{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_4232/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_4232","id":"gutenberg_4232","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4232","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Category: Travel Writing","Concord River (Mass.) -- Description and travel","Merrimack River (N.H. and Mass.) -- Description and travel","Thoreau, Henry David, 1817-1862 -- Travel -- Massachusetts -- Concord River","Thoreau, Henry David, 1817-1862 -- Travel -- Merrimack River (N.H. and Mass.)"],"text":"[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers\n\nby Henry David Thoreau\n\nAUTHOR OF \u201cWALDEN,\u201d ETC.\n\n\nContents\n\n CONCORD RIVER\n SATURDAY\n SUNDAY\n MONDAY\n TUESDAY\n WEDNESDAY\n THURSDAY\n FRIDAY\n\n\n\n\nWhere\u2019er thou sail\u2019st who sailed with me,\nThough now thou climbest loftier mounts,\nAnd fairer rivers dost ascend,\nBe thou my Muse, my Brother\u2014.\n\n\n\n\nI am bound, I am bound, for a distant shore,\nBy a lonely isle, by a far Azore,\nThere it is, there it is, the treasure I seek,\nOn the barren sands of a desolate creek.\n\n\n\n\nI sailed up a river with a pleasant wind,\nNew lands, new people, and new thoughts to find;\nMany fair reaches and headlands appeared,\nAnd many dangers were there to be feared;\nBut when I remember where I have been,\nAnd the fair landscapes that I have seen,\nTHOU seemest the only permanent shore,\nThe cape never rounded, nor wandered o\u2019er.\n\n\n\n\nFluminaque obliquis cinxit declivia ripis;\nQu\u00e6, diversa locis, partim sorbentur ab ipsa;\nIn mare perveniunt partim, campoque recepta\nLiberioris aqu\u00e6, pro ripis litora pulsant.\n\nOVID, Met. I. 39\n\nHe confined the rivers within their sloping banks,\nWhich in different places are part absorbed by the earth,\nPart reach the sea, and being received within the plain\nOf its freer waters, beat the shore for banks.\n\n\n\n\nCONCORD RIVER\n\n\n\u201cBeneath low hills, in the broad interval\nThrough which at will our Indian rivulet\nWinds mindful still of sannup and of squaw,\nWhose pipe and arrow oft the plough unburies,\nHere, in pine houses, built of new-fallen trees,\nSupplanters of the tribe, the farmers dwell.\u201d\n\n\u2014EMERSON.\n\nThe Musketaquid, or Grass-ground River, though probably as old as the\nNile or Euphrates, did not begin to have a place in civilized history,\nuntil the fame of its grassy meadows and its fish attracted settlers\nout of England in 1635, when it received the other but kindred name of\nCONCORD from the first plantation on its banks, which appears to have\nbeen commenced in a spirit of peace and harmony. It will be\nGrass-ground River as long as grass grows and water runs here; it will\nbe Concord River only while men lead peaceable lives on its banks. To\nan extinct race it was grass-ground, where they hunted and fished, and\nit is still perennial grass-ground to Concord farmers, who own the\nGreat Meadows, and get the hay from year to year. \u201cOne branch of it,\u201d\naccording to the historian of Concord, for I love to quote so good\nauthority, \u201crises in the south part of Hopkinton, and another from a\npond and a large cedar-swamp in Westborough,\u201d and flowing between\nHopkinton and Southborough, through Framingham, and between Sudbury and\nWayland, where it is sometimes called Sudbury River, it enters Concord\nat the south part of the town, and after receiving the North or\nAssabeth River, which has its source a little farther to the north and\nwest, goes out at the northeast angle, and flowing between Bedford and\nCarlisle, and through Billerica, empties into the Merrimack at Lowell.\nIn Concord it is, in summer, from four to fifteen feet deep, and from\none hundred to three hundred feet wide, but in the spring freshets,\nwhen it overflows its banks, it is in some places nearly a mile wide.\nBetween Sudbury and Wayland the meadows acquire their greatest breadth,\nand when covered with water, they form a handsome chain of shallow\nvernal lakes, resorted to by numerous gulls and ducks. Just above\nSherman\u2019s Bridge, between these towns, is the largest expanse, and when\nthe wind blows freshly in a raw March day, heaving up the surface into\ndark and sober billows or regular swells, skirted as it is in the\ndistance with alder-swamps and smoke-like maples, it looks like a\nsmaller Lake Huron, and is very pleasant and exciting for a landsman to\nrow or sail over. The farm-houses along the Sudbury shore, which rises\ngently to a considerable height, command fine water prospects at this\nseason. The shore is more flat on the Wayland side, and this town is\nthe greatest loser by the flood. Its farmers tell me that thousands of\nacres are flooded now, since the dams have been erected, where they\nremember to have seen the white honeysuckle or clover growing once, and\nthey could go dry with shoes only in summer. Now there is nothing but\nblue-joint and sedge and cut-grass there, standing in water all the\nyear round. For a long time, they made the most of the driest season to\nget their hay, working sometimes till nine o\u2019clock at night, sedulously\nparing with their scythes in the twilight round the hummocks left by\nthe ice; but now it is not worth the getting when they can come at it,\nand they look sadly round to their wood-lots and upland as a last\nresource.\n\nIt is worth the while to make a voyage up this stream, if you go no\nfarther than Sudbury, only to see how much country there is in the rear\nof us; great hills, and a hundred brooks, and farm-houses, and barns,\nand haystacks, you never saw before, and men everywhere, Sudbury, that\nis Southborough men, and Wayland, and Nine-Acre-Corner men, and Bound\nRock, where four towns bound on a rock in the river, Lincoln, Wayland,\nSudbury, Concord. Many waves are there agitated by the wind, keeping\nnature fresh, the spray blowing in your face, reeds and rushes waving;\nducks by the hundred, all uneasy in the surf, in the raw wind, just\nready to rise, and now going off with a clatter and a whistling like\nriggers straight for Labrador, flying against the stiff gale with\nreefed wings, or else circling round first, with all their paddles\nbriskly moving, just over the surf, to reconnoitre you before they\nleave these parts; gulls wheeling overhead, muskrats swimming for dear\nlife, wet and cold, with no fire to warm them by that you know of;\ntheir labored homes rising here and there like haystacks; and countless\nmice and moles and winged titmice along the sunny windy shore;\ncranberries tossed on the waves and heaving up on the beach, their\nlittle red skiffs beating about among the alders;\u2014such healthy natural\ntumult as proves the last day is not yet at hand. And there stand all\naround the alders, and birches, and oaks, and maples full of glee and\nsap, holding in their buds until the waters subside. You shall perhaps\nrun aground on Cranberry Island, only some spires of last year\u2019s\npipe-grass above water, to show where the danger is, and get as good a\nfreezing there as anywhere on the Northwest Coast. I never voyaged so\nfar in all my life. You shall see men you never heard of before, whose\nnames you don\u2019t know, going away down through the meadows with long\nducking-guns, with water-tight boots wading through the fowl-meadow\ngrass, on bleak, wintry, distant shores, with guns at half-cock, and\nthey shall see teal, blue-winged, green-winged, shelldrakes, whistlers,\nblack ducks, ospreys, and many other wild and noble sights before\nnight, such as they who sit in parlors never dream of. You shall see\nrude and sturdy, experienced and wise men, keeping their castles, or\nteaming up their summer\u2019s wood, or chopping alone in the woods, men\nfuller of talk and rare adventure in the sun and wind and rain, than a\nchestnut is of meat; who were out not only in \u201975 and 1812, but have\nbeen out every day of their lives; greater men than Homer, or Chaucer,\nor Shakespeare, only they never got time to say so; they never took to\nthe way of writing. Look at their fields, and imagine what they might\nwrite, if ever they should put pen to paper. Or what have they not\nwritten on the face of the earth already, clearing, and burning, and\nscratching, and harrowing, and ploughing, and subsoiling, in and in,\nand out and out, and over and over, again and again, erasing what they\nhad already written for want of parchment.\n\nAs yesterday and the historical ages are past, as the work of to-day is\npresent, so some flitting perspectives, and demi-experiences of the\nlife that is in nature are in time veritably future, or rather outside\nto time, perennial, young, divine, in the wind and rain which never\ndie.\n\nThe respectable folks,\u2014\nWhere dwell they?\nThey whisper in the oaks,\nAnd they sigh in the hay;\nSummer and winter, night and day,\nOut on the meadow, there dwell they.\nThey never die,\nNor snivel, nor cry,\nNor ask our pity\nWith a wet eye.\nA sound estate they ever mend\nTo every asker readily lend;\nTo the ocean wealth,\nTo the meadow health,\nTo Time his length,\nTo the rocks strength,\nTo the stars light,\nTo the weary night,\nTo the busy day,\nTo the idle play;\nAnd so their good cheer never ends,\nFor all are their debtors, and all their friends.\n\n\nConcord River is remarkable for the gentleness of its current, which is\nscarcely perceptible, and some have referred to its influence the\nproverbial moderation of the inhabitants of Concord, as exhibited in\nthe Revolution, and on later occasions. It has been proposed, that the\ntown should adopt for its coat of arms a field verdant, with the\nConcord circling nine times round. I have read that a descent of an\neighth of an inch in a mile is sufficient to produce a flow. Our river\nhas, probably, very near the smallest allowance. The story is current,\nat any rate, though I believe that strict history will not bear it out,\nthat the only bridge ever carried away on the main branch, within the\nlimits of the town, was driven up stream by the wind. But wherever it\nmakes a sudden bend it is shallower and swifter, and asserts its title\nto be called a river. Compared with the other tributaries of the\nMerrimack, it appears to have been properly named Musketaquid, or\nMeadow River, by the Indians. For the most part, it creeps through\nbroad meadows, adorned with scattered oaks, where the cranberry is\nfound in abundance, covering the ground like a moss-bed. A row of\nsunken dwarf willows borders the stream on one or both sides, while at\na greater distance the meadow is skirted with maples, alders, and other\nfluviatile trees, overrun with the grape-vine, which bears fruit in its\nseason, purple, red, white, and other grapes. Still farther from the\nstream, on the edge of the firm land, are seen the gray and white\ndwellings of the inhabitants. According to the valuation of 1831, there\nwere in Concord two thousand one hundred and eleven acres, or about one\nseventh of the whole territory in meadow; this standing next in the\nlist after pasturage and unimproved lands, and, judging from the\nreturns of previous years, the meadow is not reclaimed so fast as the\nwoods are cleared.\n\nLet us here read what old Johnson says of these meadows in his\n\u201cWonder-working Providence,\u201d which gives the account of New England\nfrom 1628 to 1652, and see how matters looked to him. He says of the\nTwelfth Church of Christ gathered at Concord: \u201cThis town is seated upon\na fair fresh river, whose rivulets are filled with fresh marsh, and her\nstreams with fish, it being a branch of that large river of Merrimack.\nAllwifes and shad in their season come up to this town, but salmon and\ndace cannot come up, by reason of the rocky falls, which causeth their\nmeadows to lie much covered with water, the which these people,\ntogether with their neighbor town, have several times essayed to cut\nthrough but cannot, yet it may be turned another way with an hundred\npound charge as it appeared.\u201d As to their farming he says: \u201cHaving laid\nout their estate upon cattle at 5 to 20 pound a cow, when they came to\nwinter them with inland hay, and feed upon such wild fother as was\nnever cut before, they could not hold out the winter, but, ordinarily\nthe first or second year after their coming up to a new plantation,\nmany of their cattle died.\u201d And this from the same author \u201cOf the\nPlanting of the 19th Church in the Mattachusets\u2019 Government, called\nSudbury\u201d: \u201cThis year [does he mean 1654] the town and church of Christ\nat Sudbury began to have the first foundation stones laid, taking up\nher station in the inland country, as her elder sister Concord had\nformerly done, lying further up the same river, being furnished with\ngreat plenty of fresh marsh, but, it lying very low is much indamaged\nwith land floods, insomuch that when the summer proves wet they lose\npart of their hay; yet are they so sufficiently provided that they take\nin cattle of other towns to winter.\u201d\n\nThe sluggish artery of the Concord meadows steals thus unobserved\nthrough the town, without a murmur or a pulse-beat, its general course\nfrom southwest to northeast, and its length about fifty miles; a huge\nvolume of matter, ceaselessly rolling through the plains and valleys of\nthe substantial earth with the moccasoned tread of an Indian warrior,\nmaking haste from the high places of the earth to its ancient\nreservoir. The murmurs of many a famous river on the other side of the\nglobe reach even to us here, as to more distant dwellers on its banks;\nmany a poet\u2019s stream floating the helms and shields of heroes on its\nbosom. The Xanthus or Scamander is not a mere dry channel and bed of a\nmountain torrent, but fed by the everflowing springs of fame;\u2014\n\n\u201cAnd thou Simois, that as an arrowe, clere\nThrough Troy rennest, aie downward to the sea\u201d;\u2014\n\n\nand I trust that I may be allowed to associate our muddy but much\nabused Concord River with the most famous in history.\n\n\u201cSure there are poets which did never dream\nUpon Parnassus, nor did taste the stream\nOf Helicon; we therefore may suppose\nThose made not poets, but the poets those.\u201d\n\n\nThe Mississippi, the Ganges, and the Nile, those journeying atoms from\nthe Rocky Mountains, the Himmaleh, and Mountains of the Moon, have a\nkind of personal importance in the annals of the world. The heavens are\nnot yet drained over their sources, but the Mountains of the Moon still\nsend their annual tribute to the Pasha without fail, as they did to the\nPharaohs, though he must collect the rest of his revenue at the point\nof the sword. Rivers must have been the guides which conducted the\nfootsteps of the first travellers. They are the constant lure, when\nthey flow by our doors, to distant enterprise and adventure, and, by a\nnatural impulse, the dwellers on their banks will at length accompany\ntheir currents to the lowlands of the globe, or explore at their\ninvitation the interior of continents. They are the natural highways of\nall nations, not only levelling the ground and removing obstacles from\nthe path of the traveller, quenching his thirst and bearing him on\ntheir bosoms, but conducting him through the most interesting scenery,\nthe most populous portions of the globe, and where the animal and\nvegetable kingdoms attain their greatest perfection.\n\nI had often stood on the banks of the Concord, watching the lapse of\nthe current, an emblem of all progress, following the same law with the\nsystem, with time, and all that is made; the weeds at the bottom gently\nbending down the stream, shaken by the watery wind, still planted where\ntheir seeds had sunk, but erelong to die and go down likewise; the\nshining pebbles, not yet anxious to better their condition, the chips\nand weeds, and occasional logs and stems of trees that floated past,\nfulfilling their fate, were objects of singular interest to me, and at\nlast I resolved to launch myself on its bosom and float whither it\nwould bear me.\n\n\n\n\nSATURDAY\n\n\n\u201cCome, come, my lovely fair, and let us try\nThose rural delicacies.\u201d\n\n_Christ\u2019s Invitation to the Soul._ QUARLES\n\nAt length, on Saturday, the last day of August, 1839, we two, brothers,\nand natives of Concord, weighed anchor in this river port; for Concord,\ntoo, lies under the sun, a port of entry and departure for the bodies\nas well as the souls of men; one shore at least exempted from all\nduties but such as an honest man will gladly discharge. A warm\ndrizzling rain had obscured the morning, and threatened to delay our\nvoyage, but at length the leaves and grass were dried, and it came out\na mild afternoon, as serene and fresh as if Nature were maturing some\ngreater scheme of her own. After this long dripping and oozing from\nevery pore, she began to respire again more healthily than ever. So\nwith a vigorous shove we launched our boat from the bank, while the\nflags and bulrushes courtesied a God-speed, and dropped silently down\nthe stream.\n\nOur boat, which had cost us a week\u2019s labor in the spring, was in form\nlike a fisherman\u2019s dory, fifteen feet long by three and a half in\nbreadth at the widest part, painted green below, with a border of blue,\nwith reference to the two elements in which it was to spend its\nexistence. It had been loaded the evening before at our door, half a\nmile from the river, with potatoes and melons from a patch which we had\ncultivated, and a few utensils, and was provided with wheels in order\nto be rolled around falls, as well as with two sets of oars, and\nseveral slender poles for shoving in shallow places, and also two\nmasts, one of which served for a tent-pole at night; for a buffalo-skin\nwas to be our bed, and a tent of cotton cloth our roof. It was strongly\nbuilt, but heavy, and hardly of better model than usual. If rightly\nmade, a boat would be a sort of amphibious animal, a creature of two\nelements, related by one half its structure to some swift and shapely\nfish, and by the other to some strong-winged and graceful bird. The\nfish shows where there should be the greatest breadth of beam and depth\nin the hold; its fins direct where to set the oars, and the tail gives\nsome hint for the form and position of the rudder. The bird shows how\nto rig and trim the sails, and what form to give to the prow that it\nmay balance the boat, and divide the air and water best. These hints we\nhad but partially obeyed. But the eyes, though they are no sailors,\nwill never be satisfied with any model, however fashionable, which does\nnot answer all the requisitions of art. However, as art is all of a\nship but the wood, and yet the wood alone will rudely serve the purpose\nof a ship, so our boat, being of wood, gladly availed itself of the old\nlaw that the heavier shall float the lighter, and though a dull\nwater-fowl, proved a sufficient buoy for our purpose.\n\n\u201cWere it the will of Heaven, an osier bough\nWere vessel safe enough the seas to plough.\u201d\n\n\nSome village friends stood upon a promontory lower down the stream to\nwave us a last farewell; but we, having already performed these shore\nrites, with excusable reserve, as befits those who are embarked on\nunusual enterprises, who behold but speak not, silently glided past the\nfirm lands of Concord, both peopled cape and lonely summer meadow, with\nsteady sweeps. And yet we did unbend so far as to let our guns speak\nfor us, when at length we had swept out of sight, and thus left the\nwoods to ring again with their echoes; and it may be many russet-clad\nchildren, lurking in those broad meadows, with the bittern and the\nwoodcock and the rail, though wholly concealed by brakes and hardhack\nand meadow-sweet, heard our salute that afternoon.\n\nWe were soon floating past the first regular battle ground of the\nRevolution, resting on our oars between the still visible abutments of\nthat \u201cNorth Bridge,\u201d over which in April, 1775, rolled the first faint\ntide of that war, which ceased not, till, as we read on the stone on\nour right, it \u201cgave peace to these United States.\u201d As a Concord poet\nhas sung:\u2014\n\n\u201cBy the rude bridge that arched the flood,\n    Their flag to April\u2019s breeze unfurled,\nHere once the embattled farmers stood,\n    And fired the shot heard round the world.\n\n\u201cThe foe long since in silence slept;\n    Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;\nAnd Time the ruined bridge has swept\n    Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.\u201d\n\n\nOur reflections had already acquired a historical remoteness from the\nscenes we had left, and we ourselves essayed to sing.\n\nAh, \u2019t is in vain the peaceful din\n    That wakes the ignoble town,\nNot thus did braver spirits win\n    A patriot\u2019s renown.\n\nThere is one field beside this stream,\n    Wherein no foot does fall,\nBut yet it beareth in my dream\n    A richer crop than all.\n\nLet me believe a dream so dear,\n    Some heart beat high that day,\nAbove the petty Province here,\n    And Britain far away;\n\nSome hero of the ancient mould,\n    Some arm of knightly worth,\nOf strength unbought, and faith unsold,\n    Honored this spot of earth;\n\nWho sought the prize his heart described,\n    And did not ask release,\nWhose free-born valor was not bribed\n    By prospect of a peace.\n\nThe men who stood on yonder height\n    That day are long since gone;\nNot the same hand directs the fight\n    And monumental stone.\n\nYe were the Grecian cities then,\n    The Romes of modern birth,\nWhere the New England husbandmen\n    Have shown a Roman worth.\n\nIn vain I search a foreign land\n    To find our Bunker Hill,\nAnd Lexington and Concord stand\n    By no Laconian rill.\n\n\nWith such thoughts we swept gently by this now peaceful pasture-ground,\non waves of Concord, in which was long since drowned the din of war.\n\nBut since we sailed\nSome things have failed,\nAnd many a dream\nGone down the stream.\n\nHere then an aged shepherd dwelt,\nWho to his flock his substance dealt,\nAnd ruled them with a vigorous crook,\nBy precept of the sacred Book;\nBut he the pierless bridge passed o\u2019er,\nAnd solitary left the shore.\n\nAnon a youthful pastor came,\nWhose crook was not unknown to fame,\nHis lambs he viewed with gentle glance,\nSpread o\u2019er the country\u2019s wide expanse,\nAnd fed with \u201cMosses from the Manse.\u201d\nHere was our Hawthorne in the dale,\nAnd here the shepherd told his tale.\n\n\nThat slight shaft had now sunk behind the hills, and we had floated\nround the neighboring bend, and under the new North Bridge between\nPonkawtasset and the Poplar Hill, into the Great Meadows, which, like a\nbroad moccason print, have levelled a fertile and juicy place in\nnature.\n\nOn Ponkawtasset, since, we took our way,\nDown this still stream to far Billericay,\nA poet wise has settled, whose fine ray\nDoth often shine on Concord\u2019s twilight day.\n\nLike those first stars, whose silver beams on high,\nShining more brightly as the day goes by,\nMost travellers cannot at first descry,\nBut eyes that wont to range the evening sky,\n\nAnd know celestial lights, do plainly see,\nAnd gladly hail them, numbering two or three;\nFor lore that\u2019s deep must deeply studied be,\nAs from deep wells men read star-poetry.\n\nThese stars are never paled, though out of sight,\nBut like the sun they shine forever bright;\nAy, _they_ are suns, though earth must in its flight\nPut out its eyes that it may see their light.\n\nWho would neglect the least celestial sound,\nOr faintest light that falls on earthly ground,\nIf he could know it one day would be found\nThat star in Cygnus whither we are bound,\nAnd pale our sun with heavenly radiance round?