields, and clothes with
purple light; and they know their own sun and their own stars.”
We love to hear some men speak, though we hear not what they say;
the very air they breathe is rich and perfumed, and the sound of
their voices falls on the ear like the rustling of leaves or the
crackling of the fire.  They stand many deep.  They have the
heavens for their abettors, as those who have never stood from
under them, and they look at the stars with an answering ray.
Their eyes are like glow-worms, and their motions graceful and
flowing, as if a place were already found for them, like rivers
flowing through valleys.  The distinctions of morality, of right
and wrong, sense and nonsense, are petty, and have lost their
significance, beside these pure primeval natures.  When I
consider the clouds stretched in stupendous masses across the
sky, frowning with darkness or glowing with downy light, or
gilded with the rays of the setting sun, like the battlements of
a city in the heavens, their grandeur appears thrown away on the
meanness of my employment; the drapery is altogether too rich for
such poor acting.  I am hardly worthy to be a suburban dweller
outside those walls

             “Unless above himself he can
     Erect himself, how poor a thing is man!”

With our music we would fain challenge transiently another and
finer sort of intercourse than our daily toil permits.  The
strains come back to us amended in the echo, as when a friend
reads our verse.  Why have they so painted the fruits, and
freighted them with such fragrance as to satisfy a more than
animal appetite?

     “I asked the schoolman, his advice was free,
     But scored me out too intricate a way.”

These things imply, perchance, that we live on the verge of
another and purer realm, from which these odors and sounds are
wafted over to us.  The borders of our plot are set with flowers,
whose seeds were blown from more Elysian fields adjacent.  They
are the pot-herbs of the gods.  Some fairer fruits and sweeter
fragrances wafted over to us, betray another realm’s vicinity.
There, too, does Echo dwell, and there is the abutment of the
rainbow’s arch.

     A finer race and finer fed
     Feast and revel o’er our head,
     And we titmen are only able
     To catch the fragments from their table.
     Theirs is the fragrance of the fruits,
     While we consume the pulp and roots.
     What are the moments that we stand
     Astonished on the Olympian land!

We need pray for no higher heaven than the pure senses can
furnish, a purely sensuous life.  Our present senses are but
the rudiments of what they are destined to become.  We are
comparatively deaf and dumb and blind, and without smell or taste
or feeling.  Every generation makes the discovery, that its
divine vigor has been dissipated, and each sense and faculty
misapplied and debauched.  The ears were made, not for such
trivial uses as men are wont to suppose, but to hear celestial
sounds.  The eyes were not made for such grovelling uses as they
are now put to and worn out by, but to behold beauty now
invisible.  May we not see God?  Are we to be put off and
amused in this life, as it were with a mere allegory?  Is not
Nature, rightly read, that of which she is commonly taken to be
the symbol merely?  When the common man looks into the sky, which
he has not so much profaned, he thinks it less gross than the
earth, and with reverence speaks of “the Heavens,” but the seer
will in the same sense speak of “the Earths,” and his Father who
is in them.  “Did not he that made that which is within, make
that which is without also?” What is it, then, to educate but
to develop these divine germs called the senses? for individuals
and states to deal magnanimously with the rising generation,
leading it not into temptation,—not teach the eye to squint, nor
attune the ear to profanity.  But where is the instructed
teacher?  Where are the normal schools?

A Hindoo sage said, “As a dancer, having exhibited herself to the
spectator, desists from the dance, so does Nature desist, having
manifested herself to soul—.  Nothing, in my opinion, is more
gentle than Nature; once aware of having been seen, she does not
again expose herself to the gaze of soul.”

It is easier to discover another such a new world as Columbus
did, than to go within one fold of this which we appear to know
so well; the land is lost sight of, the compass varies, and
mankind mutiny; and still history accumulates like rubbish before
the portals of nature.  But there is only necessary a moment’s
sanity and sound senses, to teach us that there is a nature
behind the ordinary, in which we have only some vague pre-emption
right and western reserve as yet.  We live on the outskirts of
that region.  Carved wood, and floating boughs, and sunset skies,
are all that we know of it.  We are not to be imposed on by the
longest spell of weather.  Let us not, my friends, be wheedled
and cheated into good behavior to earn the salt of our eternal
porridge, whoever they are that attempt it.  Let us wait a
little, and not purchase any clearing here, trusting that richer
bottoms will soon be put up.  It is but thin soil where we stand;
I have felt my roots in a richer ere this.  I have seen a bunch
of violets in a glass vase, tied loosely with a straw, which
reminded me of myself.