\n\n\nGradually the village murmur subsided, and we seemed to be embarked on\nthe placid current of our dreams, floating from past to future as\nsilently as one awakes to fresh morning or evening thoughts. We glided\nnoiselessly down the stream, occasionally driving a pickerel or a bream\nfrom the covert of the pads, and the smaller bittern now and then\nsailed away on sluggish wings from some recess in the shore, or the\nlarger lifted itself out of the long grass at our approach, and carried\nits precious legs away to deposit them in a place of safety. The\ntortoises also rapidly dropped into the water, as our boat ruffled the\nsurface amid the willows, breaking the reflections of the trees. The\nbanks had passed the height of their beauty, and some of the brighter\nflowers showed by their faded tints that the season was verging towards\nthe afternoon of the year; but this sombre tinge enhanced their\nsincerity, and in the still unabated heats they seemed like the mossy\nbrink of some cool well. The narrow-leaved willow (_Salix Purshiana_)\nlay along the surface of the water in masses of light green foliage,\ninterspersed with the large balls of the button-bush. The small\nrose-colored polygonum raised its head proudly above the water on\neither hand, and flowering at this season and in these localities, in\nfront of dense fields of the white species which skirted the sides of\nthe stream, its little streak of red looked very rare and precious. The\npure white blossoms of the arrow-head stood in the shallower parts, and\na few cardinals on the margin still proudly surveyed themselves\nreflected in the water, though the latter, as well as the\npickerel-weed, was now nearly out of blossom. The snake-head, _Chelone\nglabra_, grew close to the shore, while a kind of coreopsis, turning\nits brazen face to the sun, full and rank, and a tall dull red flower,\n_Eupatorium purpureum_, or trumpet-weed, formed the rear rank of the\nfluvial array. The bright blue flowers of the soap-wort gentian were\nsprinkled here and there in the adjacent meadows, like flowers which\nProserpine had dropped, and still farther in the fields or higher on\nthe bank were seen the purple Gerardia, the Virginian rhexia, and\ndrooping neottia or ladies\u2019-tresses; while from the more distant\nwaysides which we occasionally passed, and banks where the sun had\nlodged, was reflected still a dull yellow beam from the ranks of tansy,\nnow past its prime. In short, Nature seemed to have adorned herself for\nour departure with a profusion of fringes and curls, mingled with the\nbright tints of flowers, reflected in the water. But we missed the\nwhite water-lily, which is the queen of river flowers, its reign being\nover for this season. He makes his voyage too late, perhaps, by a true\nwater clock who delays so long. Many of this species inhabit our\nConcord water. I have passed down the river before sunrise on a summer\nmorning between fields of lilies still shut in sleep; and when, at\nlength, the flakes of sunlight from over the bank fell on the surface\nof the water, whole fields of white blossoms seemed to flash open\nbefore me, as I floated along, like the unfolding of a banner, so\nsensible is this flower to the influence of the sun\u2019s rays.\n\nAs we were floating through the last of these familiar meadows, we\nobserved the large and conspicuous flowers of the hibiscus, covering\nthe dwarf willows, and mingled with the leaves of the grape, and wished\nthat we could inform one of our friends behind of the locality of this\nsomewhat rare and inaccessible flower before it was too late to pluck\nit; but we were just gliding out of sight of the village spire before\nit occurred to us that the farmer in the adjacent meadow would go to\nchurch on the morrow, and would carry this news for us; and so by the\nMonday, while we should be floating on the Merrimack, our friend would\nbe reaching to pluck this blossom on the bank of the Concord.\n\nAfter a pause at Ball\u2019s Hill, the St. Ann\u2019s of Concord voyageurs, not\nto say any prayer for the success of our voyage, but to gather the few\nberries which were still left on the hills, hanging by very slender\nthreads, we weighed anchor again, and were soon out of sight of our\nnative village. The land seemed to grow fairer as we withdrew from it.\nFar away to the southwest lay the quiet village, left alone under its\nelms and buttonwoods in mid afternoon; and the hills, notwithstanding\ntheir blue, ethereal faces, seemed to cast a saddened eye on their old\nplayfellows; but, turning short to the north, we bade adieu to their\nfamiliar outlines, and addressed ourselves to new scenes and\nadventures. Naught was familiar but the heavens, from under whose roof\nthe voyageur never passes; but with their countenance, and the\nacquaintance we had with river and wood, we trusted to fare well under\nany circumstances.\n\nFrom this point, the river runs perfectly straight for a mile or more\nto Carlisle Bridge, which consists of twenty wooden piers, and when we\nlooked back over it, its surface was reduced to a line\u2019s breadth, and\nappeared like a cobweb gleaming in the sun. Here and there might be\nseen a pole sticking up, to mark the place where some fisherman had\nenjoyed unusual luck, and in return had consecrated his rod to the\ndeities who preside over these shallows. It was full twice as broad as\nbefore, deep and tranquil, with a muddy bottom, and bordered with\nwillows, beyond which spread broad lagoons covered with pads,\nbulrushes, and flags.\n\nLate in the afternoon we passed a man on the shore fishing with a long\nbirch pole, its silvery bark left on, and a dog at his side, rowing so\nnear as to agitate his cork with our oars, and drive away luck for a\nseason; and when we had rowed a mile as straight as an arrow, with our\nfaces turned towards him, and the bubbles in our wake still visible on\nthe tranquil surface, there stood the fisher still with his dog, like\nstatues under the other side of the heavens, the only objects to\nrelieve the eye in the extended meadow; and there would he stand\nabiding his luck, till he took his way home through the fields at\nevening with his fish. Thus, by one bait or another, Nature allures\ninhabitants into all her recesses. This man was the last of our\ntownsmen whom we saw, and we silently through him bade adieu to our\nfriends.\n\nThe characteristics and pursuits of various ages and races of men are\nalways existing in epitome in every neighborhood. The pleasures of my\nearliest youth have become the inheritance of other men. This man is\nstill a fisher, and belongs to an era in which I myself have lived.\nPerchance he is not confounded by many knowledges, and has not sought\nout many inventions, but how to take many fishes before the sun sets,\nwith his slender birchen pole and flaxen line, that is invention enough\nfor him. It is good even to be a fisherman in summer and in winter.\nSome men are judges these August days, sitting on benches, even till\nthe court rises; they sit judging there honorably, between the seasons\nand between meals, leading a civil politic life, arbitrating in the\ncase of Spaulding _versus_ Cummings, it may be, from highest noon till\nthe red vesper sinks into the west. The fisherman, meanwhile, stands in\nthree feet of water, under the same summer\u2019s sun, arbitrating in other\ncases between muckworm and shiner, amid the fragrance of water-lilies,\nmint, and pontederia, leading his life many rods from the dry land,\nwithin a pole\u2019s length of where the larger fishes swim. Human life is\nto him very much like a river,\n\n\u2014\u201crenning aie downward to the sea.\u201d\n\n\nThis was his observation. His honor made a great discovery in\nbailments.\n\nI can just remember an old brown-coated man who was the Walton of this\nstream, who had come over from Newcastle, England, with his son,\u2014the\nlatter a stout and hearty man who had lifted an anchor in his day. A\nstraight old man he was who took his way in silence through the\nmeadows, having passed the period of communication with his fellows;\nhis old experienced coat, hanging long and straight and brown as the\nyellow-pine bark, glittering with so much smothered sunlight, if you\nstood near enough, no work of art but naturalized at length. I often\ndiscovered him unexpectedly amid the pads and the gray willows when he\nmoved, fishing in some old country method,\u2014for youth and age then went\na fishing together,\u2014full of incommunicable thoughts, perchance about\nhis own Tyne and Northumberland. He was always to be seen in serene\nafternoons haunting the river, and almost rustling with the sedge; so\nmany sunny hours in an old man\u2019s life, entrapping silly fish; almost\ngrown to be the sun\u2019s familiar; what need had he of hat or raiment any,\nhaving served out his time, and seen through such thin disguises? I\nhave seen how his coeval fates rewarded him with the yellow perch, and\nyet I thought his luck was not in proportion to his years; and I have\nseen when, with slow steps and weighed down with aged thoughts, he\ndisappeared with his fish under his low-roofed house on the skirts of\nthe village. I think nobody else saw him; nobody else remembers him\nnow, for he soon after died, and migrated to new Tyne streams. His\nfishing was not a sport, nor solely a means of subsistence, but a sort\nof solemn sacrament and withdrawal from the world, just as the aged\nread their Bibles.\n\nWhether we live by the seaside, or by the lakes and rivers, or on the\nprairie, it concerns us to attend to the nature of fishes, since they\nare not phenomena confined to certain localities only, but forms and\nphases of the life in nature universally dispersed. The countless\nshoals which annually coast the shores of Europe and America are not so\ninteresting to the student of nature, as the more fertile law itself,\nwhich deposits their spawn on the tops of mountains, and on the\ninterior plains; the fish principle in nature, from which it results\nthat they may be found in water in so many places, in greater or less\nnumbers. The natural historian is not a fisherman, who prays for cloudy\ndays and good luck merely, but as fishing has been styled \u201ca\ncontemplative man\u2019s recreation,\u201d introducing him profitably to woods\nand water, so the fruit of the naturalist\u2019s observations is not in new\ngenera or species, but in new contemplations still, and science is only\na more contemplative man\u2019s recreation. The seeds of the life of fishes\nare everywhere disseminated, whether the winds waft them, or the waters\nfloat them, or the deep earth holds them; wherever a pond is dug,\nstraightway it is stocked with this vivacious race. They have a lease\nof nature, and it is not yet out. The Chinese are bribed to carry their\nova from province to province in jars or in hollow reeds, or the\nwater-birds to transport them to the mountain tarns and interior lakes.\nThere are fishes wherever there is a fluid medium, and even in clouds\nand in melted metals we detect their semblance. Think how in winter you\ncan sink a line down straight in a pasture through snow and through\nice, and pull up a bright, slippery, dumb, subterranean silver or\ngolden fish! It is curious, also, to reflect how they make one family,\nfrom the largest to the smallest. The least minnow that lies on the ice\nas bait for pickerel, looks like a huge sea-fish cast up on the shore.\nIn the waters of this town there are about a dozen distinct species,\nthough the inexperienced would expect many more.\n\nIt enhances our sense of the grand security and serenity of nature, to\nobserve the still undisturbed economy and content of the fishes of this\ncentury, their happiness a regular fruit of the summer. The Fresh-Water\nSun-Fish, Bream, or Ruff, _Pomotis vulgaris_, as it were, without\nancestry, without posterity, still represents the Fresh-Water Sun-Fish\nin nature. It is the most common of all, and seen on every urchin\u2019s\nstring; a simple and inoffensive fish, whose nests are visible all\nalong the shore, hollowed in the sand, over which it is steadily poised\nthrough the summer hours on waving fin. Sometimes there are twenty or\nthirty nests in the space of a few rods, two feet wide by half a foot\nin depth, and made with no little labor, the weeds being removed, and\nthe sand shoved up on the sides, like a bowl. Here it may be seen early\nin summer assiduously brooding, and driving away minnows and larger\nfishes, even its own species, which would disturb its ova, pursuing\nthem a few feet, and circling round swiftly to its nest again: the\nminnows, like young sharks, instantly entering the empty nests,\nmeanwhile, and swallowing the spawn, which is attached to the weeds and\nto the bottom, on the sunny side. The spawn is exposed to so many\ndangers, that a very small proportion can ever become fishes, for\nbeside being the constant prey of birds and fishes, a great many nests\nare made so near the shore, in shallow water, that they are left dry in\na few days, as the river goes down. These and the lamprey\u2019s are the\nonly fishes\u2019 nests that I have observed, though the ova of some species\nmay be seen floating on the surface. The breams are so careful of their\ncharge that you may stand close by in the water and examine them at\nyour leisure. I have thus stood over them half an hour at a time, and\nstroked them familiarly without frightening them, suffering them to\nnibble my fingers harmlessly, and seen them erect their dorsal fins in\nanger when my hand approached their ova, and have even taken them\ngently out of the water with my hand; though this cannot be\naccomplished by a sudden movement, however dexterous, for instant\nwarning is conveyed to them through their denser element, but only by\nletting the fingers gradually close about them as they are poised over\nthe palm, and with the utmost gentleness raising them slowly to the\nsurface. Though stationary, they keep up a constant sculling or waving\nmotion with their fins, which is exceedingly graceful, and expressive\nof their humble happiness; for unlike ours, the element in which they\nlive is a stream which must be constantly resisted. From time to time\nthey nibble the weeds at the bottom or overhanging their nests, or dart\nafter a fly or a worm. The dorsal fin, besides answering the purpose of\na keel, with the anal, serves to keep the fish upright, for in shallow\nwater, where this is not covered, they fall on their sides. As you\nstand thus stooping over the bream in its nest, the edges of the dorsal\nand caudal fins have a singular dusty golden reflection, and its eyes,\nwhich stand out from the head, are transparent and colorless. Seen in\nits native element, it is a very beautiful and compact fish, perfect in\nall its parts, and looks like a brilliant coin fresh from the mint. It\nis a perfect jewel of the river, the green, red, coppery, and golden\nreflections of its mottled sides being the concentration of such rays\nas struggle through the floating pads and flowers to the sandy bottom,\nand in harmony with the sunlit brown and yellow pebbles. Behind its\nwatery shield it dwells far from many accidents inevitable to human\nlife.\n\nThere is also another species of bream found in our river, without the\nred spot on the operculum, which, according to M. Agassiz, is\nundescribed.\n\nThe Common Perch, _Perca flavescens_, which name describes well the\ngleaming, golden reflections of its scales as it is drawn out of the\nwater, its red gills standing out in vain in the thin element, is one\nof the handsomest and most regularly formed of our fishes, and at such\na moment as this reminds us of the fish in the picture which wished to\nbe restored to its native element until it had grown larger; and indeed\nmost of this species that are caught are not half grown. In the ponds\nthere is a light-colored and slender kind, which swim in shoals of many\nhundreds in the sunny water, in company with the shiner, averaging not\nmore than six or seven inches in length, while only a few larger\nspecimens are found in the deepest water, which prey upon their weaker\nbrethren. I have often attracted these small perch to the shore at\nevening, by rippling the water with my fingers, and they may sometimes\nbe caught while attempting to pass inside your hands. It is a tough and\nheedless fish, biting from impulse, without nibbling, and from impulse\nrefraining to bite, and sculling indifferently past. It rather prefers\nthe clear water and sandy bottoms, though here it has not much choice.\nIt is a true fish, such as the angler loves to put into his basket or\nhang at the top of his willow twig, in shady afternoons along the banks\nof the stream. So many unquestionable fishes he counts, and so many\nshiners, which he counts and then throws away. Old Josselyn in his \u201cNew\nEngland\u2019s Rarities,\u201d published in 1672, mentions the Perch or River\nPartridge.\n\nThe Chivin, Dace, Roach, Cousin Trout, or whatever else it is called,\n_Leuciscus pulchellus_, white and red, always an unexpected prize,\nwhich, however, any angler is glad to hook for its rarity. A name that\nreminds us of many an unsuccessful ramble by swift streams, when the\nwind rose to disappoint the fisher. It is commonly a silvery\nsoft-scaled fish, of graceful, scholarlike, and classical look, like\nmany a picture in an English book. It loves a swift current and a sandy\nbottom, and bites inadvertently, yet not without appetite for the bait.\nThe minnows are used as bait for pickerel in the winter. The red\nchivin, according to some, is still the same fish, only older, or with\nits tints deepened as they think by the darker water it inhabits, as\nthe red clouds swim in the twilight atmosphere. He who has not hooked\nthe red chivin is not yet a complete angler. Other fishes, methinks,\nare slightly amphibious, but this is a denizen of the water wholly. The\ncork goes dancing down the swift-rushing stream, amid the weeds and\nsands, when suddenly, by a coincidence never to be remembered, emerges\nthis fabulous inhabitant of another element, a thing heard of but not\nseen, as if it were the instant creation of an eddy, a true product of\nthe running stream. And this bright cupreous dolphin was spawned and\nhas passed its life beneath the level of your feet in your native\nfields. Fishes too, as well as birds and clouds, derive their armor\nfrom the mine. I have heard of mackerel visiting the copper banks at a\nparticular season; this fish, perchance, has its habitat in the\nCoppermine River. I have caught white chivin of great size in the\nAboljacknagesic, where it empties into the Penobscot, at the base of\nMount Ktaadn, but no red ones there. The latter variety seems not to\nhave been sufficiently observed.\n\nThe Dace, _Leuciscus argenteus_, is a slight silvery minnow, found\ngenerally in the middle of the stream, where the current is most rapid,\nand frequently confounded with the last named.\n\nThe Shiner, _Leuciscus crysoleucas_, is a soft-scaled and tender fish,\nthe victim of its stronger neighbors, found in all places, deep and\nshallow, clear and turbid; generally the first nibbler at the bait,\nbut, with its small mouth and nibbling propensities, not easily caught.\nIt is a gold or silver bit that passes current in the river, its limber\ntail dimpling the surface in sport or flight. I have seen the fry, when\nfrightened by something thrown into the water, leap out by dozens,\ntogether with the dace, and wreck themselves upon a floating plank. It\nis the little light-infant of the river, with body armor of gold or\nsilver spangles, slipping, gliding its life through with a quirk of the\ntail, half in the water, half in the air, upward and ever upward with\nflitting fin to more crystalline tides, yet still abreast of us\ndwellers on the bank. It is almost dissolved by the summer heats. A\nslighter and lighter colored shiner is found in one of our ponds.\n\nThe Pickerel, _Esox reticulatus_, the swiftest, wariest, and most\nravenous of fishes, which Josselyn calls the Fresh-Water or River Wolf,\nis very common in the shallow and weedy lagoons along the sides of the\nstream. It is a solemn, stately, ruminant fish, lurking under the\nshadow of a pad at noon, with still, circumspect, voracious eye,\nmotionless as a jewel set in water, or moving slowly along to take up\nits position, darting from time to time at such unlucky fish or frog or\ninsect as comes within its range, and swallowing it at a gulp. I have\ncaught one which had swallowed a brother pickerel half as large as\nitself, with the tail still visible in its mouth, while the head was\nalready digested in its stomach. Sometimes a striped snake, bound to\ngreener meadows across the stream, ends its undulatory progress in the\nsame receptacle. They are so greedy and impetuous that they are\nfrequently caught by being entangled in the line the moment it is cast.\nFishermen also distinguish the brook pickerel, a shorter and thicker\nfish than the former.\n\nThe Horned Pout, _Pimelodus nebulosus_, sometimes called Minister, from\nthe peculiar squeaking noise it makes when drawn out of the water, is a\ndull and blundering fellow, and like the eel vespertinal in his habits,\nand fond of the mud. It bites deliberately as if about its business.\nThey are taken at night with a mass of worms strung on a thread, which\ncatches in their teeth, sometimes three or four, with an eel, at one\npull. They are extremely tenacious of life, opening and shutting their\nmouths for half an hour after their heads have been cut off. A\nbloodthirsty and bullying race of rangers, inhabiting the fertile river\nbottoms, with ever a lance in rest, and ready to do battle with their\nnearest neighbor. I have observed them in summer, when every other one\nhad a long and bloody scar upon his back, where the skin was gone, the\nmark, perhaps, of some fierce encounter. Sometimes the fry, not an inch\nlong, are seen darkening the shore with their myriads.\n\nThe Suckers, _Catostomi Bostonienses_ and _tuberculati_, Common and\nHorned, perhaps on an average the largest of our fishes, may be seen in\nshoals of a hundred or more, stemming the current in the sun, on their\nmysterious migrations, and sometimes sucking in the bait which the\nfisherman suffers to float toward them. The former, which sometimes\ngrow to a large size, are frequently caught by the hand in the brooks,\nor like the red chivin, are jerked out by a hook fastened firmly to the\nend of a stick, and placed under their jaws. They are hardly known to\nthe mere angler, however, not often biting at his baits, though the\nspearer carries home many a mess in the spring. To our village eyes,\nthese shoals have a foreign and imposing aspect, realizing the\nfertility of the seas.\n\nThe Common Eel, too, _Muraena Bostoniensis_, the only species of eel\nknown in the State, a slimy, squirming creature, informed of mud, still\nsquirming in the pan, is speared and hooked up with various success.\nMethinks it too occurs in picture, left after the deluge, in many a\nmeadow high and dry.\n\nIn the shallow parts of the river, where the current is rapid, and the\nbottom pebbly, you may sometimes see the curious circular nests of the\nLamprey Eel, _Petromyzon Americanus_, the American Stone-Sucker, as\nlarge as a cart-wheel, a foot or two in height, and sometimes rising\nhalf a foot above the surface of the water. They collect these stones,\nof the size of a hen\u2019s egg, with their mouths, as their name implies,\nand are said to fashion them into circles with their tails. They ascend\nfalls by clinging to the stones, which may sometimes be raised, by\nlifting the fish by the tail. As they are not seen on their way down\nthe streams, it is thought by fishermen that they never return, but\nwaste away and die, clinging to rocks and stumps of trees for an\nindefinite period; a tragic feature in the scenery of the river bottoms\nworthy to be remembered with Shakespeare\u2019s description of the\nsea-floor. They are rarely seen in our waters at present, on account of\nthe dams, though they are taken in great quantities at the mouth of the\nriver in Lowell. Their nests, which are very conspicuous, look more\nlike art than anything in the river.\n\nIf we had leisure this afternoon, we might turn our prow up the brooks\nin quest of the classical trout and the minnows. Of the last alone,\naccording to M. Agassiz, several of the species found in this town are\nyet undescribed. These would, perhaps, complete the list of our finny\ncontemporaries in the Concord waters.\n\nSalmon, Shad, and Alewives were formerly abundant here, and taken in\nweirs by the Indians, who taught this method to the whites, by whom\nthey were used as food and as manure, until the dam, and afterward the\ncanal at Billerica, and the factories at Lowell, put an end to their\nmigrations hitherward; though it is thought that a few more\nenterprising shad may still occasionally be seen in this part of the\nriver. It is said, to account for the destruction of the fishery, that\nthose who at that time represented the interests of the fishermen and\nthe fishes, remembering between what dates they were accustomed to take\nthe grown shad, stipulated, that the dams should be left open for that\nseason only, and the fry, which go down a month later, were\nconsequently stopped and destroyed by myriads. Others say that the\nfish-ways were not properly constructed. Perchance, after a few\nthousands of years, if the fishes will be patient, and pass their\nsummers elsewhere, meanwhile, nature will have levelled the Billerica\ndam, and the Lowell factories, and the Grass-ground River run clear\nagain, to be explored by new migratory shoals, even as far as the\nHopkinton pond and Westborough swamp.\n\nOne would like to know more of that race, now extinct, whose seines lie\nrotting in the garrets of their children, who openly professed the\ntrade of fishermen, and even fed their townsmen creditably, not\nskulking through the meadows to a rainy afternoon sport. Dim visions we\nstill get of miraculous draughts of fishes, and heaps uncountable by\nthe river-side, from the tales of our seniors sent on horseback in\ntheir childhood from the neighboring towns, perched on saddle-bags,\nwith instructions to get the one bag filled with shad, the other with\nalewives. At least one memento of those days may still exist in the\nmemory of this generation, in the familiar appellation of a celebrated\ntrain-band of this town, whose untrained ancestors stood creditably at\nConcord North Bridge. Their captain, a man of piscatory tastes, having\nduly warned his company to turn out on a certain day, they, like\nobedient soldiers, appeared promptly on parade at the appointed time,\nbut, unfortunately, they went undrilled, except in the man\u0153uvres of a\nsoldier\u2019s wit and unlicensed jesting, that May day; for their captain,\nforgetting his own appointment, and warned only by the favorable aspect\nof the heavens, as he had often done before, went a-fishing that\nafternoon, and his company thenceforth was known to old and young,\ngrave and gay, as \u201cThe Shad,\u201d and by the youths of this vicinity this\nwas long regarded as the proper name of all the irregular militia in\nChristendom. But, alas! no record of these fishers\u2019 lives remains that\nwe know, unless it be one brief page of hard but unquestionable\nhistory, which occurs in Day Book No. 4, of an old trader of this town,\nlong since dead, which shows pretty plainly what constituted a\nfisherman\u2019s stock in trade in those days. It purports to be a\nFisherman\u2019s Account Current, probably for the fishing season of the\nyear 1805, during which months he purchased daily rum and sugar, sugar\nand rum, N. E. and W. I., \u201cone cod line,\u201d \u201cone brown mug,\u201d and \u201ca line\nfor the seine\u201d; rum and sugar, sugar and rum, \u201cgood loaf sugar,\u201d and\n\u201cgood brown,\u201d W. I. and N. E., in short and uniform entries to the\nbottom of the page, all carried out in pounds, shillings, and pence,\nfrom March 25th to June 5th, and promptly settled by receiving \u201ccash in\nfull\u201d at the last date. But perhaps not so settled altogether. These\nwere the necessaries of life in those days; with salmon, shad, and\nalewives, fresh and pickled, he was thereafter independent on the\ngroceries. Rather a preponderance of the fluid elements; but such is\nthe fisherman\u2019s nature. I can faintly remember to have seen this same\nfisher in my earliest youth, still as near the river as he could get,\nwith uncertain undulatory step, after so many things had gone down\nstream, swinging a scythe in the meadow, his bottle like a serpent hid\nin the grass; himself as yet not cut down by the Great Mower.\n\nSurely the fates are forever kind, though Nature\u2019s laws are more\nimmutable than any despot\u2019s, yet to man\u2019s daily life they rarely seem\nrigid, but permit him to relax with license in summer weather. He is\nnot harshly reminded of the things he may not do. She is very kind and\nliberal to all men of vicious habits, and certainly does not deny them\nquarter; they do not die without priest. Still they maintain life along\nthe way, keeping this side the Styx, still hearty, still resolute,\n\u201cnever better in their lives\u201d; and again, after a dozen years have\nelapsed, they start up from behind a hedge, asking for work and wages\nfor able-bodied men. Who has not met such\n\n\u201ca beggar on the way,\nWho sturdily could gang? \u2026.\nWho cared neither for wind nor wet,\nIn lands where\u2019er he past?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat bold adopts each house he views, his own;\nMakes every pulse his checquer, and, at pleasure,\nWalks forth, and taxes all the world, like C\u00e6sar\u201d;\u2014\n\n\nAs if consistency were the secret of health, while the poor\ninconsistent aspirant man, seeking to live a pure life, feeding on air,\ndivided against himself, cannot stand, but pines and dies after a life\nof sickness, on beds of down.\n\nThe unwise are accustomed to speak as if some were not sick; but\nmethinks the difference between men in respect to health is not great\nenough to lay much stress upon. Some are reputed sick and some are not.\nIt often happens that the sicker man is the nurse to the sounder.\n\nShad are still taken in the basin of Concord River at Lowell, where\nthey are said to be a month earlier than the Merrimack shad, on account\nof the warmth of the water. Still patiently, almost pathetically, with\ninstinct not to be discouraged, not to be _reasoned_ with, revisiting\ntheir old haunts, as if their stern fates would relent, and still met\nby the Corporation with its dam. Poor shad! where is thy redress? When\nNature gave thee instinct, gave she thee the heart to bear thy fate?\nStill wandering the sea in thy scaly armor to inquire humbly at the\nmouths of rivers if man has perchance left them free for thee to enter.\nBy countless shoals loitering uncertain meanwhile, merely stemming the\ntide there, in danger from sea foes in spite of thy bright armor,\nawaiting new instructions, until the sands, until the water itself,\ntell thee if it be so or not. Thus by whole migrating nations, full of\ninstinct, which is thy faith, in this backward spring, turned adrift,\nand perchance knowest not where men do _not_ dwell, where there are\n_not_ factories, in these days. Armed with no sword, no electric shock,\nbut mere Shad, armed only with innocence and a just cause, with tender\ndumb mouth only forward, and scales easy to be detached. I for one am\nwith thee, and who knows what may avail a crow-bar against that\nBillerica dam?\u2014Not despairing when whole myriads have gone to feed\nthose sea monsters during thy suspense, but still brave, indifferent,\non easy fin there, like shad reserved for higher destinies. Willing to\nbe decimated for man\u2019s behoof after the spawning season. Away with the\nsuperficial and selfish phil-_anthropy_ of men,\u2014who knows what\nadmirable virtue of fishes may be below low-water-mark, bearing up\nagainst a hard destiny, not admired by that fellow-creature who alone\ncan appreciate it! Who hears the fishes when they cry? It will not be\nforgotten by some memory that we were contemporaries. Thou shalt\nerelong have thy way up the rivers, up all the rivers of the globe, if\nI am not mistaken. Yea, even thy dull watery dream shall be more than\nrealized. If it were not so, but thou wert to be overlooked at first\nand at last, then would not I take their heaven. Yes, I say so, who\nthink I know better than thou canst. Keep a stiff fin then, and stem\nall the tides thou mayst meet.\n\nAt length it would seem that the interests, not of the fishes only, but\nof the men of Wayland, of Sudbury, of Concord, demand the levelling of\nthat dam. Innumerable acres of meadow are waiting to be made dry land,\nwild native grass to give place to English. The farmers stand with\nscythes whet, waiting the subsiding of the waters, by gravitation, by\nevaporation or otherwise, but sometimes their eyes do not rest, their\nwheels do not roll, on the quaking meadow ground during the haying\nseason at all. So many sources of wealth inaccessible. They rate the\nloss hereby incurred in the single town of Wayland alone as equal to\nthe expense of keeping a hundred yoke of oxen the year round. One year,\nas I learn, not long ago, the farmers standing ready to drive their\nteams afield as usual, the water gave no signs of falling; without new\nattraction in the heavens, without freshet or visible cause, still\nstanding stagnant at an unprecedented height. All hydrometers were at\nfault; some trembled for their English even. But speedy emissaries\nrevealed the unnatural secret, in the new float-board, wholly a foot in\nwidth, added to their already too high privileges by the dam\nproprietors. The hundred yoke of oxen, meanwhile, standing patient,\ngazing wishfully meadowward, at that inaccessible waving native grass,\nuncut but by the great mower Time, who cuts so broad a swathe, without\nso much as a wisp to wind about their horns.\n\nThat was a long pull from Ball\u2019s Hill to Carlisle Bridge, sitting with\nour faces to the south, a slight breeze rising from the north, but\nnevertheless water still runs and grass grows, for now, having passed\nthe bridge between Carlisle and Bedford, we see men haying far off in\nthe meadow, their heads waving like the grass which they cut. In the\ndistance the wind seemed to bend all alike. As the night stole over,\nsuch a freshness was wafted across the meadow that every blade of cut\ngrass seemed to teem with life. Faint purple clouds began to be\nreflected in the water, and the cow-bells tinkled louder along the\nbanks, while, like sly water-rats, we stole along nearer the shore,\nlooking for a place to pitch our camp.\n\nAt length, when we had made about seven miles, as far as Billerica, we\nmoored our boat on the west side of a little rising ground which in the\nspring forms an island in the river. Here we found huckleberries still\nhanging upon the bushes, where they seemed to have slowly ripened for\nour especial use. Bread and sugar, and cocoa boiled in river water,\nmade our repast, and as we had drank in the fluvial prospect all day,\nso now we took a draft of the water with our evening meal to propitiate\nthe river gods, and whet our vision for the sights it was to behold.\nThe sun was setting on the one hand, while our eminence was\ncontributing its shadow to the night, on the other. It seemed\ninsensibly to grow lighter as the night shut in, and a distant and\nsolitary farm-house was revealed, which before lurked in the shadows of\nthe noon. There was no other house in sight, nor any cultivated field.\nTo the right and left, as far as the horizon, were straggling pine\nwoods with their plumes against the sky, and across the river were\nrugged hills, covered with shrub oaks, tangled with grape-vines and\nivy, with here and there a gray rock jutting out from the maze. The\nsides of these cliffs, though a quarter of a mile distant, were almost\nheard to rustle while we looked at them, it was such a leafy\nwilderness; a place for fauns and satyrs, and where bats hung all day\nto the rocks, and at evening flitted over the water, and fire-flies\nhusbanded their light under the grass and leaves against the night.\nWhen we had pitched our tent on the hillside, a few rods from the\nshore, we sat looking through its triangular door in the twilight at\nour lonely mast on the shore, just seen above the alders, and hardly\nyet come to a stand-still from the swaying of the stream; the first\nencroachment of commerce on this land. There was our port, our Ostia.\nThat straight geometrical line against the water and the sky stood for\nthe last refinements of civilized life, and what of sublimity there is\nin history was there symbolized.\n\nFor the most part, there was no recognition of human life in the night,\nno human breathing was heard, only the breathing of the wind. As we sat\nup, kept awake by the novelty of our situation, we heard at intervals\nfoxes stepping about over the dead leaves, and brushing the dewy grass\nclose to our tent, and once a musquash fumbling among the potatoes and\nmelons in our boat, but when we hastened to the shore we could detect\nonly a ripple in the water ruffling the disk of a star. At intervals we\nwere serenaded by the song of a dreaming sparrow or the throttled cry\nof an owl, but after each sound which near at hand broke the stillness\nof the night, each crackling of the twigs, or rustling among the\nleaves, there was a sudden pause, and deeper and more conscious\nsilence, as if the intruder were aware that no life was rightfully\nabroad at that hour. There was a fire in Lowell, as we judged, this\nnight, and we saw the horizon blazing, and heard the distant\nalarm-bells, as it were a faint tinkling music borne to these woods.\nBut the most constant and memorable sound of a summer\u2019s night, which we\ndid not fail to hear every night afterward, though at no time so\nincessantly and so favorably as now, was the barking of the house-dogs,\nfrom the loudest and hoarsest bark to the faintest aerial palpitation\nunder the eaves of heaven, from the patient but anxious mastiff to the\ntimid and wakeful terrier, at first loud and rapid, then faint and\nslow, to be imitated only in a whisper; wow-wow-wow-wow\u2014wo\u2014wo\u2014w\u2014w. Even\nin a retired and uninhabited district like this, it was a sufficiency\nof sound for the ear of night, and more impressive than any music. I\nhave heard the voice of a hound, just before daylight, while the stars\nwere shining, from over the woods and river, far in the horizon, when\nit sounded as sweet and melodious as an instrument. The hounding of a\ndog pursuing a fox or other animal in the horizon, may have first\nsuggested the notes of the hunting-horn to alternate with and relieve\nthe lungs of the dog. This natural bugle long resounded in the woods of\nthe ancient world before the horn was invented. The very dogs that\nsullenly bay the moon from farm-yards in these nights excite more\nheroism in our breasts than all the civil exhortations or war sermons\nof the age. \u201cI would rather be a dog, and bay the moon,\u201d than many a\nRoman that I know. The night is equally indebted to the clarion of the\ncock, with wakeful hope, from the very setting of the sun, prematurely\nushering in the dawn. All these sounds, the crowing of cocks, the\nbaying of dogs, and the hum of insects at noon, are the evidence of\nnature\u2019s health or _sound_ state. Such is the never-failing beauty and\naccuracy of language, the most perfect art in the world; the chisel of\na thousand years retouches it.\n\nAt length the antepenultimate and drowsy hours drew on, and all sounds\nwere denied entrance to our ears.\n\nWho sleeps by day and walks by night,\nWill meet no spirit but some sprite.\n\n\n\n\nSUNDAY\n\n\n        \u201cThe river calmly flows,\n    Through shining banks, through lonely glen,\nWhere the owl shrieks, though ne\u2019er the cheer of men\n        Has stirred its mute repose,\nStill if you should walk there, you would go there again.\u201d\n\n\u2014CHANNING.\n\n\n\u201cThe Indians tell us of a beautiful River lying far to the south, which\nthey call Merrimack.\u201d\n\nSIEUR DE MONTS, _Relations of the jesuits_, 1604.\n\nIn the morning the river and adjacent country were covered with a dense\nfog, through which the smoke of our fire curled up like a still\nsubtiler mist; but before we had rowed many rods, the sun arose and the\nfog rapidly dispersed, leaving a slight steam only to curl along the\nsurface of the water. It was a quiet Sunday morning, with more of the\nauroral rosy and white than of the yellow light in it, as if it dated\nfrom earlier than the fall of man, and still preserved a heathenish\nintegrity:\u2014\n\nAn early unconverted Saint,\nFree from noontide or evening taint,\nHeathen without reproach,\nThat did upon the civil day encroach,\nAnd ever since its birth\nHad trod the outskirts of the earth.\n\n\nBut the impressions which the morning makes vanish with its dews, and\nnot even the most \u201cpersevering mortal\u201d can preserve the memory of its\nfreshness to mid-day. As we passed the various islands, or what were\nislands in the spring, rowing with our backs down stream, we gave names\nto them. The one on which we had camped we called Fox Island, and one\nfine densely wooded island surrounded by deep water and overrun by\ngrape-vines, which looked like a mass of verdure and of flowers cast\nupon the waves, we named Grape Island. From Ball\u2019s Hill to Billerica\nmeeting-house, the river was still twice as broad as in Concord, a\ndeep, dark, and dead stream, flowing between gentle hills and sometimes\ncliffs, and well wooded all the way. It was a long woodland lake\nbordered with willows. For long reaches we could see neither house nor\ncultivated field, nor any sign of the vicinity of man. Now we coasted\nalong some shallow shore by the edge of a dense palisade of bulrushes,\nwhich straightly bounded the water as if clipt by art, reminding us of\nthe reed forts of the East-Indians, of which we had read; and now the\nbank slightly raised was overhung with graceful grasses and various\nspecies of brake, whose downy stems stood closely grouped and naked as\nin a vase, while their heads spread several feet on either side. The\ndead limbs of the willow were rounded and adorned by the climbing\nmikania, _Mikania scandens_, which filled every crevice in the leafy\nbank, contrasting agreeably with the gray bark of its supporter and the\nballs of the button-bush. The water willow, _Salix Purshiana_, when it\nis of large size and entire, is the most graceful and ethereal of our\ntrees. Its masses of light green foliage, piled one upon another to the\nheight of twenty or thirty feet, seemed to float on the surface of the\nwater, while the slight gray stems and the shore were hardly visible\nbetween them. No tree is so wedded to the water, and harmonizes so well\nwith still streams. It is even more graceful than the weeping willow,\nor any pendulous trees, which dip their branches in the stream instead\nof being buoyed up by it. Its limbs curved outward over the surface as\nif attracted by it. It had not a New England but an Oriental character,\nreminding us of trim Persian gardens, of Haroun Alraschid, and the\nartificial lakes of the East.\n\nAs we thus dipped our way along between fresh masses of foliage overrun\nwith the grape and smaller flowering vines, the surface was so calm,\nand both air and water so transparent, that the flight of a kingfisher\nor robin over the river was as distinctly seen reflected in the water\nbelow as in the air above. The birds seemed to flit through submerged\ngroves, alighting on the yielding sprays, and their clear notes to come\nup from below. We were uncertain whether the water floated the land, or\nthe land held the water in its bosom. It was such a season, in short,\nas that in which one of our Concord poets sailed on its stream, and\nsung its quiet glories.\n\n\u201cThere is an inward voice, that in the stream\nSends forth its spirit to the listening ear,\nAnd in a calm content it floweth on,\nLike wisdom, welcome with its own respect.\nClear in its breast lie all these beauteous thoughts,\nIt doth receive the green and graceful trees,\nAnd the gray rocks smile in its peaceful arms.\u201d\n\n\nAnd more he sung, but too serious for our page. For every oak and birch\ntoo growing on the hill-top, as well as for these elms and willows, we\nknew that there was a graceful ethereal and ideal tree making down from\nthe roots, and sometimes Nature in high tides brings her mirror to its\nfoot and makes it visible. The stillness was intense and almost\nconscious, as if it were a natural Sabbath, and we fancied that the\nmorning was the evening of a celestial day. The air was so elastic and\ncrystalline that it had the same effect on the landscape that a glass\nhas on a picture, to give it an ideal remoteness and perfection. The\nlandscape was clothed in a mild and quiet light, in which the woods and\nfences checkered and partitioned it with new regularity, and rough and\nuneven fields stretched away with lawn-like smoothness to the horizon,\nand the clouds, finely distinct and picturesque, seemed a fit drapery\nto hang over fairy-land. The world seemed decked for some holiday or\nprouder pageantry, with silken streamers flying, and the course of our\nlives to wind on before us like a green lane into a country maze, at\nthe season when fruit-trees are in blossom.\n\nWhy should not our whole life and its scenery be actually thus fair and\ndistinct? All our lives want a suitable background. They should at\nleast, like the life of the anchorite, be as impressive to behold as\nobjects in the desert, a broken shaft or crumbling mound against a\nlimitless horizon. Character always secures for itself this advantage,\nand is thus distinct and unrelated to near or trivial objects, whether\nthings or persons. On this same stream a maiden once sailed in my boat,\nthus unattended but by invisible guardians, and as she sat in the prow\nthere was nothing but herself between the steersman and the sky. I\ncould then say with the poet,\u2014\n\n        \u201cSweet falls the summer air\n    Over her frame who sails with me;\n    Her way like that is beautifully free,\n        Her nature far more rare,\nAnd is her constant heart of virgin purity.\u201d\n\n\nAt evening still the very stars seem but this maiden\u2019s emissaries and\nreporters of her progress.\n\nLow in the eastern sky\nIs set thy glancing eye;\nAnd though its gracious light\nNe\u2019er riseth to my sight,\nYet every star that climbs\nAbove the gnarled limbs\n        Of yonder hill,\nConveys thy gentle will.\n\nBelieve I knew thy thought,\nAnd that the zephyrs brought\nThy kindest wishes through,\nAs mine they bear to you,\nThat some attentive cloud\nDid pause amid the crowd\n        Over my head,\nWhile gentle things were said.\n\nBelieve the thrushes sung,\nAnd that the flower-bells rung,\nThat herbs exhaled their scent,\nAnd beasts knew what was meant,\nThe trees a welcome waved,\n        And lakes their margins laved,\nWhen thy free mind\nTo my retreat did wind.\n\nIt was a summer eve,\nThe air did gently heave\nWhile yet a low-hung cloud\nThy eastern skies did shroud;\nThe lightning\u2019s silent gleam,\nStartling my drowsy dream,\n        Seemed like the flash\nUnder thy dark eyelash.\n\nStill will I strive to be\nAs if thou wert with me;\nWhatever path I take,\nIt shall be for thy sake,\nOf gentle slope and wide,\nAs thou wert by my side,\n        Without a root\nTo trip thy gentle foot.\n\nI\u2019ll walk with gentle pace,\nAnd choose the smoothest place\nAnd careful dip the oar,\nAnd shun the winding shore,\nAnd gently steer my boat\nWhere water-lilies float,\n        And cardinal flowers\nStand in their sylvan bowers.\n\n\nIt required some rudeness to disturb with our boat the mirror-like\nsurface of the water, in which every twig and blade of grass was so\nfaithfully reflected; too faithfully indeed for art to imitate, for\nonly Nature may exaggerate herself. The shallowest still water is\nunfathomable. Wherever the trees and skies are reflected, there is more\nthan Atlantic depth, and no danger of fancy running aground. We notice\nthat it required a separate intention of the eye, a more free and\nabstracted vision, to see the reflected trees and the sky, than to see\nthe river bottom merely; and so are there manifold visions in the\ndirection of every object, and even the most opaque reflect the heavens\nfrom their surface. Some men have their eyes naturally intended to the\none and some to the other object.\n\n\u201cA man that looks on glass,\n    On it may stay his eye,\nOr, if he pleaseth, through it pass,\n    And the heavens espy.