     I am a parcel of vain strivings tied
         By a chance bond together,
       Dangling this way and that, their links
         Were made so loose and wide,
                        Methinks,
              For milder weather.
     A bunch of violets without their roots,
         And sorrel intermixed,
       Encircled by a wisp of straw
         Once coiled about their shoots,
                        The law
              By which I’m fixed.
     A nosegay which Time clutched from out
          Those fair Elysian fields,
       With weeds and broken stems, in haste,
          Doth make the rabble rout
                        That waste
              The day he yields.
     And here I bloom for a short hour unseen,
          Drinking my juices up,
       With no root in the land
          To keep my branches green,
                         But stand
              In a bare cup.
     Some tender buds were left upon my stem
         In mimicry of life,
       But ah! the children will not know,
         Till time has withered them,
                         The woe
              With which they’re rife.
     But now I see I was not plucked for naught,
         And after in life’s vase
       Of glass set while I might survive,
         But by a kind hand brought
                         Alive
               To a strange place.
     That stock thus thinned will soon redeem its hours,
         And by another year,
       Such as God knows, with freer air,
         More fruits and fairer flowers
                       Will bear,
               While I droop here.

This world has many rings, like Saturn, and we live now on the
outmost of them all.  None can say deliberately that he inhabits
the same sphere, or is contemporary with, the flower which his
hands have plucked, and though his feet may seem to crush it,
inconceivable spaces and ages separate them, and perchance there
is no danger that he will hurt it.  What do the botanists know?
Our lives should go between the lichen and the bark.  The eye may
see for the hand, but not for the mind.  We are still being born,
and have as yet but a dim vision of sea and land, sun, moon and
stars, and shall not see clearly till after nine days at least.
That is a pathetic inquiry among travellers and geographers after
the site of ancient Troy.  It is not near where they think it is.
When a thing is decayed and gone, how indistinct must be the
place it occupied!

The anecdotes of modern astronomy affect me in the same way as do
those faint revelations of the Real which are vouchsafed to men
from time to time, or rather from eternity to eternity.  When I
remember the history of that faint light in our firmament, which
we call Venus, which ancient men regarded, and which most modern
men still regard, as a bright spark attached to a hollow sphere
revolving about our earth, but which we have discovered to be
another world, in itself,—how Copernicus, reasoning long and
patiently about the matter, predicted confidently concerning it,
before yet the telescope had been invented, that if ever men came
to see it more clearly than they did then, they would discover
that it had phases like our moon, and that within a century after
his death the telescope was invented, and that prediction
verified, by Galileo,—I am not without hope that we may, even
here and now obtain some accurate information concerning that
OTHER WORLD which the instinct of mankind has so long predicted.
Indeed, all that we call science, as well as all that we call
poetry, is a particle of such information, accurate as far as it
goes, though it be but to the confines of the truth.  If we can
reason so accurately, and with such wonderful confirmation of our
reasoning, respecting so-called material objects and events
infinitely removed beyond the range of our natural vision, so
that the mind hesitates to trust its calculations even when they
are confirmed by observation, why may not our speculations
penetrate as far into the immaterial starry system, of which the
former is but the outward and visible type?  Surely, we are
provided with senses as well fitted to penetrate the spaces of
the real, the substantial, the eternal, as these outward are to
penetrate the material universe.  Veias, Menu, Zoroaster,
Socrates, Christ, Shakespeare, Swedenborg,—these are some of our
astronomers.

There are perturbations in our orbits produced by the influence
of outlying spheres, and no astronomer has ever yet calculated
the elements of that undiscovered world which produces them.
I perceive in the common train of my thoughts a natural and
uninterrupted sequence, each implying the next, or, if interruption
 occurs, it is occasioned by a new object being presented to my
senses.  But a steep, and sudden, and by these means unaccountable
transition, is that from a comparatively narrow and partial, what
is called common sense view of things, to an infinitely expanded
and liberating one, from seeing things as men describe them, to
seeing them as men cannot describe them.  This implies a sense
which is not common, but rare in the wisest man’s experience;
which is sensible or sentient of more than common.

In what enclosures does the astronomer loiter!  His skies are
shoal, and imagination, like a thirsty traveller, pants to be
through their desert.  The roving mind impatiently bursts the
fetters of astronomical orbits, like cobwebs in a corner of its
universe, and launches itself to where distance fails to follow,
and law, such as science has discovered, grows weak and weary.
The mind knows a distance and a space of which all those sums
combined do not make a unit of measure,—the interval between
that which appears, and that which is.  I know that there are
many stars, I know that they are far enough off, bright enough,
steady enough in their orbits,—but what are they all worth?
They are more waste land in the West,—star territory,—to be
made slave States, perchance, if we colonize them.  I have
interest but for six feet of star, and that interest is
transient.  Then farewell to all ye bodies, such as I have known
ye.