\u201d\n\n\nTwo men in a skiff, whom we passed hereabouts, floating buoyantly amid\nthe reflections of the trees, like a feather in mid-air, or a leaf\nwhich is wafted gently from its twig to the water without turning over,\nseemed still in their element, and to have very delicately availed\nthemselves of the natural laws. Their floating there was a beautiful\nand successful experiment in natural philosophy, and it served to\nennoble in our eyes the art of navigation; for as birds fly and fishes\nswim, so these men sailed. It reminded us how much fairer and nobler\nall the actions of man might be, and that our life in its whole economy\nmight be as beautiful as the fairest works of art or nature.\n\nThe sun lodged on the old gray cliffs, and glanced from every pad; the\nbulrushes and flags seemed to rejoice in the delicious light and air;\nthe meadows were a-drinking at their leisure; the frogs sat meditating,\nall sabbath thoughts, summing up their week, with one eye out on the\ngolden sun, and one toe upon a reed, eying the wondrous universe in\nwhich they act their part; the fishes swam more staid and soberly, as\nmaidens go to church; shoals of golden and silver minnows rose to the\nsurface to behold the heavens, and then sheered off into more sombre\naisles; they swept by as if moved by one mind, continually gliding past\neach other, and yet preserving the form of their battalion unchanged,\nas if they were still embraced by the transparent membrane which held\nthe spawn; a young band of brethren and sisters trying their new fins;\nnow they wheeled, now shot ahead, and when we drove them to the shore\nand cut them off, they dexterously tacked and passed underneath the\nboat. Over the old wooden bridges no traveller crossed, and neither the\nriver nor the fishes avoided to glide between the abutments.\n\nHere was a village not far off behind the woods, Billerica, settled not\nlong ago, and the children still bear the names of the first settlers\nin this late \u201chowling wilderness\u201d; yet to all intents and purposes it\nis as old as Fernay or as Mantua, an old gray town where men grow old\nand sleep already under moss-grown monuments,\u2014outgrow their usefulness.\nThis is ancient Billerica, (Villarica?) now in its dotage, named from\nthe English Billericay, and whose Indian name was Shawshine. I never\nheard that it was young. See, is not nature here gone to decay, farms\nall run out, meeting-house grown gray and racked with age? If you would\nknow of its early youth, ask those old gray rocks in the pasture. It\nhas a bell that sounds sometimes as far as Concord woods; I have heard\nthat,\u2014ay, hear it now. No wonder that such a sound startled the\ndreaming Indian, and frightened his game, when the first bells were\nswung on trees, and sounded through the forest beyond the plantations\nof the white man. But to-day I like best the echo amid these cliffs and\nwoods. It is no feeble imitation, but rather its original, or as if\nsome rural Orpheus played over the strain again to show how it should\nsound.\n\nDong, sounds the brass in the east,\nAs if to a funeral feast,\nBut I like that sound the best\nOut of the fluttering west.\n\nThe steeple ringeth a knell,\nBut the fairies\u2019 silvery bell\nIs the voice of that gentle folk,\nOr else the horizon that spoke.\n\nIts metal is not of brass,\nBut air, and water, and glass,\nAnd under a cloud it is swung,\nAnd by the wind it is rung.\n\nWhen the steeple tolleth the noon,\nIt soundeth not so soon,\nYet it rings a far earlier hour,\nAnd the sun has not reached its tower.\n\n\nOn the other hand, the road runs up to Carlisle, city of the woods,\nwhich, if it is less civil, is the more natural. It does well hold the\nearth together. It gets laughed at because it is a small town, I know,\nbut nevertheless it is a place where great men may be born any day, for\nfair winds and foul blow right on over it without distinction. It has a\nmeeting-house and horse-sheds, a tavern and a blacksmith\u2019s shop, for\ncentre, and a good deal of wood to cut and cord yet. And\n\n\u201cBedford, most noble Bedford,\nI shall not thee forget.\u201d\n\n\nHistory has remembered thee; especially that meek and humble petition\nof thy old planters, like the wailing of the Lord\u2019s own people, \u201cTo the\ngentlemen, the selectmen\u201d of Concord, praying to be erected into a\nseparate parish. We can hardly credit that so plaintive a psalm\nresounded but little more than a century ago along these Babylonish\nwaters. \u201cIn the extreme difficult seasons of heat and cold,\u201d said they,\n\u201cwe were ready to say of the Sabbath, Behold what a weariness is\nit.\u201d\u2014\u201cGentlemen, if our seeking to draw off proceed from any\ndisaffection to our present Reverend Pastor, or the Christian Society\nwith whom we have taken such sweet counsel together, and walked unto\nthe house of God in company, then hear us not this day, but we greatly\ndesire, if God please, to be eased of our burden on the Sabbath, the\ntravel and fatigue thereof, that the word of God may be nigh to us,\nnear to our houses and in our hearts, that we and our little ones may\nserve the Lord. We hope that God, who stirred up the spirit of Cyrus to\nset forward temple work, has stirred us up to ask, and will stir you up\nto grant, the prayer of our petition; so shall your humble petitioners\never pray, as in duty bound\u2014\u201d And so the temple work went forward here\nto a happy conclusion. Yonder in Carlisle the building of the temple\nwas many wearisome years delayed, not that there was wanting of Shittim\nwood, or the gold of Ophir, but a site therefor convenient to all the\nworshippers; whether on \u201cButtrick\u2019s Plain,\u201d or rather on \u201cPoplar\nHill.\u201d\u2014It was a tedious question.\n\nIn this Billerica solid men must have lived, select from year to year;\na series of town clerks, at least; and there are old records that you\nmay search. Some spring the white man came, built him a house, and made\na clearing here, letting in the sun, dried up a farm, piled up the old\ngray stones in fences, cut down the pines around his dwelling, planted\norchard seeds brought from the old country, and persuaded the civil\napple-tree to blossom next to the wild pine and the juniper, shedding\nits perfume in the wilderness. Their old stocks still remain. He culled\nthe graceful elm from out the woods and from the river-side, and so\nrefined and smoothed his village plot. He rudely bridged the stream,\nand drove his team afield into the river meadows, cut the wild grass,\nand laid bare the homes of beaver, otter, muskrat, and with the\nwhetting of his scythe scared off the deer and bear. He set up a mill,\nand fields of English grain sprang in the virgin soil. And with his\ngrain he scattered the seeds of the dandelion and the wild trefoil over\nthe meadows, mingling his English flowers with the wild native ones.\nThe bristling burdock, the sweet-scented catnip, and the humble yarrow\nplanted themselves along his woodland road, they too seeking \u201cfreedom\nto worship God\u201d in their way. And thus he plants a town. The white\nman\u2019s mullein soon reigned in Indian cornfields, and sweet-scented\nEnglish grasses clothed the new soil. Where, then, could the Red Man\nset his foot? The honey-bee hummed through the Massachusetts woods, and\nsipped the wild-flowers round the Indian\u2019s wigwam, perchance unnoticed,\nwhen, with prophetic warning, it stung the Red child\u2019s hand, forerunner\nof that industrious tribe that was to come and pluck the wild-flower of\nhis race up by the root.\n\nThe white man comes, pale as the dawn, with a load of thought, with a\nslumbering intelligence as a fire raked up, knowing well what he knows,\nnot guessing but calculating; strong in community, yielding obedience\nto authority; of experienced race; of wonderful, wonderful common\nsense; dull but capable, slow but persevering, severe but just, of\nlittle humor but genuine; a laboring man, despising game and sport;\nbuilding a house that endures, a framed house. He buys the Indian\u2019s\nmoccasins and baskets, then buys his hunting-grounds, and at length\nforgets where he is buried and ploughs up his bones. And here town\nrecords, old, tattered, time-worn, weather-stained chronicles, contain\nthe Indian sachem\u2019s mark perchance, an arrow or a beaver, and the few\nfatal words by which he deeded his hunting-grounds away. He comes with\na list of ancient Saxon, Norman, and Celtic names, and strews them up\nand down this river,\u2014Framingham, Sudbury, Bedford, Carlisle, Billerica,\nChelmsford,\u2014and this is New Angle-land, and these are the New West\nSaxons whom the Red Men call, not Angle-ish or English, but Yengeese,\nand so at last they are known for Yankees.\n\nWhen we were opposite to the middle of Billerica, the fields on either\nhand had a soft and cultivated English aspect, the village spire being\nseen over the copses which skirt the river, and sometimes an orchard\nstraggled down to the water-side, though, generally, our course this\nforenoon was the wildest part of our voyage. It seemed that men led a\nquiet and very civil life there. The inhabitants were plainly\ncultivators of the earth, and lived under an organized political\ngovernment. The school-house stood with a meek aspect, entreating a\nlong truce to war and savage life. Every one finds by his own\nexperience, as well as in history, that the era in which men cultivate\nthe apple, and the amenities of the garden, is essentially different\nfrom that of the hunter and forest life, and neither can displace the\nother without loss. We have all had our day-dreams, as well as more\nprophetic nocturnal vision; but as for farming, I am convinced that my\ngenius dates from an older era than the agricultural. I would at least\nstrike my spade into the earth with such careless freedom but accuracy\nas the woodpecker his bill into a tree. There is in my nature,\nmethinks, a singular yearning toward all wildness. I know of no\nredeeming qualities in myself but a sincere love for some things, and\nwhen I am reproved I fall back on to this ground. What have I to do\nwith ploughs? I cut another furrow than you see. Where the off ox\ntreads, there is it not, it is farther off; where the nigh ox walks, it\nwill not be, it is nigher still. If corn fails, my crop fails not, and\nwhat are drought and rain to me? The rude Saxon pioneer will sometimes\npine for that refinement and artificial beauty which are English, and\nlove to hear the sound of such sweet and classical names as the\nPentland and Malvern Hills, the Cliffs of Dover and the Trosachs,\nRichmond, Derwent, and Winandermere, which are to him now instead of\nthe Acropolis and Parthenon, of Bai\u00e6, and Athens with its sea-walls,\nand Arcadia and Tempe.\n\nGreece, who am I that should remember thee,\nThy Marathon and thy Thermopyl\u00e6?\nIs my life vulgar, my fate mean,\nWhich on these golden memories can lean?\n\n\nWe are apt enough to be pleased with such books as Evelyn\u2019s Sylva,\nAcetarium, and Kalendarium Hortense, but they imply a relaxed nerve in\nthe reader. Gardening is civil and social, but it wants the vigor and\nfreedom of the forest and the outlaw. There may be an excess of\ncultivation as well as of anything else, until civilization becomes\npathetic. A highly cultivated man,\u2014all whose bones can be bent! whose\nheaven-born virtues are but good manners! The young pines springing up\nin the cornfields from year to year are to me a refreshing fact. We\ntalk of civilizing the Indian, but that is not the name for his\nimprovement. By the wary independence and aloofness of his dim forest\nlife he preserves his intercourse with his native gods, and is admitted\nfrom time to time to a rare and peculiar society with Nature. He has\nglances of starry recognition to which our saloons are strangers. The\nsteady illumination of his genius, dim only because distant, is like\nthe faint but satisfying light of the stars compared with the dazzling\nbut ineffectual and short-lived blaze of candles. The Society-Islanders\nhad their day-born gods, but they were not supposed to be \u201cof equal\nantiquity with the _atua fauau po_, or night-born gods.\u201d It is true,\nthere are the innocent pleasures of country life, and it is sometimes\npleasant to make the earth yield her increase, and gather the fruits in\ntheir season, but the heroic spirit will not fail to dream of remoter\nretirements and more rugged paths. It will have its garden-plots and\nits _parterres_ elsewhere than on the earth, and gather nuts and\nberries by the way for its subsistence, or orchard fruits with such\nheedlessness as berries. We would not always be soothing and taming\nnature, breaking the horse and the ox, but sometimes ride the horse\nwild and chase the buffalo. The Indian\u2019s intercourse with Nature is at\nleast such as admits of the greatest independence of each. If he is\nsomewhat of a stranger in her midst, the gardener is too much of a\nfamiliar. There is something vulgar and foul in the latter\u2019s closeness\nto his mistress, something noble and cleanly in the former\u2019s distance.\nIn civilization, as in a southern latitude, man degenerates at length,\nand yields to the incursion of more northern tribes,\n\n\u201cSome nation yet shut in\n    With hills of ice.\u201d\n\n\nThere are other, savager, and more primeval aspects of nature than our\npoets have sung. It is only white man\u2019s poetry. Homer and Ossian even\ncan never revive in London or Boston. And yet behold how these cities\nare refreshed by the mere tradition, or the imperfectly transmitted\nfragrance and flavor of these wild fruits. If we could listen but for\nan instant to the chant of the Indian muse, we should understand why he\nwill not exchange his savageness for civilization. Nations are not\nwhimsical. Steel and blankets are strong temptations; but the Indian\ndoes well to continue Indian.\n\nAfter sitting in my chamber many days, reading the poets, I have been\nout early on a foggy morning, and heard the cry of an owl in a\nneighboring wood as from a nature behind the common, unexplored by\nscience or by literature. None of the feathered race has yet realized\nmy youthful conceptions of the woodland depths. I had seen the red\nElection-bird brought from their recesses on my comrades\u2019 string, and\nfancied that their plumage would assume stranger and more dazzling\ncolors, like the tints of evening, in proportion as I advanced farther\ninto the darkness and solitude of the forest. Still less have I seen\nsuch strong and wilderness tints on any poet\u2019s string.\n\nThese modern ingenious sciences and arts do not affect me as those more\nvenerable arts of hunting and fishing, and even of husbandry in its\nprimitive and simple form; as ancient and honorable trades as the sun\nand moon and winds pursue, coeval with the faculties of man, and\ninvented when these were invented. We do not know their John Gutenberg,\nor Richard Arkwright, though the poets would fain make them to have\nbeen gradually learned and taught. According to Gower,\u2014\n\n\u201cAnd Iadahel, as saith the boke,\nFirste made nette, and fishes toke.\nOf huntyng eke he fond the chace,\nWhiche nowe is knowe in many place;\nA tent of clothe, with corde and stake,\nHe sette up first, and did it make.\u201d\n\n\nAlso, Lydgate says:\u2014\n\n\u201cJason first sayled, in story it is tolde,\nToward Colchos, to wynne the flees of golde,\nCeres the Goddess fond first the tilthe of londe;\n*    *    *    *   *\nAlso, Aristeus fonde first the usage\nOf mylke, and cruddis, and of honey swote;\nPeryodes, for grete avauntage,\nFrom flyntes smote fuyre, daryng in the roote.\u201d\n\n\nWe read that Aristeus \u201cobtained of Jupiter and Neptune, that the\npestilential heat of the dog-days, wherein was great mortality, should\nbe mitigated with wind.\u201d This is one of those dateless benefits\nconferred on man, which have no record in our vulgar day, though we\nstill find some similitude to them in our dreams, in which we have a\nmore liberal and juster apprehension of things, unconstrained by habit,\nwhich is then in some measure put off, and divested of memory, which we\ncall history.\n\nAccording to fable, when the island of \u00c6gina was depopulated by\nsickness, at the instance of \u00c6acus, Jupiter turned the ants into men,\nthat is, as some think, he made men of the inhabitants who lived meanly\nlike ants. This is perhaps the fullest history of those early days\nextant.\n\nThe fable which is naturally and truly composed, so as to satisfy the\nimagination, ere it addresses the understanding, beautiful though\nstrange as a wild-flower, is to the wise man an apothegm, and admits of\nhis most generous interpretation. When we read that Bacchus made the\nTyrrhenian mariners mad, so that they leapt into the sea, mistaking it\nfor a meadow full of flowers, and so became dolphins, we are not\nconcerned about the historical truth of this, but rather a higher\npoetical truth. We seem to hear the music of a thought, and care not if\nthe understanding be not gratified. For their beauty, consider the\nfables of Narcissus, of Endymion, of Memnon son of Morning, the\nrepresentative of all promising youths who have died a premature death,\nand whose memory is melodiously prolonged to the latest morning; the\nbeautiful stories of Phaeton, and of the Sirens whose isle shone afar\noff white with the bones of unburied men; and the pregnant ones of Pan,\nPrometheus, and the Sphinx; and that long list of names which have\nalready become part of the universal language of civilized men, and\nfrom proper are becoming common names or nouns,\u2014the Sibyls, the\nEumenides, the Parc\u00e6, the Graces, the Muses, Nemesis, &c.\n\nIt is interesting to observe with what singular unanimity the farthest\nsundered nations and generations consent to give completeness and\nroundness to an ancient fable, of which they indistinctly appreciate\nthe beauty or the truth. By a faint and dream-like effort, though it be\nonly by the vote of a scientific body, the dullest posterity slowly add\nsome trait to the mythus. As when astronomers call the lately\ndiscovered planet Neptune; or the asteroid Astr\u00e6a, that the Virgin who\nwas driven from earth to heaven at the end of the golden age, may have\nher local habitation in the heavens more distinctly assigned her,\u2014for\nthe slightest recognition of poetic worth is significant. By such slow\naggregation has mythology grown from the first. The very nursery tales\nof this generation, were the nursery tales of primeval races. They\nmigrate from east to west, and again from west to east; now expanded\ninto the \u201ctale divine\u201d of bards, now shrunk into a popular rhyme. This\nis an approach to that universal language which men have sought in\nvain. This fond reiteration of the oldest expressions of truth by the\nlatest posterity, content with slightly and religiously retouching the\nold material, is the most impressive proof of a common humanity.\n\nAll nations love the same jests and tales, Jews, Christians, and\nMahometans, and the same translated suffice for all. All men are\nchildren, and of one family. The same tale sends them all to bed, and\nwakes them in the morning. Joseph Wolff, the missionary, distributed\ncopies of Robinson Crusoe, translated into Arabic, among the Arabs, and\nthey made a great sensation. \u201cRobinson Crusoe\u2019s adventures and wisdom,\u201d\nsays he, \u201cwere read by Mahometans in the market-places of Sanaa,\nHodyeda, and Loheya, and admired and believed!\u201d On reading the book,\nthe Arabians exclaimed, \u201cO, that Robinson Crusoe must have been a great\nprophet!\u201d\n\nTo some extent, mythology is only the most ancient history and\nbiography. So far from being false or fabulous in the common sense, it\ncontains only enduring and essential truth, the I and you, the here and\nthere, the now and then, being omitted. Either time or rare wisdom\nwrites it. Before printing was discovered, a century was equal to a\nthousand years. The poet is he who can write some pure mythology to-day\nwithout the aid of posterity. In how few words, for instance, the\nGreeks would have told the story of Abelard and Heloise, making but a\nsentence for our classical dictionary,\u2014and then, perchance, have stuck\nup their names to shine in some corner of the firmament. We moderns, on\nthe other hand, collect only the raw materials of biography and\nhistory, \u201cmemoirs to serve for a history,\u201d which itself is but\nmaterials to serve for a mythology. How many volumes folio would the\nLife and Labors of Prometheus have filled, if perchance it had fallen,\nas perchance it did first, in days of cheap printing! Who knows what\nshape the fable of Columbus will at length assume, to be confounded\nwith that of Jason and the expedition of the Argonauts. And\nFranklin,\u2014there may be a line for him in the future classical\ndictionary, recording what that demigod did, and referring him to some\nnew genealogy. \u201cSon of \u2014\u2014 and \u2014\u2014. He aided the Americans to gain their\nindependence, instructed mankind in economy, and drew down lightning\nfrom the clouds.\u201d\n\nThe hidden significance of these fables which is sometimes thought to\nhave been detected, the ethics running parallel to the poetry and\nhistory, are not so remarkable as the readiness with which they may be\nmade to express a variety of truths. As if they were the skeletons of\nstill older and more universal truths than any whose flesh and blood\nthey are for the time made to wear. It is like striving to make the\nsun, or the wind, or the sea symbols to signify exclusively the\nparticular thoughts of our day. But what signifies it? In the mythus a\nsuperhuman intelligence uses the unconscious thoughts and dreams of men\nas its hieroglyphics to address men unborn. In the history of the human\nmind, these glowing and ruddy fables precede the noonday thoughts of\nmen, as Aurora the sun\u2019s rays. The matutine intellect of the poet,\nkeeping in advance of the glare of philosophy, always dwells in this\nauroral atmosphere.\n\nAs we said before, the Concord is a dead stream, but its scenery is the\nmore suggestive to the contemplative voyager, and this day its water\nwas fuller of reflections than our pages even. Just before it reaches\nthe falls in Billerica, it is contracted, and becomes swifter and\nshallower, with a yellow pebbly bottom, hardly passable for a\ncanal-boat, leaving the broader and more stagnant portion above like a\nlake among the hills. All through the Concord, Bedford, and Billerica\nmeadows we had heard no murmur from its stream, except where some\ntributary runnel tumbled in,\u2014\n\nSome tumultuous little rill,\n    Purling round its storied pebble,\nTinkling to the selfsame tune,\nFrom September until June,\n    Which no drought doth e\u2019er enfeeble.\n\nSilent flows the parent stream,\n    And if rocks do lie below,\nSmothers with her waves the din,\nAs it were a youthful sin,\n    Just as still, and just as slow.\n\n\nBut now at length we heard this staid and primitive river rushing to\nher fall, like any rill. We here left its channel, just above the\nBillerica Falls, and entered the canal, which runs, or rather is\nconducted, six miles through the woods to the Merrimack, at Middlesex,\nand as we did not care to loiter in this part of our voyage, while one\nran along the tow-path drawing the boat by a cord, the other kept it\noff the shore with a pole, so that we accomplished the whole distance\nin little more than an hour. This canal, which is the oldest in the\ncountry, and has even an antique look beside the more modern railroads,\nis fed by the Concord, so that we were still floating on its familiar\nwaters. It is so much water which the river _lets_ for the advantage of\ncommerce. There appeared some want of harmony in its scenery, since it\nwas not of equal date with the woods and meadows through which it is\nled, and we missed the conciliatory influence of time on land and\nwater; but in the lapse of ages, Nature will recover and indemnify\nherself, and gradually plant fit shrubs and flowers along its borders.\nAlready the kingfisher sat upon a pine over the water, and the bream\nand pickerel swam below. Thus all works pass directly out of the hands\nof the architect into the hands of Nature, to be perfected.\n\nIt was a retired and pleasant route, without houses or travellers,\nexcept some young men who were lounging upon a bridge in Chelmsford,\nwho leaned impudently over the rails to pry into our concerns, but we\ncaught the eye of the most forward, and looked at him till he was\nvisibly discomfited. Not that there was any peculiar efficacy in our\nlook, but rather a sense of shame left in him which disarmed him.\n\nIt is a very true and expressive phrase, \u201cHe looked daggers at me,\u201d for\nthe first pattern and prototype of all daggers must have been a glance\nof the eye. First, there was the glance of Jove\u2019s eye, then his fiery\nbolt, then, the material gradually hardening, tridents, spears,\njavelins, and finally, for the convenience of private men, daggers,\nkrisses, and so forth, were invented. It is wonderful how we get about\nthe streets without being wounded by these delicate and glancing\nweapons, a man can so nimbly whip out his rapier, or without being\nnoticed carry it unsheathed. Yet it is rare that one gets seriously\nlooked at.\n\nAs we passed under the last bridge over the canal, just before reaching\nthe Merrimack, the people coming out of church paused to look at us\nfrom above, and apparently, so strong is custom, indulged in some\nheathenish comparisons; but we were the truest observers of this sunny\nday. According to Hesiod,\n\n        \u201cThe seventh is a holy day,\nFor then Latona brought forth golden-rayed Apollo,\u201d\n\n\nand by our reckoning this was the seventh day of the week, and not the\nfirst. I find among the papers of an old Justice of the Peace and\nDeacon of the town of Concord, this singular memorandum, which is worth\npreserving as a relic of an ancient custom. After reforming the\nspelling and grammar, it runs as follows: \u201cMen that travelled with\nteams on the Sabbath, Dec. 18th, 1803, were Jeremiah Richardson and\nJonas Parker, both of Shirley. They had teams with rigging such as is\nused to carry barrels, and they were travelling westward. Richardson\nwas questioned by the Hon. Ephraim Wood, Esq., and he said that Jonas\nParker was his fellow-traveller, and he further said that a Mr. Longley\nwas his employer, who promised to bear him out.\u201d We were the men that\nwere gliding northward, this Sept. 1st, 1839, with still team, and\nrigging not the most convenient to carry barrels, unquestioned by any\nSquire or Church Deacon and ready to bear ourselves out if need were.\nIn the latter part of the seventeenth century, according to the\nhistorian of Dunstable, \u201cTowns were directed to erect \u2018_a cage_\u2019 near\nthe meeting-house, and in this all offenders against the sanctity of\nthe Sabbath were confined.\u201d Society has relaxed a little from its\nstrictness, one would say, but I presume that there is not less\n_religion_ than formerly. If the _ligature_ is found to be loosened in\none part, it is only drawn the tighter in another.\n\nYou can hardly convince a man of an error in a lifetime, but must\ncontent yourself with the reflection that the progress of science is\nslow. If he is not convinced, his grandchildren may be. The geologists\ntell us that it took one hundred years to prove that fossils are\norganic, and one hundred and fifty more, to prove that they are not to\nbe referred to the Noachian deluge. I am not sure but I should betake\nmyself in extremities to the liberal divinities of Greece, rather than\nto my country\u2019s God. Jehovah, though with us he has acquired new\nattributes, is more absolute and unapproachable, but hardly more\ndivine, than Jove. He is not so much of a gentleman, not so gracious\nand catholic, he does not exert so intimate and genial an influence on\nnature, as many a god of the Greeks. I should fear the infinite power\nand inflexible justice of the almighty mortal, hardly as yet\napotheosized, so wholly masculine, with no Sister Juno, no Apollo, no\nVenus, nor Minerva, to intercede for me, \u03b8\u03c5\u03bc\u1ff7 \u03c6\u03b9\u03bb\u03ad\u03bf\u03c5\u03c3\u03ac \u03c4\u03b5, \u03ba\u03b7\u03b4\u03bf\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b7 \u03c4\u03b5.\nThe Grecian are youthful and erring and fallen gods, with the vices of\nmen, but in many important respects essentially of the divine race. In\nmy Pantheon, Pan still reigns in his pristine glory, with his ruddy\nface, his flowing beard, and his shaggy body, his pipe and his crook,\nhis nymph Echo, and his chosen daughter Iambe; for the great god Pan is\nnot dead, as was rumored. No god ever dies. Perhaps of all the gods of\nNew England and of ancient Greece, I am most constant at his shrine.\n\nIt seems to me that the god that is commonly worshipped in civilized\ncountries is not at all divine, though he bears a divine name, but is\nthe overwhelming authority and respectability of mankind combined. Men\nreverence one another, not yet God. If I thought that I could speak\nwith discrimination and impartiality of the nations of Christendom, I\nshould praise them, but it tasks me too much. They seem to be the most\ncivil and humane, but I may be mistaken. Every people have gods to suit\ntheir circumstances; the Society Islanders had a god called Toahitu,\n\u201cin shape like a dog; he saved such as were in danger of falling from\nrocks and trees.\u201d I think that we can do without him, as we have not\nmuch climbing to do. Among them a man could make himself a god out of a\npiece of wood in a few minutes, which would frighten him out of his\nwits.\n\nI fancy that some indefatigable spinster of the old school, who had the\nsupreme felicity to be born in \u201cdays that tried men\u2019s souls,\u201d hearing\nthis, may say with Nestor, another of the old school, \u201cBut you are\nyounger than I. For time was when I conversed with greater men than\nyou. For not at any time have I seen such men, nor shall see them, as\nPerithous, and Dryas, and \u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03bc\u03ad\u03bd\u03b1 \u03bb\u03b1\u1ff6\u03bd,\u201d that is probably Washington,\nsole \u201cShepherd of the People.\u201d And when Apollo has now six times rolled\nwestward, or seemed to roll, and now for the seventh time shows his\nface in the east, eyes wellnigh glazed, long glassed, which have\nfluctuated only between lamb\u2019s wool and worsted, explore ceaselessly\nsome good sermon book. For six days shalt thou labor and do all thy\nknitting, but on the seventh, forsooth, thy reading. Happy we who can\nbask in this warm September sun, which illumines all creatures, as well\nwhen they rest as when they toil, not without a feeling of gratitude;\nwhose life is as blameless, how blameworthy soever it may be, on the\nLord\u2019s Mona-day as on his Suna-day.\n\nThere are various, nay, incredible faiths; why should we be alarmed at\nany of them? What man believes, God believes. Long as I have lived, and\nmany blasphemers as I have heard and seen, I have never yet heard or\nwitnessed any direct and conscious blasphemy or irreverence; but of\nindirect and habitual, enough. Where is the man who is guilty of direct\nand personal insolence to Him that made him?\n\nOne memorable addition to the old mythology is due to this era,\u2014the\nChristian fable. With what pains, and tears, and blood these centuries\nhave woven this and added it to the mythology of mankind. The new\nPrometheus. With what miraculous consent, and patience, and persistency\nhas this mythus been stamped on the memory of the race! It would seem\nas if it were in the progress of our mythology to dethrone Jehovah, and\ncrown Christ in his stead.\n\nIf it is not a tragical life we live, then I know not what to call it.\nSuch a story as that of Jesus Christ,\u2014the history of Jerusalem, say,\nbeing a part of the Universal History. The naked, the embalmed,\nunburied death of Jerusalem amid its desolate hills,\u2014think of it. In\nTasso\u2019s poem I trust some things are sweetly buried. Consider the\nsnappish tenacity with which they preach Christianity still. What are\ntime and space to Christianity, eighteen hundred years, and a new\nworld?\u2014that the humble life of a Jewish peasant should have force to\nmake a New York bishop so bigoted. Forty-four lamps, the gift of kings,\nnow burning in a place called the Holy Sepulchre;\u2014a church-bell\nringing;\u2014some unaffected tears shed by a pilgrim on Mount Calvary\nwithin the week.\u2014\n\n\u201cJerusalem, Jerusalem, when I forget thee, may my right hand forget her\ncunning.\u201d\n\n\u201cBy the waters of Babylon there we sat down, and we wept when we\nremembered Zion.\u201d\n\nI trust that some may be as near and dear to Buddha, or Christ, or\nSwedenborg, who are without the pale of their churches. It is necessary\nnot to be Christian to appreciate the beauty and significance of the\nlife of Christ. I know that some will have hard thoughts of me, when\nthey hear their Christ named beside my Buddha, yet I am sure that I am\nwilling they should love their Christ more than my Buddha, for the love\nis the main thing, and I like him too. \u201cGod is the letter Ku, as well\nas Khu.\u201d Why need Christians be still intolerant and superstitious? The\nsimple-minded sailors were unwilling to cast overboard Jonah at his own\nrequest.\u2014\n\n\u201cWhere is this love become in later age?\nAlas! \u2019tis gone in endless pilgrimage\nFrom hence, and never to return, I doubt,\nTill revolution wheel those times about.\u201d\n\n\nOne man says,\u2014\n\n\u201cThe world\u2019s a popular disease, that reigns\nWithin the froward heart and frantic brains\nOf poor distempered mortals.\u201d\n\n\nAnother, that\n\n    \u2014\u201call the world\u2019s a stage,\nAnd all the men and women merely players.\u201d\n\n\nThe world is a strange place for a playhouse to stand within it. Old\nDrayton thought that a man that lived here, and would be a poet, for\ninstance, should have in him certain \u201cbrave, translunary things,\u201d and a\n\u201cfine madness\u201d should possess his brain. Certainly it were as well,\nthat he might be up to the occasion. That is a superfluous wonder,\nwhich Dr. Johnson expresses at the assertion of Sir Thomas Browne that\n\u201chis life has been a miracle of thirty years, which to relate, were not\nhistory but a piece of poetry, and would sound like a fable.\u201d The\nwonder is, rather, that all men do not assert as much. That would be a\nrare praise, if it were true, which was addressed to Francis\nBeaumont,\u2014\u201cSpectators sate part in your tragedies.\u201d\n\nThink what a mean and wretched place this world is; that half the time\nwe have to light a lamp that we may see to live in it. This is half our\nlife. Who would undertake the enterprise if it were all? And, pray,\nwhat more has day to offer? A lamp that burns more clear, a purer oil,\nsay winter-strained, that so we may pursue our idleness with less\nobstruction. Bribed with a little sunlight and a few prismatic tints,\nwe bless our Maker, and stave off his wrath with hymns.\n\nI make ye an offer,\nYe gods, hear the scoffer,\nThe scheme will not hurt you,\nIf ye will find goodness, I will find virtue.\nThough I am your creature,\nAnd child of your nature,\nI have pride still unbended,\nAnd blood undescended,\nSome free independence,\nAnd my own descendants.\nI cannot toil blindly,\nThough ye behave kindly,\nAnd I swear by the rood,\nI\u2019ll be slave to no God.\nIf ye will deal plainly,\nI will strive mainly,\nIf ye will discover,\nGreat plans to your lover,\nAnd give him a sphere\nSomewhat larger than here.\n\n\n\u201cVerily, my angels! I was abashed on account of my servant, who had no\nProvidence but me; therefore did I pardon him.\u201d\u2014_The Gulistan of Sadi._\n\nMost people with whom I talk, men and women even of some originality\nand genius, have their scheme of the universe all cut and dried,\u2014very\n_dry_, I assure you, to hear, dry enough to burn, dry-rotted and\npowder-post, methinks,\u2014which they set up between you and them in the\nshortest intercourse; an ancient and tottering frame with all its\nboards blown off. They do not walk without their bed. Some, to me,\nseemingly very unimportant and unsubstantial things and relations, are\nfor them everlastingly settled,\u2014as Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and the\nlike. These are like the everlasting hills to them. But in all my\nwanderings I never came across the least vestige of authority for these\nthings. They have not left so distinct a trace as the delicate flower\nof a remote geological period on the coal in my grate. The wisest man\npreaches no doctrines; he has no scheme; he sees no rafter, not even a\ncobweb, against the heavens. It is clear sky. If I ever see more\nclearly at one time than at another, the medium through which I see is\nclearer. To see from earth to heaven, and see there standing, still a\nfixture, that old Jewish scheme! What right have you to hold up this\nobstacle to my understanding you, to your understanding me! You did not\ninvent it; it was imposed on you. Examine your authority. Even Christ,\nwe fear, had his scheme, his conformity to tradition, which slightly\nvitiates his teaching. He had not swallowed all formulas. He preached\nsome mere doctrines. As for me, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob are now only\nthe subtilest imaginable essences, which would not stain the morning\nsky. Your scheme must be the framework of the universe; all other\nschemes will soon be ruins. The perfect God in his revelations of\nhimself has never got to the length of one such proposition as you, his\nprophets, state. Have you learned the alphabet of heaven and can count\nthree? Do you know the number of God\u2019s family? Can you put mysteries\ninto words? Do you presume to fable of the ineffable? Pray, what\ngeographer are you, that speak of heaven\u2019s topography? Whose friend are\nyou that speak of God\u2019s personality? Do you, Miles Howard, think that\nhe has made you his confidant? Tell me of the height of the mountains\nof the moon, or of the diameter of space, and I may believe you, but of\nthe secret history of the Almighty, and I shall pronounce thee mad. Yet\nwe have a sort of family history of our God,\u2014so have the Tahitians of\ntheirs,\u2014and some old poet\u2019s grand imagination is imposed on us as\nadamantine everlasting truth, and God\u2019s own word! Pythagoras says,\ntruly enough, \u201cA true assertion respecting God, is an assertion of\nGod\u201d; but we may well doubt if there is any example of this in\nliterature.\n\nThe New Testament is an invaluable book, though I confess to having\nbeen slightly prejudiced against it in my very early days by the church\nand the Sabbath school, so that it seemed, before I read it, to be the\nyellowest book in the catalogue. Yet I early escaped from their meshes.\nIt was hard to get the commentaries out of one\u2019s head and taste its\ntrue flavor.\u2014I think that Pilgrim\u2019s Progress is the best sermon which\nhas been preached from this text; almost all other sermons that I have\nheard, or heard of, have been but poor imitations of this.\u2014It would be\na poor story to be prejudiced against the Life of Christ because the\nbook has been edited by Christians. In fact, I love this book rarely,\nthough it is a sort of castle in the air to me, which I am permitted to\ndream. Having come to it so recently and freshly, it has the greater\ncharm, so that I cannot find any to talk with about it. I never read a\nnovel, they have so little real life and thought in them. The reading\nwhich I love best is the scriptures of the several nations, though it\nhappens that I am better acquainted with those of the Hindoos, the\nChinese, and the Persians, than of the Hebrews, which I have come to\nlast. Give me one of these Bibles and you have silenced me for a while.\nWhen I recover the use of my tongue, I am wont to worry my neighbors\nwith the new sentences; but commonly they cannot see that there is any\nwit in them. Such has been my experience with the New Testament. I have\nnot yet got to the crucifixion, I have read it over so many times. I\nshould love dearly to read it aloud to my friends, some of whom are\nseriously inclined; it is so good, and I am sure that they have never\nheard it, it fits their case exactly, and we should enjoy it so much\ntogether,\u2014but I instinctively despair of getting their ears. They soon\nshow, by signs not to be mistaken, that it is inexpressibly wearisome\nto them. I do not mean to imply that I am any better than my neighbors;\nfor, alas! I know that I am only as good, though I love better books\nthan they.\n\nIt is remarkable that, notwithstanding the universal favor with which\nthe New Testament is outwardly received, and even the bigotry with\nwhich it is defended, there is no hospitality shown to, there is no\nappreciation of, the order of truth with which it deals. I know of no\nbook that has so few readers. There is none so truly strange, and\nheretical, and unpopular. To Christians, no less than Greeks and Jews,\nit is foolishness and a stumbling-block. There are, indeed, severe\nthings in it which no man should read aloud more than once.\u2014\u201cSeek first\nthe kingdom of heaven.\u201d\u2014\u201cLay not up for yourselves treasures on\nearth.\u201d\u2014\u201cIf thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give\nto the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven.\u201d\u2014\u201cFor what is a\nman profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?\nor what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?\u201d\u2014Think of this,\nYankees!\u2014\u201cVerily, I say unto you, if ye have faith as a grain of\nmustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder\nplace; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto\nyou.\u201d\u2014Think of repeating these things to a New England audience!\nthirdly, fourthly, fifteenthly, till there are three barrels of\nsermons! Who, without cant, can read them aloud? Who, without cant, can\nhear them, and not go out of the meeting-house? They never _were_ read,\nthey never _were_ heard. Let but one of these sentences be rightly\nread, from any pulpit in the land, and there would not be left one\nstone of that meeting-house upon another.\n\nYet the New Testament treats of man and man\u2019s so-called spiritual\naffairs too exclusively, and is too constantly moral and personal, to\nalone content me, who am not interested solely in man\u2019s religious or\nmoral nature, or in man even. I have not the most definite designs on\nthe future. Absolutely speaking, Do unto others as you would that they\nshould do unto you, is by no means a golden rule, but the best of\ncurrent silver. An honest man would have but little occasion for it. It\nis golden not to have any rule at all in such a case. The book has\nnever been written which is to be accepted without any allowance.\nChrist was a sublime actor on the stage of the world. He knew what he\nwas thinking of when he said, \u201cHeaven and earth shall pass away, but my\nwords shall not pass away.\u201d I draw near to him at such a time. Yet he\ntaught mankind but imperfectly how to live; his thoughts were all\ndirected toward another world. There is another kind of success than\nhis. Even here we have a sort of living to get, and must buffet it\nsomewhat longer. There are various tough problems yet to solve, and we\nmust make shift to live, betwixt spirit and matter, such a human life\nas we can.\n\nA healthy man, with steady employment, as wood-chopping at fifty cents\na cord, and a camp in the woods, will not be a good subject for\nChristianity. The New Testament may be a choice book to him on some,\nbut not on all or most of his days. He will rather go a-fishing in his\nleisure hours. The Apostles, though they were fishers too, were of the\nsolemn race of sea-fishers, and never trolled for pickerel on inland\nstreams.\n\nMen have a singular desire to be good without being good for anything,\nbecause, perchance, they think vaguely that so it will be good for them\nin the end. The sort of morality which the priests inculcate is a very\nsubtle policy, far finer than the politicians, and the world is very\nsuccessfully ruled by them as the policemen. It is not worth the while\nto let our imperfections disturb us always. The conscience really does\nnot, and ought not to monopolize the whole of our lives, any more than\nthe heart or the head. It is as liable to disease as any other part. I\nhave seen some whose consciences, owing undoubtedly to former\nindulgence, had grown to be as irritable as spoilt children, and at\nlength gave them no peace. They did not know when to swallow their cud,\nand their lives of course yielded no milk.\n\nConscience is instinct bred in the house,\nFeeling and Thinking propagate the sin\nBy an unnatural breeding in and in.\nI say, Turn it out doors,\nInto the moors.\nI love a life whose plot is simple,\nAnd does not thicken with every pimple,\nA soul so sound no sickly conscience binds it,\nThat makes the universe no worse than \u2019t finds it.\nI love an earnest soul,\nWhose mighty joy and sorrow\nAre not drowned in a bowl,\nAnd brought to life to-morrow;\nThat lives one tragedy,\nAnd not seventy;\nA conscience worth keeping,\nLaughing not weeping;\nA conscience wise and steady,\nAnd forever ready;\nNot changing with events,\nDealing in compliments;\nA conscience exercised about\nLarge things, where one _may_ doubt.\nI love a soul not all of wood,\nPredestinated to be good,\nBut true to the backbone\nUnto itself alone,\nAnd false to none;\nBorn to its own affairs,\nIts own joys and own cares;\nBy whom the work which God begun\nIs finished, and not undone;\nTaken up where he left off,\nWhether to worship or to scoff;\nIf not good, why then evil,\nIf not good god, good devil.\nGoodness!\u2014you hypocrite, come out of that,\nLive your life, do your work, then take your hat.\nI have no patience towards\nSuch conscientious cowards.\nGive me simple laboring folk,\nWho love their work,\nWhose virtue is a song\nTo cheer God along.\n\n\nI was once reproved by a minister who was driving a poor beast to some\nmeeting-house horse-sheds among the hills of New Hampshire, because I\nwas bending my steps to a mountain-top on the Sabbath, instead of a\nchurch, when I would have gone farther than he to hear a true word\nspoken on that or any day. He declared that I was \u201cbreaking the Lord\u2019s\nfourth commandment,\u201d and proceeded to enumerate, in a sepulchral tone,\nthe disasters which had befallen him whenever he had done any ordinary\nwork on the Sabbath. He really thought that a god was on the watch to\ntrip up those men who followed any secular work on this day, and did\nnot see that it was the evil conscience of the workers that did it. The\ncountry is full of this superstition, so that when one enters a\nvillage, the church, not only really but from association, is the\nugliest looking building in it, because it is the one in which human\nnature stoops the lowest and is most disgraced. Certainly, such temples\nas these shall erelong cease to deform the landscape. There are few\nthings more disheartening and disgusting than when you are walking the\nstreets of a strange village on the Sabbath, to hear a preacher\nshouting like a boatswain in a gale of wind, and thus harshly profaning\nthe quiet atmosphere of the day. You fancy him to have taken off his\ncoat, as when men are about to do hot and dirty work.\n\nIf I should ask the minister of Middlesex to let me speak in his pulpit\non a Sunday, he would object, because I do not _pray_ as he does, or\nbecause I am not _ordained_. What under the sun are these things?