Every man, if he is wise, will stand on such bottom as will
sustain him, and if one gravitates downward more strongly than
another, he will not venture on those meads where the latter
walks securely, but rather leave the cranberries which grow there
unraked by himself.  Perchance, some spring a higher freshet will
float them within his reach, though they may be watery and
frost-bitten by that time.  Such shrivelled berries I have seen
in many a poor man’s garret, ay, in many a church-bin and
state-coffer, and with a little water and heat they swell again
to their original size and fairness, and added sugar enough,
stead mankind for sauce to this world’s dish.

What is called common sense is excellent in its department, and
as invaluable as the virtue of conformity in the army and
navy,—for there must be subordination,—but uncommon sense, that
sense which is common only to the wisest, is as much more
excellent as it is more rare.  Some aspire to excellence in the
subordinate department, and may God speed them.  What Fuller says
of masters of colleges is universally applicable, that “a little
alloy of dulness in a master of a college makes him fitter to
manage secular affairs.”

     “He that wants faith, and apprehends a grief
     Because he wants it, hath a true belief;
     And he that grieves because his grief’s so small,
     Has a true grief, and the best Faith of all.”

Or be encouraged by this other poet’s strain,—

     “By them went Fido marshal of the field:
     Weak was his mother when she gave him day;
     And he at first a sick and weakly child,
     As e’er with tears welcomed the sunny ray;
     Yet when more years afford more growth and might,
     A champion stout he was, and puissant knight,
     As ever came in field, or shone in armor bright.
     “Mountains he flings in seas with mighty hand;
     Stops and turns back the sun’s impetuous course;
     Nature breaks Nature’s laws at his command;
     No force of Hell or Heaven withstands his force;
     Events to come yet many ages hence,
     He present makes, by wondrous prescience;
     Proving the senses blind by being blind to sense.”

“Yesterday, at dawn,” says Hafiz, “God delivered me from all
worldly affliction; and amidst the gloom of night presented me
with the water of immortality.”

In the life of Sadi by Dowlat Shah occurs this sentence: “The
eagle of the immaterial soul of Shaikh Sadi shook from his
plumage the dust of his body.”

Thus thoughtfully we were rowing homeward to find some autumnal
work to do, and help on the revolution of the seasons.  Perhaps
Nature would condescend to make use of us even without our
knowledge, as when we help to scatter her seeds in our walks, and
carry burrs and cockles on our clothes from field to field.

     All things are current found
     On earthly ground,
     Spirits and elements
     Have their descents.
     Night and day, year on year,
     High and low, far and near,
     These are our own aspects,
     These are our own regrets.
     Ye gods of the shore,
     Who abide evermore,
     I see your far headland,
     Stretching on either hand;
     I hear the sweet evening sounds
     From your undecaying grounds;
     Cheat me no more with time,
     Take me to your clime.

As it grew later in the afternoon, and we rowed leisurely up the
gentle stream, shut in between fragrant and blooming banks, where
we had first pitched our tent, and drew nearer to the fields
where our lives had passed, we seemed to detect the hues of our
native sky in the southwest horizon.  The sun was just setting
behind the edge of a wooded hill, so rich a sunset as would never
have ended but for some reason unknown to men, and to be marked
with brighter colors than ordinary in the scroll of time.  Though
the shadows of the hills were beginning to steal over the stream,
the whole river valley undulated with mild light, purer and more
memorable than the noon.  For so day bids farewell even to
solitary vales uninhabited by man.  Two herons, Ardea herodias,
with their long and slender limbs relieved against the sky, were
seen travelling high over our heads,—their lofty and silent
flight, as they were wending their way at evening, surely not to
alight in any marsh on the earth’s surface, but, perchance, on
the other side of our atmosphere, a symbol for the ages to study,
whether impressed upon the sky, or sculptured amid the
hieroglyphics of Egypt.  Bound to some northern meadow, they held
on their stately, stationary flight, like the storks in the
picture, and disappeared at length behind the clouds.  Dense
flocks of blackbirds were winging their way along the river’s
course, as if on a short evening pilgrimage to some shrine of
theirs, or to celebrate so fair a sunset.

     “Therefore, as doth the pilgrim, whom the night
     Hastes darkly to imprison on his way,
     Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright
     Of what’s yet left thee of life’s wasting day:
     Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn,
     And twice it is not given thee to be born.”