\n\nReally, there is no infidelity, now-a-days, so great as that which\nprays, and keeps the Sabbath, and rebuilds the churches. The sealer of\nthe South Pacific preaches a truer doctrine. The church is a sort of\nhospital for men\u2019s souls, and as full of quackery as the hospital for\ntheir bodies. Those who are taken into it live like pensioners in their\nRetreat or Sailor\u2019s Sung Harbor, where you may see a row of religious\ncripples sitting outside in sunny weather. Let not the apprehension\nthat he may one day have to occupy a ward therein, discourage the\ncheerful labors of the able-souled man. While he remembers the sick in\ntheir extremities, let him not look thither as to his goal. One is sick\nat heart of this pagoda worship. It is like the beating of gongs in a\nHindoo subterranean temple. In dark places and dungeons the preacher\u2019s\nwords might perhaps strike root and grow, but not in broad daylight in\nany part of the world that I know. The sound of the Sabbath bell far\naway, now breaking on these shores, does not awaken pleasing\nassociations, but melancholy and sombre ones rather. One involuntarily\nrests on his oar, to humor his unusually meditative mood. It is as the\nsound of many catechisms and religious books twanging a canting peal\nround the earth, seeming to issue from some Egyptian temple and echo\nalong the shore of the Nile, right opposite to Pharaoh\u2019s palace and\nMoses in the bulrushes, startling a multitude of storks and alligators\nbasking in the sun.\n\nEverywhere \u201cgood men\u201d sound a retreat, and the word has gone forth to\nfall back on innocence. Fall forward rather on to whatever there is\nthere. Christianity only hopes. It has hung its harp on the willows,\nand cannot sing a song in a strange land. It has dreamed a sad dream,\nand does not yet welcome the morning with joy. The mother tells her\nfalsehoods to her child, but, thank Heaven, the child does not grow up\nin its parent\u2019s shadow. Our mother\u2019s faith has not grown with her\nexperience. Her experience has been too much for her. The lesson of\nlife was too hard for her to learn.\n\nIt is remarkable, that almost all speakers and writers feel it to be\nincumbent on them, sooner or later, to prove or to acknowledge the\npersonality of God. Some Earl of Bridgewater, thinking it better late\nthan never, has provided for it in his will. It is a sad mistake. In\nreading a work on agriculture, we have to skip the author\u2019s moral\nreflections, and the words \u201cProvidence\u201d and \u201cHe\u201d scattered along the\npage, to come at the profitable level of what he has to say. What he\ncalls his religion is for the most part offensive to the nostrils. He\nshould know better than expose himself, and keep his foul sores covered\ntill they are quite healed. There is more religion in men\u2019s science\nthan there is science in their religion. Let us make haste to the\nreport of the committee on swine.\n\nA man\u2019s real faith is never contained in his creed, nor is his creed an\narticle of his faith. The last is never adopted. This it is that\npermits him to smile ever, and to live even as bravely as he does. And\nyet he clings anxiously to his creed, as to a straw, thinking that that\ndoes him good service because his sheet anchor does not drag.\n\nIn most men\u2019s religion, the ligature, which should be its umbilical\ncord connecting them with divinity, is rather like that thread which\nthe accomplices of Cylon held in their hands when they went abroad from\nthe temple of Minerva, the other end being attached to the statue of\nthe goddess. But frequently, as in their case, the thread breaks, being\nstretched, and they are left without an asylum.\n\n\u201cA good and pious man reclined his head on the bosom of contemplation,\nand was absorbed in the ocean of a revery. At the instant when he\nawaked from his vision, one of his friends, by way of pleasantry, said,\nWhat rare gift have you brought us from that garden, where you have\nbeen recreating? He replied, I fancied to myself and said, when I can\nreach the rose-bower, I will fill my lap with the flowers, and bring\nthem as a present to my friends; but when I got there, the fragrance of\nthe roses so intoxicated me, that the skirt dropped from my hands.\u2014\u2014\u2018O\nbird of dawn! learn the warmth of affection from the moth; for that\nscorched creature gave up the ghost, and uttered not a groan: These\nvain pretenders are ignorant of him they seek after; for of him that\nknew him we never heard again:\u2014O thou! who towerest above the flights\nof conjecture, opinion, and comprehension; whatever has been reported\nof thee we have heard and read; the congregation is dismissed, and life\ndrawn to a close; and we still rest at our first encomium of\nthee!\u2019\u201d\u2014_Sadi_.\n\nBy noon we were let down into the Merrimack through the locks at\nMiddlesex, just above Pawtucket Falls, by a serene and liberal-minded\nman, who came quietly from his book, though his duties, we supposed,\ndid not require him to open the locks on Sundays. With him we had a\njust and equal encounter of the eyes, as between two honest men.\n\nThe movements of the eyes express the perpetual and unconscious\ncourtesy of the parties. It is said, that a rogue does not look you in\nthe face, neither does an honest man look at you as if he had his\nreputation to establish. I have seen some who did not know when to turn\naside their eyes in meeting yours. A truly confident and magnanimous\nspirit is wiser than to contend for the mastery in such encounters.\nSerpents alone conquer by the steadiness of their gaze. My friend looks\nme in the face and sees me, that is all.\n\nThe best relations were at once established between us and this man,\nand though few words were spoken, he could not conceal a visible\ninterest in us and our excursion. He was a lover of the higher\nmathematics, as we found, and in the midst of some vast sunny problem,\nwhen we overtook him and whispered our conjectures. By this man we were\npresented with the freedom of the Merrimack. We now felt as if we were\nfairly launched on the ocean-stream of our voyage, and were pleased to\nfind that our boat would float on Merrimack water. We began again\nbusily to put in practice those old arts of rowing, steering, and\npaddling. It seemed a strange phenomenon to us that the two rivers\nshould mingle their waters so readily, since we had never associated\nthem in our thoughts.\n\nAs we glided over the broad bosom of the Merrimack, between Chelmsford\nand Dracut, at noon, here a quarter of a mile wide, the rattling of our\noars was echoed over the water to those villages, and their slight\nsounds to us. Their harbors lay as smooth and fairy-like as the Lido,\nor Syracuse, or Rhodes, in our imagination, while, like some strange\nroving craft, we flitted past what seemed the dwellings of noble\nhome-staying men, seemingly as conspicuous as if on an eminence, or\nfloating upon a tide which came up to those villagers\u2019 breasts. At a\nthird of a mile over the water we heard distinctly some children\nrepeating their catechism in a cottage near the shore, while in the\nbroad shallows between, a herd of cows stood lashing their sides, and\nwaging war with the flies.\n\nTwo hundred years ago other catechizing than this was going on here;\nfor here came the Sachem Wannalancet, and his people, and sometimes\nTahatawan, our Concord Sachem, who afterwards had a church at home, to\ncatch fish at the falls; and here also came John Eliot, with the Bible\nand Catechism, and Baxter\u2019s Call to the Unconverted, and other tracts,\ndone into the Massachusetts tongue, and taught them Christianity\nmeanwhile. \u201cThis place,\u201d says Gookin, referring to Wamesit,\n\n\u201cbeing an ancient and capital seat of Indians, they come to fish; and\nthis good man takes this opportunity to spread the net of the gospel,\nto fish for their souls.\u201d\u2014\u201cMay 5th, 1674,\u201d he continues, \u201caccording to\nour usual custom, Mr. Eliot and myself took our journey to Wamesit, or\nPawtuckett; and arriving there that evening, Mr. Eliot preached to as\nmany of them as could be got together, out of Matt. xxii. 1-14, the\nparable of the marriage of the king\u2019s son. We met at the wigwam of one\ncalled Wannalancet, about two miles from the town, near Pawtuckett\nfalls, and bordering upon Merrimak river. This person, Wannalancet, is\nthe eldest son of old Pasaconaway, the chiefest sachem of Pawtuckett.\nHe is a sober and grave person, and of years, between fifty and sixty.\nHe hath been always loving and friendly to the English.\u201d As yet,\nhowever, they had not prevailed on him to embrace the Christian\nreligion. \u201cBut at this time,\u201d says Gookin, \u201cMay 6, 1674,\u201d\u2014\u201cafter some\ndeliberation and serious pause, he stood up, and made a speech to this\neffect:\u2014\u2018I must acknowledge I have, all my days, used to pass in an old\ncanoe, (alluding to his frequent custom to pass in a canoe upon the\nriver,) and now you exhort me to change and leave my old canoe, and\nembark in a new canoe, to which I have hitherto been unwilling; but now\nI yield up myself to your advice, and enter into a new canoe, and do\nengage to pray to God hereafter.\u2019\u201d One \u201cMr. Richard Daniel, a gentleman\nthat lived in Billerica,\u201d who with other \u201cpersons of quality\u201d was\npresent, \u201cdesired brother Eliot to tell the sachem from him, that it\nmay be, while he went in his old canoe, he passed in a quiet stream;\nbut the end thereof was death and destruction to soul and body. But now\nhe went into a new canoe, perhaps he would meet with storms and trials,\nbut yet he should be encouraged to persevere, for the end of his voyage\nwould be everlasting rest.\u201d\u2014\u201cSince that time, I hear this sachem doth\npersevere, and is a constant and diligent hearer of God\u2019s word, and\nsanctifieth the Sabbath, though he doth travel to Wamesit meeting every\nSabbath, which is above two miles; and though sundry of his people have\ndeserted him, since he subjected to the gospel, yet he continues and\npersists.\u201d\u2014 _Gookin\u2019s Hist. Coll. of the Indians in New England_, 1674.\n\nAlready, as appears from the records, \u201cAt a General Court held at\nBoston in New England, the 7th of the first month,\n1643-4.\u201d\u2014\u201cWassamequin, Nashoonon, Kutchamaquin, Massaconomet, and Squaw\nSachem, did voluntarily submit themselves\u201d to the English; and among\nother things did \u201cpromise to be willing from time to time to be\ninstructed in the knowledge of God.\u201d Being asked \u201cNot to do any\nunnecessary work on the Sabbath day, especially within the gates of\nChristian towns,\u201d they answered, \u201cIt is easy to them; they have not\nmuch to do on any day, and they can well take their rest on that\nday.\u201d\u2014\u201cSo,\u201d says Winthrop, in his Journal, \u201cwe causing them to\nunderstand the articles, and all the ten commandments of God, and they\nfreely assenting to all, they were solemnly received, and then\npresented the Court with twenty-six fathom more of wampom; and the\nCourt gave each of them a coat of two yards of cloth, and their dinner;\nand to them and their men, every of them, a cup of sack at their\ndeparture; so they took leave and went away.\u201d\n\nWhat journeyings on foot and on horseback through the wilderness, to\npreach the Gospel to these minks and muskrats! who first, no doubt,\nlistened with their red ears out of a natural hospitality and courtesy,\nand afterward from curiosity or even interest, till at length there\nwere \u201cpraying Indians,\u201d and, as the General Court wrote to Cromwell,\nthe \u201cwork is brought to this perfection, that some of the Indians\nthemselves can pray and prophesy in a comfortable manner.\u201d\n\nIt was in fact an old battle and hunting ground through which we had\nbeen floating, the ancient dwelling-place of a race of hunters and\nwarriors. Their weirs of stone, their arrowheads and hatchets, their\npestles, and the mortars in which they pounded Indian corn before the\nwhite man had tasted it, lay concealed in the mud of the river bottom.\nTradition still points out the spots where they took fish in the\ngreatest numbers, by such arts as they possessed. It is a rapid story\nthe historian will have to put together. Miantonimo,\u2014Winthrop,\u2014Webster.\nSoon he comes from Montaup to Bunker Hill, from bear-skins, parched\ncorn, bows and arrows, to tiled roofs, wheat-fields, guns and swords.\nPawtucket and Wamesit, where the Indians resorted in the fishing\nseason, are now Lowell, the city of spindles and Manchester of America,\nwhich sends its cotton cloth round the globe. Even we youthful voyagers\nhad spent a part of our lives in the village of Chelmsford, when the\npresent city, whose bells we heard, was its obscure north district\nonly, and the giant weaver was not yet fairly born. So old are we; so\nyoung is it.\n\nWe were thus entering the State of New Hampshire on the bosom of the\nflood formed by the tribute of its innumerable valleys. The river was\nthe only key which could unlock its maze, presenting its hills and\nvalleys, its lakes and streams, in their natural order and position.\nThe MERRIMACK, or Sturgeon River, is formed by the confluence of the\nPemigewasset, which rises near the Notch of the White Mountains, and\nthe Winnipiseogee, which drains the lake of the same name, signifying\n\u201cThe Smile of the Great Spirit.\u201d From their junction it runs south\nseventy-eight miles to Massachusetts, and thence east thirty-five miles\nto the sea. I have traced its stream from where it bubbles out of the\nrocks of the White Mountains above the clouds, to where it is lost amid\nthe salt billows of the ocean on Plum Island beach. At first it comes\non murmuring to itself by the base of stately and retired mountains,\nthrough moist primitive woods whose juices it receives, where the bear\nstill drinks it, and the cabins of settlers are far between, and there\nare few to cross its stream; enjoying in solitude its cascades still\nunknown to fame; by long ranges of mountains of Sandwich and of Squam,\nslumbering like tumuli of Titans, with the peaks of Moosehillock, the\nHaystack, and Kearsarge reflected in its waters; where the maple and\nthe raspberry, those lovers of the hills, flourish amid temperate\ndews;\u2014flowing long and full of meaning, but untranslatable as its name\nPemigewasset, by many a pastured Pelion and Ossa, where unnamed muses\nhaunt, tended by Oreads, Dryads, Naiads, and receiving the tribute of\nmany an untasted Hippocrene. There are earth, air, fire, and\nwater,\u2014very well, this is water, and down it comes.\n\nSuch water do the gods distil,\nAnd pour down every hill\n    For their New England men;\nA draught of this wild nectar bring,\nAnd I\u2019ll not taste the spring\n    Of Helicon again.\n\n\nFalling all the way, and yet not discouraged by the lowest fall. By the\nlaw of its birth never to become stagnant, for it has come out of the\nclouds, and down the sides of precipices worn in the flood, through\nbeaver-dams broke loose, not splitting but splicing and mending itself,\nuntil it found a breathing-place in this low land. There is no danger\nnow that the sun will steal it back to heaven again before it reach the\nsea, for it has a warrant even to recover its own dews into its bosom\nagain with interest at every eve.\n\nIt was already the water of Squam and Newfound Lake and Winnipiseogee,\nand White Mountain snow dissolved, on which we were floating, and\nSmith\u2019s and Baker\u2019s and Mad Rivers, and Nashua and Souhegan and\nPiscataquoag, and Suncook and Soucook and Contoocook, mingled in\nincalculable proportions, still fluid, yellowish, restless all, with an\nancient, ineradicable inclination to the sea.\n\nSo it flows on down by Lowell and Haverhill, at which last place it\nfirst suffers a sea change, and a few masts betray the vicinity of the\nocean. Between the towns of Amesbury and Newbury it is a broad\ncommercial river, from a third to half a mile in width, no longer\nskirted with yellow and crumbling banks, but backed by high green hills\nand pastures, with frequent white beaches on which the fishermen draw\nup their nets. I have passed down this portion of the river in a\nsteamboat, and it was a pleasant sight to watch from its deck the\nfishermen dragging their seines on the distant shore, as in pictures of\na foreign strand. At intervals you may meet with a schooner laden with\nlumber, standing up to Haverhill, or else lying at anchor or aground,\nwaiting for wind or tide; until, at last, you glide under the famous\nChain Bridge, and are landed at Newburyport. Thus she who at first was\n\u201cpoore of waters, naked of renowne,\u201d having received so many fair\ntributaries, as was said of the Forth,\n\n\u201cDoth grow the greater still, the further downe;\n    Till that abounding both in power and fame,\n    She long doth strive to give the sea her name\u201d;\n\n\nor if not her name, in this case, at least the impulse of her stream.\nFrom the steeples of Newburyport you may review this river stretching\nfar up into the country, with many a white sail glancing over it like\nan inland sea, and behold, as one wrote who was born on its\nhead-waters, \u201cDown out at its mouth, the dark inky main blending with\nthe blue above. Plum Island, its sand ridges scolloping along the\nhorizon like the sea-serpent, and the distant outline broken by many a\ntall ship, leaning, _still_, against the sky.\u201d\n\nRising at an equal height with the Connecticut, the Merrimack reaches\nthe sea by a course only half as long, and hence has no leisure to form\nbroad and fertile meadows, like the former, but is hurried along\nrapids, and down numerous falls, without long delay. The banks are\ngenerally steep and high, with a narrow interval reaching back to the\nhills, which is only rarely or partially overflown at present, and is\nmuch valued by the farmers. Between Chelmsford and Concord, in New\nHampshire, it varies from twenty to seventy-five rods in width. It is\nprobably wider than it was formerly, in many places, owing to the trees\nhaving been cut down, and the consequent wasting away of its banks. The\ninfluence of the Pawtucket Dam is felt as far up as Cromwell\u2019s Falls,\nand many think that the banks are being abraded and the river filled up\nagain by this cause. Like all our rivers, it is liable to freshets, and\nthe Pemigewasset has been known to rise twenty-five feet in a few\nhours. It is navigable for vessels of burden about twenty miles; for\ncanal-boats, by means of locks, as far as Concord in New Hampshire,\nabout seventy-five miles from its mouth; and for smaller boats to\nPlymouth, one hundred and thirteen miles. A small steamboat once plied\nbetween Lowell and Nashua, before the railroad was built, and one now\nruns from Newburyport to Haverhill.\n\nUnfitted to some extent for the purposes of commerce by the sand-bar at\nits mouth, see how this river was devoted from the first to the service\nof manufactures. Issuing from the iron region of Franconia, and flowing\nthrough still uncut forests, by inexhaustible ledges of granite, with\nSquam, and Winnipiseogee, and Newfound, and Massabesic Lakes for its\nmill-ponds, it falls over a succession of natural dams, where it has\nbeen offering its _privileges_ in vain for ages, until at last the\nYankee race came to _improve_ them. Standing at its mouth, look up its\nsparkling stream to its source,\u2014a silver cascade which falls all the\nway from the White Mountains to the sea,\u2014and behold a city on each\nsuccessive plateau, a busy colony of human beaver around every fall.\nNot to mention Newburyport and Haverhill, see Lawrence, and Lowell, and\nNashua, and Manchester, and Concord, gleaming one above the other. When\nat length it has escaped from under the last of the factories, it has a\nlevel and unmolested passage to the sea, a mere _waste water_, as it\nwere, bearing little with it but its fame; its pleasant course revealed\nby the morning fog which hangs over it, and the sails of the few small\nvessels which transact the commerce of Haverhill and Newburyport. But\nits real vessels are railroad cars, and its true and main stream,\nflowing by an iron channel farther south, may be traced by a long line\nof vapor amid the hills, which no morning wind ever disperses, to where\nit empties into the sea at Boston. This side is the louder murmur now.\nInstead of the scream of a fish-hawk scaring the fishes, is heard the\nwhistle of the steam-engine, arousing a country to its progress.\n\nThis river too was at length discovered by the white man, \u201ctrending up\ninto the land,\u201d he knew not how far, possibly an inlet to the South\nSea. Its valley, as far as the Winnipiseogee, was first surveyed in\n1652. The first settlers of Massachusetts supposed that the\nConnecticut, in one part of its course, ran northwest, \u201cso near the\ngreat lake as the Indians do pass their canoes into it over land.\u201d From\nwhich lake and the \u201chideous swamps\u201d about it, as they supposed, came\nall the beaver that was traded between Virginia and Canada,\u2014and the\nPotomac was thought to come out of or from very near it. Afterward the\nConnecticut came so near the course of the Merrimack that, with a\nlittle pains, they expected to divert the current of the trade into the\nlatter river, and its profits from their Dutch neighbors into their own\npockets.\n\nUnlike the Concord, the Merrimack is not a dead but a living stream,\nthough it has less life within its waters and on its banks. It has a\nswift current, and, in this part of its course, a clayey bottom, almost\nno weeds, and comparatively few fishes. We looked down into its yellow\nwater with the more curiosity, who were accustomed to the Nile-like\nblackness of the former river. Shad and alewives are taken here in\ntheir season, but salmon, though at one time more numerous than shad,\nare now more rare. Bass, also, are taken occasionally; but locks and\ndams have proved more or less destructive to the fisheries. The shad\nmake their appearance early in May, at the same time with the blossoms\nof the pyrus, one of the most conspicuous early flowers, which is for\nthis reason called the shad-blossom. An insect called the shad-fly also\nappears at the same time, covering the houses and fences. We are told\nthat \u201ctheir greatest run is when the apple-trees are in full blossom.\nThe old shad return in August; the young, three or four inches long, in\nSeptember. These are very fond of flies.\u201d A rather picturesque and\nluxurious mode of fishing was formerly practised on the Connecticut, at\nBellows Falls, where a large rock divides the stream. \u201cOn the steep\nsides of the island rock,\u201d says Belknap, \u201chang several arm-chairs,\nfastened to ladders, and secured by a counterpoise, in which fishermen\nsit to catch salmon and shad with dipping nets.\u201d The remains of Indian\nweirs, made of large stones, are still to be seen in the Winnipiseogee,\none of the head-waters of this river.\n\nIt cannot but affect our philosophy favorably to be reminded of these\nshoals of migratory fishes, of salmon, shad, alewives, marsh-bankers,\nand others, which penetrate up the innumerable rivers of our coast in\nthe spring, even to the interior lakes, their scales gleaming in the\nsun; and again, of the fry which in still greater numbers wend their\nway downward to the sea. \u201cAnd is it not pretty sport,\u201d wrote Captain\nJohn Smith, who was on this coast as early as 1614, \u201cto pull up\ntwopence, sixpence, and twelvepence, as fast as you can haul and veer a\nline?\u201d\u2014\u201cAnd what sport doth yield a more pleasing content, and less\nhurt or charge, than angling with a hook, and crossing the sweet air\nfrom isle to isle, over the silent streams of a calm sea.\u201d\n\nOn the sandy shore, opposite the Glass-house village in Chelmsford, at\nthe Great Bend where we landed to rest us and gather a few wild plums,\nwe discovered the _Campanula rotundifolia_, a new flower to us, the\nharebell of the poets, which is common to both hemispheres, growing\nclose to the water. Here, in the shady branches of an apple-tree on the\nsand, we took our nooning, where there was not a zephyr to disturb the\nrepose of this glorious Sabbath day, and we reflected serenely on the\nlong past and successful labors of Latona.\n\n\u201cSo silent is the cessile air,\n    That every cry and call,\nThe hills, and dales, and forest fair\n    Again repeats them all.\n\n\u201cThe herds beneath some leafy trees,\n    Amidst the flowers they lie,\nThe stable ships upon the seas\n    Tend up their sails to dry.\u201d\n\n\nAs we thus rested in the shade, or rowed leisurely along, we had\nrecourse, from time to time, to the Gazetteer, which was our Navigator,\nand from its bald natural facts extracted the pleasure of poetry.\nBeaver River comes in a little lower down, draining the meadows of\nPelham, Windham, and Londonderry. The Scotch-Irish settlers of the\nlatter town, according to this authority, were the first to introduce\nthe potato into New England, as well as the manufacture of linen cloth.\n\nEverything that is printed and bound in a book contains some echo at\nleast of the best that is in literature. Indeed, the best books have a\nuse, like sticks and stones, which is above or beside their design, not\nanticipated in the preface, nor concluded in the appendix. Even\nVirgil\u2019s poetry serves a very different use to me to-day from what it\ndid to his contemporaries. It has often an acquired and accidental\nvalue merely, proving that man is still man in the world. It is\npleasant to meet with such still lines as,\n\n\u201cJam l\u00e6to turgent in palmite gemm\u00e6\u201d;\nNow the buds swell on the joyful stem.\n\n\nor\n\n\u201cStrata jacent passim sua qu\u00e6que sub arbore poma\u201d;\nThe apples lie scattered everywhere, each under its tree.\n\n\nIn an ancient and dead language, any recognition of living nature\nattracts us. These are such sentences as were written while grass grew\nand water ran. It is no small recommendation when a book will stand the\ntest of mere unobstructed sunshine and daylight.\n\nWhat would we not give for some great poem to read now, which would be\nin harmony with the scenery,\u2014for if men read aright, methinks they\nwould never read anything but poems. No history nor philosophy can\nsupply their place.\n\nThe wisest definition of poetry the poet will instantly prove false by\nsetting aside its requisitions. We can, therefore, publish only our\nadvertisement of it.\n\nThere is no doubt that the loftiest written wisdom is either rhymed, or\nin some way musically measured,\u2014is, in form as well as substance,\npoetry; and a volume which should contain the condensed wisdom of\nmankind need not have one rhythmless line.\n\nYet poetry, though the last and finest result, is a natural fruit. As\nnaturally as the oak bears an acorn, and the vine a gourd, man bears a\npoem, either spoken or done. It is the chief and most memorable\nsuccess, for history is but a prose narrative of poetic deeds. What\nelse have the Hindoos, the Persians, the Babylonians, the Egyptians\ndone, that can be told? It is the simplest relation of phenomena, and\ndescribes the commonest sensations with more truth than science does,\nand the latter at a distance slowly mimics its style and methods. The\npoet sings how the blood flows in his veins. He performs his functions,\nand is so well that he needs such stimulus to sing only as plants to\nput forth leaves and blossoms. He would strive in vain to modulate the\nremote and transient music which he sometimes hears, since his song is\na vital function like breathing, and an integral result like weight. It\nis not the overflowing of life but its subsidence rather, and is drawn\nfrom under the feet of the poet. It is enough if Homer but say the sun\nsets. He is as serene as nature, and we can hardly detect the\nenthusiasm of the bard. It is as if nature spoke. He presents to us the\nsimplest pictures of human life, so the child itself can understand\nthem, and the man must not think twice to appreciate his naturalness.\nEach reader discovers for himself that, with respect to the simpler\nfeatures of nature, succeeding poets have done little else than copy\nhis similes. His more memorable passages are as naturally bright as\ngleams of sunshine in misty weather. Nature furnishes him not only with\nwords, but with stereotyped lines and sentences from her mint.\n\n\u201cAs from the clouds appears the full moon,\nAll shining, and then again it goes behind the shadowy clouds,\nSo Hector, at one time appeared among the foremost,\nAnd at another in the rear, commanding; and all with brass\nHe shone, like to the lightning of \u00e6gis-bearing Zeus.\u201d\n\n\nHe conveys the least information, even the hour of the day, with such\nmagnificence and vast expense of natural imagery, as if it were a\nmessage from the gods.\n\n\u201cWhile it was dawn, and sacred day was advancing,\nFor that space the weapons of both flew fast, and the people fell;\nBut when now the woodcutter was preparing his morning meal,\nIn the recesses of the mountain, and had wearied his hands\nWith cutting lofty trees, and satiety came to his mind,\nAnd the desire of sweet food took possession of his thoughts;\nThen the Danaans, by their valor, broke the phalanxes,\nShouting to their companions from rank to rank.\u201d\n\n\nWhen the army of the Trojans passed the night under arms, keeping watch\nlest the enemy should re-embark under cover of the dark,\n\n\u201cThey, thinking great things, upon the neutral ground of war\nSat all the night; and many fires burned for them.\nAs when in the heavens the stars round the bright moon\nAppear beautiful, and the air is without wind;\nAnd all the heights, and the extreme summits,\nAnd the wooded sides of the mountains appear; and from the heavens an\ninfinite ether is diffused,\nAnd all the stars are seen, and the shepherd rejoices in his heart;\nSo between the ships and the streams of Xanthus\nAppeared the fires of the Trojans before Ilium.\nA thousand fires burned on the plain, and by each\nSat fifty, in the light of the blazing fire;\nAnd horses eating white barley and corn,\nStanding by the chariots, awaited fair-throned Aurora.\u201d\n\n\nThe \u201cwhite-armed goddess Juno,\u201d sent by the Father of gods and men for\nIris and Apollo,\n\n\u201cWent down the Id\u00e6an mountains to far Olympus,\nAs when the mind of a man, who has come over much earth,\nSallies forth, and he reflects with rapid thoughts,\nThere was I, and there, and remembers many things;\nSo swiftly the august Juno hastening flew through the air,\nAnd came to high Olympus.\u201d\n\n\nHis scenery is always true, and not invented. He does not leap in\nimagination from Asia to Greece, through mid air,\n\n\u1f10\u03c0\u03b5\u03b9\u1f74 \u03bc\u03ac\u03bb\u03b1 \u03c0\u03bf\u03bb\u03bb\u1f70 \u03bc\u03b5\u03c4\u03b1\u03be\u03cd\n\u1f4c\u03c5\u03c1\u03b5\u03ac \u03c4\u03b5 \u03c3\u03ba\u03b9\u03bf\u03ad\u03bd\u03c4\u03b1, \u03b8\u03b1\u03bb\u03ac\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1 \u03c4\u03b5 \u1f20\u03c7\u03ae\u03b5\u03c3\u03c3\u03b1.\nfor there are very many\nShady mountains and resounding seas between.\n\n\nIf his messengers repair but to the tent of Achilles, we do not wonder\nhow they got there, but accompany them step by step along the shore of\nthe resounding sea. Nestor\u2019s account of the march of the Pylians\nagainst the Epeians is extremely lifelike:\u2014\n\n\u201cThen rose up to them sweet-worded Nestor, the shrill orator of the\nPylians,\nAnd words sweeter than honey flowed from his tongue.\u201d\n\n\nThis time, however, he addresses Patroclus alone: \u201cA certain river,\nMinyas by name, leaps seaward near to Arene, where we Pylians wait the\ndawn, both horse and foot. Thence with all haste we sped us on the\nmorrow ere \u2019t was noonday, accoutred for the fight, even to Alpheus\u2019s\nsacred source,\u201d &c. We fancy that we hear the subdued murmuring of the\nMinyas discharging its waters into the main the livelong night, and the\nhollow sound of the waves breaking on the shore,\u2014until at length we are\ncheered at the close of a toilsome march by the gurgling fountains of\nAlpheus.\n\nThere are few books which are fit to be remembered in our wisest hours,\nbut the Iliad is brightest in the serenest days, and embodies still all\nthe sunlight that fell on Asia Minor. No modern joy or ecstasy of ours\ncan lower its height or dim its lustre, but there it lies in the east\nof literature, as it were the earliest and latest production of the\nmind. The ruins of Egypt oppress and stifle us with their dust,\nfoulness preserved in cassia and pitch, and swathed in linen; the death\nof that which never lived. But the rays of Greek poetry struggle down\nto us, and mingle with the sunbeams of the recent day. The statue of\nMemnon is cast down, but the shaft of the Iliad still meets the sun in\nhis rising.\n\n\u201cHomer is gone; and where is Jove? and where\nThe rival cities seven? His song outlives\nTime, tower, and god,\u2014all that then was, save Heaven.\u201d\n\n\nSo too, no doubt, Homer had his Homer, and Orpheus his Orpheus, in the\ndim antiquity which preceded them. The mythological system of the\nancients, and it is still the mythology of the moderns, the poem of\nmankind, interwoven so wonderfully with their astronomy, and matching\nin grandeur and harmony the architecture of the heavens themselves,\nseems to point to a time when a mightier genius inhabited the earth.\nBut, after all, man is the great poet, and not Homer nor Shakespeare;\nand our language itself, and the common arts of life, are his work.\nPoetry is so universally true and independent of experience, that it\ndoes not need any particular biography to illustrate it, but we refer\nit sooner or later to some Orpheus or Linus, and after ages to the\ngenius of humanity and the gods themselves.\n\nIt would be worth the while to select our reading, for books are the\nsociety we keep; to read only the serenely true; never statistics, nor\nfiction, nor news, nor reports, nor periodicals, but only great poems,\nand when they failed, read them again, or perchance write more. Instead\nof other sacrifice, we might offer up our perfect (\u03c4\u03b5\u03bb\u03b5\u03af\u03b1) thoughts to\nthe gods daily, in hymns or psalms. For we should be at the helm at\nleast once a day. The whole of the day should not be daytime; there\nshould be one hour, if no more, which the day did not bring forth.\nScholars are wont to sell their birthright for a mess of learning. But\nis it necessary to know what the speculator prints, or the thoughtless\nstudy, or the idle read, the literature of the Russians and the\nChinese, or even French philosophy and much of German criticism. Read\nthe best books first, or you may not have a chance to read them at all.\n\u201cThere are the worshippers with offerings, and the worshippers with\nmortifications; and again the worshippers with enthusiastic devotion;\nso there are those the wisdom of whose reading is their worship, men of\nsubdued passions and severe manners;\u2014This world is not for him who doth\nnot worship; and where, O Arjoon, is there another?\u201d Certainly, we do\nnot need to be soothed and entertained always like children. He who\nresorts to the easy novel, because he is languid, does no better than\nif he took a nap. The front aspect of great thoughts can only be\nenjoyed by those who stand on the side whence they arrive. Books, not\nwhich afford us a cowering enjoyment, but in which each thought is of\nunusual daring; such as an idle man cannot read, and a timid one would\nnot be entertained by, which even make us dangerous to existing\ninstitutions,\u2014such call I good books.\n\nAll that are printed and bound are not books; they do not necessarily\nbelong to letters, but are oftener to be ranked with the other luxuries\nand appendages of civilized life. Base wares are palmed off under a\nthousand disguises. \u201cThe way to trade,\u201d as a pedler once told me, \u201cis\nto _put it right through_,\u201d no matter what it is, anything that is\nagreed on.\n\n\u201cYou grov\u2019ling worldlings, you whose wisdom trades\nWhere light ne\u2019er shot his golden ray.\u201d\n\n\nBy dint of able writing and pen-craft, books are cunningly compiled,\nand have their run and success even among the learned, as if they were\nthe result of a new man\u2019s thinking, and their birth were attended with\nsome natural throes. But in a little while their covers fall off, for\nno binding will avail, and it appears that they are not Books or Bibles\nat all. There are new and patented inventions in this shape, purporting\nto be for the elevation of the race, which many a pure scholar and\ngenius who has learned to read is for a moment deceived by, and finds\nhimself reading a horse-rake, or spinning-jenny, or wooden nutmeg, or\noak-leaf cigar, or steam-power press, or kitchen range, perchance, when\nhe was seeking serene and biblical truths.\n\n        \u201cMerchants, arise,\nAnd mingle conscience with your merchandise.\u201d\n\n\nPaper is cheap, and authors need not now erase one book before they\nwrite another. Instead of cultivating the earth for wheat and potatoes,\nthey cultivate literature, and fill a place in the Republic of Letters.\nOr they would fain write for fame merely, as others actually raise\ncrops of grain to be distilled into brandy. Books are for the most part\nwilfully and hastily written, as parts of a system, to supply a want\nreal or imagined. Books of natural history aim commonly to be hasty\nschedules, or inventories of God\u2019s property, by some clerk. They do not\nin the least teach the divine view of nature, but the popular view, or\nrather the popular method of studying nature, and make haste to conduct\nthe persevering pupil only into that dilemma where the professors\nalways dwell.\n\n\u201cTo Athens gowned he goes, and from that school\nReturns unsped, a more instructed fool.\u201d\n\n\nThey teach the elements really of ignorance, not of knowledge, for, to\nspeak deliberately and in view of the highest truths, it is not easy to\ndistinguish elementary knowledge. There is a chasm between knowledge\nand ignorance which the arches of science can never span. A book should\ncontain pure discoveries, glimpses of _terra firma_, though by\nshipwrecked mariners, and not the art of navigation by those who have\nnever been out of sight of land. _They_ must not yield wheat and\npotatoes, but must themselves be the unconstrained and natural harvest\nof their author\u2019s lives.\n\n\u201cWhat I have learned is mine; I\u2019ve had my thought,\nAnd me the Muses noble truths have taught.\u201d\n\n\nWe do not learn much from learned books, but from true, sincere, human\nbooks, from frank and honest biographies. The life of a good man will\nhardly improve us more than the life of a freebooter, for the\ninevitable laws appear as plainly in the infringement as in the\nobservance, and our lives are sustained by a nearly equal expense of\nvirtue of some kind. The decaying tree, while yet it lives, demands\nsun, wind, and rain no less than the green one. It secretes sap and\nperforms the functions of health. If we choose, we may study the\nalburnum only. The gnarled stump has as tender a bud as the sapling.\n\nAt least let us have healthy books, a stout horse-rake or a kitchen\nrange which is not cracked. Let not the poet shed tears only for the\npublic weal. He should be as vigorous as a sugar-maple, with sap enough\nto maintain his own verdure, beside what runs into the troughs, and not\nlike a vine, which being cut in the spring bears no fruit, but bleeds\nto death in the endeavor to heal its wounds. The poet is he that hath\nfat enough, like bears and marmots, to suck his claws all winter. He\nhibernates in this world, and feeds on his own marrow. We love to think\nin winter, as we walk over the snowy pastures, of those happy dreamers\nthat lie under the sod, of dormice and all that race of dormant\ncreatures, which have such a superfluity of life enveloped in thick\nfolds of fur, impervious to cold. Alas, the poet too is, in one sense,\na sort of dormouse gone into winter quarters of deep and serene\nthoughts, insensible to surrounding circumstances; his words are the\nrelation of his oldest and finest memory, a wisdom drawn from the\nremotest experience. Other men lead a starved existence, meanwhile,\nlike hawks, that would fain keep on the wing, and trust to pick up a\nsparrow now and then.\n\nThere are already essays and poems, the growth of this land, which are\nnot in vain, all which, however, we could conveniently have stowed in\nthe till of our chest. If the gods permitted their own inspiration to\nbe breathed in vain, these might be overlooked in the crowd, but the\naccents of truth are as sure to be heard at last on earth as in heaven.\nThey already seem ancient, and in some measure have lost the traces of\ntheir modern birth. Here are they who\n\n\u2014\u201cask for that which is our whole life\u2019s light,\nFor the perpetual, true and clear insight.\u201d\n\n\nI remember a few sentences which spring like the sward in its native\npasture, where its roots were never disturbed, and not as if spread\nover a sandy embankment; answering to the poet\u2019s prayer,\n\n    \u201cLet us set so just\nA rate on knowledge, that the world may trust\nThe poet\u2019s sentence, and not still aver\nEach art is to itself a flatterer.\u201d\n\n\nBut, above all, in our native port, did we not frequent the peaceful\ngames of the Lyceum, from which a new era will be dated to New England,\nas from the games of Greece. For if Herodotus carried his history to\nOlympia to read, after the cestus and the race, have we not heard such\nhistories recited there, which since our countrymen have read, as made\nGreece sometimes to be forgotten?\u2014Philosophy, too, has there her grove\nand portico, not wholly unfrequented in these days.\n\nLately the victor, whom all Pindars praised, has won another palm,\ncontending with\n\n\u201cOlympian bards who sung\nDivine ideas below,\nWhich always find us young,\nAnd always keep us so.\u201d\n\n\nWhat earth or sea, mountain or stream, or Muses\u2019 spring or grove, is\nsafe from his all-searching ardent eye, who drives off Ph\u0153bus\u2019 beaten\ntrack, visits unwonted zones, makes the gelid Hyperboreans glow, and\nthe old polar serpent writhe, and many a Nile flow back and hide his\nhead!\n\nThat Phaeton of our day,\nWho\u2019d make another milky way,\nAnd burn the world up with his ray;\n\nBy us an undisputed seer,\u2014\nWho\u2019d drive his flaming car so near\nUnto our shuddering mortal sphere,\n\nDisgracing all our slender worth,\nAnd scorching up the living earth,\nTo prove his heavenly birth.\n\nThe silver spokes, the golden tire,\nAre glowing with unwonted fire,\nAnd ever nigher roll and nigher;\n\nThe pins and axle melted are,\nThe silver radii fly afar,\nAh, he will spoil his Father\u2019s car!\n\nWho let him have the steeds he cannot steer?\nHenceforth the sun will not shine for a year;\nAnd we shall Ethiops all appear.\n\n\nFrom _his_\n\n\u201clips of cunning fell\n    The thrilling Delphic oracle.\u201d\n\n\nAnd yet, sometimes,\n\nWe should not mind if on our ear there fell\nSome less of cunning, more of oracle.\n\n\nIt is Apollo shining in your face. O rare Contemporary, let us have\nfar-off heats. Give us the subtler, the heavenlier though fleeting\nbeauty, which passes through and through, and dwells not in the verse;\neven pure water, which but reflects those tints which wine wears in its\ngrain. Let epic trade-winds blow, and cease this waltz of inspirations.\nLet us oftener feel even the gentle southwest wind upon our cheeks\nblowing from the Indian\u2019s heaven. What though we lose a thousand\nmeteors from the sky, if skyey depths, if star-dust and undissolvable\nnebul\u00e6 remain? What though we lose a thousand wise responses of the\noracle, if we may have instead some natural acres of Ionian earth?\n\nThough we know well,\n\n\u201cThat\u2019t is not in the power of kings [or presidents] to raise\nA spirit for verse that is not born thereto,\nNor are they born in every prince\u2019s days\u201d;\n\n\nyet spite of all they sang in praise of their \u201cEliza\u2019s reign,\u201d we have\nevidence that poets may be born and sing in _our_ day, in the\npresidency of James K. Polk,\n\n\u201cAnd that the utmost powers of English rhyme,\u201d\n_Were not_ \u201cwithin _her_ peaceful reign confined.\u201d\n\n\nThe prophecy of the poet Daniel is already how much more than\nfulfilled!\n\n\u201cAnd who in time knows whither we may vent\nThe treasure of our tongue? To what strange shores\nThis gain of our best glory shall be sent,\nT\u2019 enrich unknowing nations with our stores?\nWhat worlds in th\u2019 yet unformed occident,\nMay come refined with the accents that are ours.\u201d\n\n\nEnough has been said in these days of the charm of fluent writing. We\nhear it complained of some works of genius, that they have fine\nthoughts, but are irregular and have no flow. But even the mountain\npeaks in the horizon are, to the eye of science, parts of one range. We\nshould consider that the flow of thought is more like a tidal wave than\na prone river, and is the result of a celestial influence, not of any\ndeclivity in its channel. The river flows because it runs down hill,\nand flows the faster the faster it descends. The reader who expects to\nfloat down stream for the whole voyage, may well complain of nauseating\nswells and choppings of the sea when his frail shore-craft gets amidst\nthe billows of the ocean stream, which flows as much to sun and moon as\nlesser streams to it. But if we would appreciate the flow that is in\nthese books, we must expect to feel it rise from the page like an\nexhalation, and wash away our critical brains like burr millstones,\nflowing to higher levels above and behind ourselves. There is many a\nbook which ripples on like a freshet, and flows as glibly as a\nmill-stream sucking under a causeway; and when their authors are in the\nfull tide of their discourse, Pythagoras and Plato and Jamblichus halt\nbeside them. Their long, stringy, slimy sentences are of that\nconsistency that they naturally flow and run together. They read as if\nwritten for military men, for men of business, there is such a despatch\nin them. Compared with these, the grave thinkers and philosophers seem\nnot to have got their swaddling-clothes off; they are slower than a\nRoman army in its march, the rear camping to-night where the van camped\nlast night. The wise Jamblichus eddies and gleams like a watery slough.\n\n\u201cHow many thousands never heard the name\n    Of Sidney, or of Spenser, or their books?\nAnd yet brave fellows, and presume of fame,\n    And seem to bear down all the world with looks.\u201d\n\n\nThe ready writer seizes the pen, and shouts, Forward! Alamo and\nFanning! and after rolls the tide of war. The very walls and fences\nseem to travel. But the most rapid trot is no flow after all; and\nthither, reader, you and I, at least, will not follow.\n\nA perfectly healthy sentence, it is true, is extremely rare. For the\nmost part we miss the hue and fragrance of the thought; as if we could\nbe satisfied with the dews of the morning or evening without their\ncolors, or the heavens without their azure. The most attractive\nsentences are, perhaps, not the wisest, but the surest and roundest.\nThey are spoken firmly and conclusively, as if the speaker had a right\nto know what he says, and if not wise, they have at least been well\nlearned. Sir Walter Raleigh might well be studied if only for the\nexcellence of his style, for he is remarkable in the midst of so many\nmasters. There is a natural emphasis in his style, like a man\u2019s tread,\nand a breathing space between the sentences, which the best of modern\nwriting does not furnish. His chapters are like English parks, or say\nrather like a Western forest, where the larger growth keeps down the\nunderwood, and one may ride on horseback through the openings. All the\ndistinguished writers of that period possess a greater vigor and\nnaturalness than the more modern,\u2014for it is allowed to slander our own\ntime,\u2014and when we read a quotation from one of them in the midst of a\nmodern author, we seem to have come suddenly upon a greener ground, a\ngreater depth and strength of soil. It is as if a green bough were laid\nacross the page, and we are refreshed as by the sight of fresh grass in\nmidwinter or early spring. You have constantly the warrant of life and\nexperience in what you read. The little that is said is eked out by\nimplication of the much that was done. The sentences are verdurous and\nblooming as evergreen and flowers, because they are rooted in fact and\nexperience, but our false and florid sentence have only the tints of\nflowers without their sap or roots. All men are really most attracted\nby the beauty of plain speech, and they even write in a florid style in\nimitation of this. They prefer to be misunderstood rather than to come\nshort of its exuberance. Hussein Effendi praised the epistolary style\nof Ibrahim Pasha to the French traveller Botta, because of \u201cthe\ndifficulty of understanding it; there was,\u201d he said, \u201cbut one person at\nJidda, who was capable of understanding and explaining the Pasha\u2019s\ncorrespondence.