The sun-setting presumed all men at leisure, and in a contemplative
mood; but the farmer’s boy only whistled the more thoughtfully as
he drove his cows home from pasture, and the teamster refrained
from cracking his whip, and guided his team with a subdued voice.
The last vestiges of daylight at length disappeared, and as we
rowed silently along with our backs toward home through the
darkness, only a few stars being visible, we had little to say,
but sat absorbed in thought, or in silence listened to the
monotonous sound of our oars, a sort of rudimental music,
suitable for the ear of Night and the acoustics of her dimly
lighted halls;

     “Pulsæ referunt ad sidera valles,”

and the valleys echoed the sound to the stars.

As we looked up in silence to those distant lights, we were
reminded that it was a rare imagination which first taught that
the stars are worlds, and had conferred a great benefit on
mankind.  It is recorded in the Chronicle of Bernaldez, that in
Columbus’s first voyage the natives “pointed towards the heavens,
making signs that they believed that there was all power and
holiness.”  We have reason to be grateful for celestial
phenomena, for they chiefly answer to the ideal in man.  The
stars are distant and unobtrusive, but bright and enduring as our
fairest and most memorable experiences.  “Let the immortal depth
of your soul lead you, but earnestly extend your eyes upwards.”

As the truest society approaches always nearer to solitude, so
the most excellent speech finally falls into Silence.  Silence is
audible to all men, at all times, and in all places.  She is when
we hear inwardly, sound when we hear outwardly.  Creation has not
displaced her, but is her visible framework and foil.  All sounds
are her servants, and purveyors, proclaiming not only that their
mistress is, but is a rare mistress, and earnestly to be sought
after.  They are so far akin to Silence, that they are but
bubbles on her surface, which straightway burst, an evidence of
the strength and prolificness of the under-current; a faint
utterance of Silence, and then only agreeable to our auditory
nerves when they contrast themselves with and relieve the former.
In proportion as they do this, and are heighteners and
intensifiers of the Silence, they are harmony and purest melody.

Silence is the universal refuge, the sequel to all dull
discourses and all foolish acts, a balm to our every chagrin, as
welcome after satiety as after disappointment; that background
which the painter may not daub, be he master or bungler, and
which, however awkward a figure we may have made in the
foreground, remains ever our inviolable asylum, where no
indignity can assail, no personality disturb us.

The orator puts off his individuality, and is then most eloquent
when most silent.  He listens while he speaks, and is a hearer
along with his audience.  Who has not hearkened to Her infinite
din?  She is Truth’s speaking-trumpet, the sole oracle, the true
Delphi and Dodona, which kings and courtiers would do well to
consult, nor will they be balked by an ambiguous answer.  For
through Her all revelations have been made, and just in
proportion as men have consulted her oracle within, they have
obtained a clear insight, and their age has been marked as an
enlightened one.  But as often as they have gone gadding abroad
to a strange Delphi and her mad priestess, their age has been
dark and leaden.  Such were garrulous and noisy eras, which no
longer yield any sound, but the Grecian or silent and melodious
era is ever sounding and resounding in the ears of men.

A good book is the plectrum with which our else silent lyres are
struck.  We not unfrequently refer the interest which belongs to
our own unwritten sequel, to the written and comparatively
lifeless body of the work.  Of all books this sequel is the most
indispensable part.  It should be the author’s aim to say once
and emphatically, “He said,” ἔφη, ἔ. This
is the most the book-maker can attain to.  If he make his volume a mole
whereon the waves of Silence may break, it is well.

It were vain for me to endeavor to interrupt the Silence.  She
cannot be done into English.  For six thousand years men have
translated her with what fidelity belonged to each, and still she
is little better than a sealed book.  A man may run on confidently
for a time, thinking he has her under his thumb, and shall one
day exhaust her, but he too must at last be silent, and men
remark only how brave a beginning he made; for when he at length
dives into her, so vast is the disproportion of the told to the
untold, that the former will seem but the bubble on the surface
where he disappeared.  Nevertheless, we will go on, like those
Chinese cliff swallows, feathering our nests with the froth,
which may one day be bread of life to such as dwell by the
sea-shore.

We had made about fifty miles this day with sail and oar, and
now, far in the evening, our boat was grating against the
bulrushes of its native port, and its keel recognized the Concord
mud, where some semblance of its outline was still preserved in
the flattened flags which had scarce yet erected themselves since
our departure; and we leaped gladly on shore, drawing it up, and
fastening it to the wild apple-tree, whose stem still bore the
mark which its chain had worn in the chafing of the spring
freshets.

                         THE END.




End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of A Week on the Concord and
Merrimack Rivers by Henry David Thoreau

*** 