\u201d A man\u2019s whole life is taxed for the least thing well\ndone. It is its net result. Every sentence is the result of a long\nprobation. Where shall we look for standard English, but to the words\nof a standard man? The word which is best said came nearest to not\nbeing spoken at all, for it is cousin to a deed which the speaker could\nhave better done. Nay, almost it must have taken the place of a deed by\nsome urgent necessity, even by some misfortune, so that the truest\nwriter will be some captive knight, after all. And perhaps the fates\nhad such a design, when, having stored Raleigh so richly with the\nsubstance of life and experience, they made him a fast prisoner, and\ncompelled him to make his words his deeds, and transfer to his\nexpression the emphasis and sincerity of his action.\n\nMen have a respect for scholarship and learning greatly out of\nproportion to the use they commonly serve. We are amused to read how\nBen Jonson engaged, that the dull masks with which the royal family and\nnobility were to be entertained should be \u201cgrounded upon antiquity and\nsolid learning.\u201d Can there be any greater reproach than an idle\nlearning? Learn to split wood, at least. The necessity of labor and\nconversation with many men and things, to the scholar is rarely well\nremembered; steady labor with the hands, which engrosses the attention\nalso, is unquestionably the best method of removing palaver and\nsentimentality out of one\u2019s style, both of speaking and writing. If he\nhas worked hard from morning till night, though he may have grieved\nthat he could not be watching the train of his thoughts during that\ntime, yet the few hasty lines which at evening record his day\u2019s\nexperience will be more musical and true than his freest but idle fancy\ncould have furnished. Surely the writer is to address a world of\nlaborers, and such therefore must be his own discipline. He will not\nidly dance at his work who has wood to cut and cord before nightfall in\nthe short days of winter; but every stroke will be husbanded, and ring\nsoberly through the wood; and so will the strokes of that scholar\u2019s\npen, which at evening record the story of the day, ring soberly, yet\ncheerily, on the ear of the reader, long after the echoes of his axe\nhave died away. The scholar may be sure that he writes the tougher\ntruth for the calluses on his palms. They give firmness to the\nsentence. Indeed, the mind never makes a great and successful effort,\nwithout a corresponding energy of the body. We are often struck by the\nforce and precision of style to which hard-working men, unpractised in\nwriting, easily attain when required to make the effort. As if\nplainness, and vigor, and sincerity, the ornaments of style, were\nbetter learned on the farm and in the workshop, than in the schools.\nThe sentences written by such rude hands are nervous and tough, like\nhardened thongs, the sinews of the deer, or the roots of the pine. As\nfor the graces of expression, a great thought is never found in a mean\ndress; but though it proceed from the lips of the Woloffs, the nine\nMuses and the three Graces will have conspired to clothe it in fit\nphrase. Its education has always been liberal, and its implied wit can\nendow a college. The world, which the Greeks called Beauty, has been\nmade such by being gradually divested of every ornament which was not\nfitted to endure. The Sibyl, \u201cspeaking with inspired mouth, smileless,\ninornate, and unperfumed, pierces through centuries by the power of the\ngod.\u201d The scholar might frequently emulate the propriety and emphasis\nof the farmer\u2019s call to his team, and confess that if that were written\nit would surpass his labored sentences. Whose are the truly _labored_\nsentences? From the weak and flimsy periods of the politician and\nliterary man, we are glad to turn even to the description of work, the\nsimple record of the month\u2019s labor in the farmer\u2019s almanac, to restore\nour tone and spirits. A sentence should read as if its author, had he\nheld a plough instead of a pen, could have drawn a furrow deep and\nstraight to the end. The scholar requires hard and serious labor to\ngive an impetus to his thought. He will learn to grasp the pen firmly\nso, and wield it gracefully and effectively, as an axe or a sword. When\nwe consider the weak and nerveless periods of some literary men, who\nperchance in feet and inches come up to the standard of their race, and\nare not deficient in girth also, we are amazed at the immense sacrifice\nof thews and sinews. What! these proportions,\u2014these bones,\u2014and this\ntheir work! Hands which could have felled an ox have hewed this fragile\nmatter which would not have tasked a lady\u2019s fingers! Can this be a\nstalwart man\u2019s work, who has a marrow in his back and a tendon Achilles\nin his heel? They who set up the blocks of Stonehenge did somewhat, if\nthey only laid out their strength for once, and stretched themselves.\n\nYet, after all, the truly efficient laborer will not crowd his day with\nwork, but will saunter to his task surrounded by a wide halo of ease\nand leisure, and then do but what he loves best. He is anxious only\nabout the fruitful kernels of time. Though the hen should sit all day,\nshe could lay only one egg, and, besides, would not have picked up\nmaterials for another. Let a man take time enough for the most trivial\ndeed, though it be but the paring of his nails. The buds swell\nimperceptibly, without hurry or confusion, as if the short spring days\nwere an eternity.\n\nThen spend an age in whetting thy desire,\nThou needs\u2019t not _hasten_ if thou dost _stand fast_.\n\n\nSome hours seem not to be occasion for any deed, but for resolves to\ndraw breath in. We do not directly go about the execution of the\npurpose that thrills us, but shut our doors behind us and ramble with\nprepared mind, as if the half were already done. Our resolution is\ntaking root or hold on the earth then, as seeds first send a shoot\ndownward which is fed by their own albumen, ere they send one upward to\nthe light.\n\nThere is a sort of homely truth and naturalness in some books which is\nvery rare to find, and yet looks cheap enough. There may be nothing\nlofty in the sentiment, or fine in the expression, but it is careless\ncountry talk. Homeliness is almost as great a merit in a book as in a\nhouse, if the reader would abide there. It is next to beauty, and a\nvery high art. Some have this merit only. The scholar is not apt to\nmake his most familiar experience come gracefully to the aid of his\nexpression. Very few men can speak of Nature, for instance, with any\ntruth. They overstep her modesty, somehow or other, and confer no\nfavor. They do not speak a good word for her. Most cry better than they\nspeak, and you can get more nature out of them by pinching than by\naddressing them. The surliness with which the woodchopper speaks of his\nwoods, handling them as indifferently as his axe, is better than the\nmealy-mouthed enthusiasm of the lover of nature. Better that the\nprimrose by the river\u2019s brim be a yellow primrose, and nothing more,\nthan that it be something less. Aubrey relates of Thomas Fuller that\nhis was \u201ca very working head, insomuch that, walking and meditating\nbefore dinner, he would eat up a penny loaf, not knowing that he did\nit. His natural memory was very great, to which he added the art of\nmemory. He would repeat to you forwards and backwards all the signs\nfrom Ludgate to Charing Cross.\u201d He says of Mr. John Hales, that, \u201cHe\nloved Canarie,\u201d and was buried \u201cunder an altar monument of black\nmarble\u2014\u2014 with a too long epitaph\u201d; of Edmund Halley, that he \u201cat\nsixteen could make a dial, and then, he said, he thought himself a\nbrave fellow\u201d; of William Holder, who wrote a book upon his curing one\nPopham who was deaf and dumb, \u201che was beholding to no author; did only\nconsult with nature.\u201d For the most part, an author consults only with\nall who have written before him upon a subject, and his book is but the\nadvice of so many. But a good book will never have been forestalled,\nbut the topic itself will in one sense be new, and its author, by\nconsulting with nature, will consult not only with those who have gone\nbefore, but with those who may come after. There is always room and\noccasion enough for a true book on any subject; as there is room for\nmore light the brightest day and more rays will not interfere with the\nfirst.\n\nWe thus worked our way up this river, gradually adjusting our thoughts\nto novelties, beholding from its placid bosom a new nature and new\nworks of men, and, as it were with increasing confidence, finding\nnature still habitable, genial, and propitious to us; not following any\nbeaten path, but the windings of the river, as ever the nearest way for\nus. Fortunately we had no business in this country. The Concord had\nrarely been a river, or _rivus_, but barely _fluvius_, or between\n_fluvius_ and _lacus_. This Merrimack was neither _rivus_ nor _fluvius_\nnor _lacus_, but rather _amnis_ here, a gently swelling and stately\nrolling flood approaching the sea. We could even sympathize with its\nbuoyant tide, going to seek its fortune in the ocean, and, anticipating\nthe time when \u201cbeing received within the plain of its freer water,\u201d it\nshould \u201cbeat the shores for banks,\u201d\u2014\n\n        \u201ccampoque recepta\nLiberioris aqu\u00e6, pro ripis litora pulsant.\u201d\n\n\nAt length we doubled a low shrubby islet, called Rabbit Island,\nsubjected alternately to the sun and to the waves, as desolate as if it\nlay some leagues within the icy sea, and found ourselves in a narrower\npart of the river, near the sheds and yards for picking the stone known\nas the Chelmsford granite, which is quarried in Westford and the\nneighboring towns. We passed Wicasuck Island, which contains seventy\nacres or more, on our right, between Chelmsford and Tyngsborough. This\nwas a favorite residence of the Indians. According to the History of\nDunstable, \u201cAbout 1663, the eldest son of Passaconaway [Chief of the\nPenacooks] was thrown into jail for a debt of \u00a345, due to John Tinker,\nby one of his tribe, and which he had promised verbally should be paid.\nTo relieve him from his imprisonment, his brother Wannalancet and\nothers, who owned Wicasuck Island, sold it and paid the debt.\u201d It was,\nhowever, restored to the Indians by the General Court in 1665. After\nthe departure of the Indians in 1683, it was granted to Jonathan Tyng\nin payment for his services to the colony, in maintaining a garrison at\nhis house. Tyng\u2019s house stood not far from Wicasuck Falls. Gookin, who,\nin his Epistle Dedicatory to Robert Boyle, apologizes for presenting\nhis \u201cmatter clothed in a wilderness dress,\u201d says that on the breaking\nout of Philip\u2019s war in 1675, there were taken up by the Christian\nIndians and the English in Marlborough, and sent to Cambridge, seven\n\u201cIndians belonging to Narragansett, Long Island, and Pequod, who had\nall been at work about seven weeks with one Mr. Jonathan Tyng, of\nDunstable, upon Merrimack River; and, hearing of the war, they reckoned\nwith their master, and getting their wages, conveyed themselves away\nwithout his privity, and, being afraid, marched secretly through the\nwoods, designing to go to their own country.\u201d However, they were\nreleased soon after. Such were the hired men in those days. Tyng was\nthe first permanent settler of Dunstable, which then embraced what is\nnow Tyngsborough and many other towns. In the winter of 1675, in\nPhilip\u2019s war, every other settler left the town, but \u201che,\u201d says the\nhistorian of Dunstable, \u201cfortified his house; and, although \u2018obliged to\nsend to Boston for his food,\u2019 sat himself down in the midst of his\nsavage enemies, alone, in the wilderness, to defend his home. Deeming\nhis position an important one for the defence of the frontiers, in\nFebruary, 1676, he petitioned the Colony for aid,\u201d humbly showing, as\nhis petition runs, that, as he lived \u201cin the uppermost house on\nMerrimac river, lying open to ye enemy, yet being so seated that it is,\nas it were, a watch-house to the neighboring towns,\u201d he could render\nimportant service to his country if only he had some assistance, \u201cthere\nbeing,\u201d he said, \u201cnever an inhabitant left in the town but myself.\u201d\nWherefore he requests that their \u201cHonors would be pleased to order him\n_three or four men_ to help garrison his said house,\u201d which they did.\nBut methinks that such a garrison would be weakened by the addition of\na man.\n\n\u201cMake bandog thy scout watch to bark at a thief,\nMake courage for life, to be capitain chief;\nMake trap-door thy bulwark, make bell to begin,\nMake gunstone and arrow show who is within.\u201d\n\n\nThus he earned the title of first permanent settler. In 1694 a law was\npassed \u201cthat every settler who deserted a town for fear of the Indians\nshould forfeit all his rights therein.\u201d But now, at any rate, as I have\nfrequently observed, a man may desert the fertile frontier territories\nof truth and justice, which are the State\u2019s best lands, for fear of far\nmore insignificant foes, without forfeiting any of his civil rights\ntherein. Nay, townships are granted to deserters, and the General\nCourt, as I am sometimes inclined to regard it, is but a deserters\u2019\ncamp itself.\n\nAs we rowed along near the shore of Wicasuck Island, which was then\ncovered with wood, in order to avoid the current, two men, who looked\nas if they had just run out of Lowell, where they had been waylaid by\nthe Sabbath, meaning to go to Nashua, and who now found themselves in\nthe strange, natural, uncultivated, and unsettled part of the globe\nwhich intervenes, full of walls and barriers, a rough and uncivil place\nto them, seeing our boat moving so smoothly up the stream, called out\nfrom the high bank above our heads to know if we would take them as\npassengers, as if this were the street they had missed; that they might\nsit and chat and drive away the time, and so at last find themselves in\nNashua. This smooth way they much preferred. But our boat was crowded\nwith necessary furniture, and sunk low in the water, and moreover\nrequired to be worked, for even _it_ did not progress against the\nstream without effort; so we were obliged to deny them passage. As we\nglided away with even sweeps, while the fates scattered oil in our\ncourse, the sun now sinking behind the alders on the distant shore, we\ncould still see them far off over the water, running along the shore\nand climbing over the rocks and fallen trees like insects,\u2014for they did\nnot know any better than we that they were on an island,\u2014the\nunsympathizing river ever flowing in an opposite direction; until,\nhaving reached the entrance of the island brook, which they had\nprobably crossed upon the locks below, they found a more effectual\nbarrier to their progress. They seemed to be learning much in a little\ntime. They ran about like ants on a burning brand, and once more they\ntried the river here, and once more there, to see if water still indeed\nwas not to be walked on, as if a new thought inspired them, and by some\npeculiar disposition of the limbs they could accomplish it. At length\nsober common sense seemed to have resumed its sway, and they concluded\nthat what they had so long heard must be true, and resolved to ford the\nshallower stream. When nearly a mile distant we could see them\nstripping off their clothes and preparing for this experiment; yet it\nseemed likely that a new dilemma would arise, they were so\nthoughtlessly throwing away their clothes on the wrong side of the\nstream, as in the case of the countryman with his corn, his fox, and\nhis goose, which had to be transported one at a time. Whether they got\nsafely through, or went round by the locks, we never learned. We could\nnot help being struck by the seeming, though innocent indifference of\nNature to these men\u2019s necessities, while elsewhere she was equally\nserving others. Like a true benefactress, the secret of her service is\nunchangeableness. Thus is the busiest merchant, though within sight of\nhis Lowell, put to pilgrim\u2019s shifts, and soon comes to staff and scrip\nand scallop shell.\n\nWe, too, who held the middle of the stream, came near experiencing a\npilgrim\u2019s fate, being tempted to pursue what seemed a sturgeon or\nlarger fish, for we remembered that this was the Sturgeon River, its\ndark and monstrous back alternately rising and sinking in mid-stream.\nWe kept falling behind, but the fish kept his back well out, and did\nnot dive, and seemed to prefer to swim against the stream, so, at any\nrate, he would not escape us by going out to sea. At length, having got\nas near as was convenient, and looking out not to get a blow from his\ntail, now the bow-gunner delivered his charge, while the stern-man held\nhis ground. But the halibut-skinned monster, in one of these\nswift-gliding pregnant moments, without ever ceasing his bobbing up and\ndown, saw fit, without a chuckle or other prelude, to proclaim himself\na huge imprisoned spar, placed there as a buoy, to warn sailors of\nsunken rocks. So, each casting some blame upon the other, we withdrew\nquickly to safer waters.\n\nThe Scene-shifter saw fit here to close the drama, of this day, without\nregard to any unities which we mortals prize. Whether it might have\nproved tragedy, or comedy, or tragi-comedy, or pastoral, we cannot\ntell. This Sunday ended by the going down of the sun, leaving us still\non the waves. But they who are on the water enjoy a longer and brighter\ntwilight than they who are on the land, for here the water, as well as\nthe atmosphere, absorbs and reflects the light, and some of the day\nseems to have sunk down into the waves. The light gradually forsook the\ndeep water, as well as the deeper air, and the gloaming came to the\nfishes as well as to us, and more dim and gloomy to them, whose day is\na perpetual twilight, though sufficiently bright for their weak and\nwatery eyes. Vespers had already rung in many a dim and watery chapel\ndown below, where the shadows of the weeds were extended in length over\nthe sandy floor. The vespertinal pout had already begun to flit on\nleathern fin, and the finny gossips withdrew from the fluvial street to\ncreeks and coves, and other private haunts, excepting a few of stronger\nfin, which anchored in the stream, stemming the tide even in their\ndreams. Meanwhile, like a dark evening cloud, we were wafted over the\ncope of their sky, deepening the shadows on their deluged fields.\n\nHaving reached a retired part of the river where it spread out to sixty\nrods in width, we pitched our tent on the east side, in Tyngsborough,\njust above some patches of the beach plum, which was now nearly ripe,\nwhere the sloping bank was a sufficient pillow, and with the bustle of\nsailors making the land, we transferred such stores as were required\nfrom boat to tent, and hung a lantern to the tent-pole, and so our\nhouse was ready. With a buffalo spread on the grass, and a blanket for\nour covering our bed was soon made. A fire crackled merrily before the\nentrance, so near that we could tend it without stepping abroad, and\nwhen we had supped, we put out the blaze, and closed the door, and with\nthe semblance of domestic comfort, sat up to read the Gazetteer, to\nlearn our latitude and longitude, and write the journal of the voyage,\nor listened to the wind and the rippling of the river till sleep\novertook us. There we lay under an oak on the bank of the stream, near\nto some farmer\u2019s cornfield, getting sleep, and forgetting where we\nwere; a great blessing, that we are obliged to forget our enterprises\nevery twelve hours. Minks, muskrats, meadow-mice, woodchucks,\nsquirrels, skunks, rabbits, foxes, and weasels, all inhabit near, but\nkeep very close while you are there. The river sucking and eddying away\nall night down toward the marts and the seaboard, a great wash and\nfreshet, and no small enterprise to reflect on. Instead of the Scythian\nvastness of the Billerica night, and its wild musical sounds, we were\nkept awake by the boisterous sport of some Irish laborers on the\nrailroad, wafted to us over the water, still unwearied and unresting on\nthis seventh day, who would not have done with whirling up and down the\ntrack with ever increasing velocity and still reviving shouts, till\nlate in the night.\n\nOne sailor was visited in his dreams this night by the Evil Destinies,\nand all those powers that are hostile to human life, which constrain\nand oppress the minds of men, and make their path seem difficult and\nnarrow, and beset with dangers, so that the most innocent and worthy\nenterprises appear insolent and a tempting of fate, and the gods go not\nwith us. But the other happily passed a serene and even ambrosial or\nimmortal night, and his sleep was dreamless, or only the atmosphere of\npleasant dreams remained, a happy natural sleep until the morning; and\nhis cheerful spirit soothed and reassured his brother, for whenever\nthey meet, the Good Genius is sure to prevail.\n\n\n\n\nMONDAY\n\n\n\u201cI thynke for to touche also\nThe worlde whiche neweth everie daie,\nSo as I can, so as I maie.\u201d\n\nGOWER.\n\n\n\u201cThe hye sheryfe of Notynghame,\n    Hym holde in your mynd.\u201d\n\n_Robin Hood Ballads_.\n\n\n\u201cHis shoote it was but loosely shott,\n    Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,\nFor it mett one of the sheriffe\u2019s men,\n    And William a Trent was slaine.\u201d\n\n_Robin Hood Ballads_\n\n\n\u201cGazed on the heavens for what he missed on Earth.\u201d\n\n_Britania\u2019s Pastorals_\n\n\nWhen the first light dawned on the earth and the birds, awoke, and the\nbrave river was heard rippling confidently seaward, and the nimble\nearly rising wind rustled the oak leaves about our tent, all men having\nreinforced their bodies and their souls with sleep, and cast aside\ndoubt and fear, were invited to unattempted adventures.\n\n\u201cAll courageous knichtis\nAgains the day dichtis\nThe breest-plate that bricht is,\n        To feght with their foue.\nThe stoned steed stampis\nThrow curage and crampis,\nSyne on the land lampis;\n        The night is neir gone.\u201d\n\n\nOne of us took the boat over to the opposite shore, which was flat and\naccessible, a quarter of a mile distant, to empty it of water and wash\nout the clay, while the other kindled a fire and got breakfast ready.\nAt an early hour we were again on our way, rowing through the fog as\nbefore, the river already awake, and a million crisped waves come forth\nto meet the sun when he should show himself. The countrymen, recruited\nby their day of rest, were already stirring, and had begun to cross the\nferry on the business of the week. This ferry was as busy as a beaver\ndam, and all the world seemed anxious to get across the Merrimack River\nat this particular point, waiting to get set over,\u2014children with their\ntwo cents done up in paper, jail-birds broke loose and constable with\nwarrant, travellers from distant lands to distant lands, men and women\nto whom the Merrimack River was a bar. There stands a gig in the gray\nmorning, in the mist, the impatient traveller pacing the wet shore with\nwhip in hand, and shouting through the fog after the regardless Charon\nand his retreating ark, as if he might throw that passenger overboard\nand return forthwith for himself; he will compensate him. He is to\nbreak his fast at some unseen place on the opposite side. It may be\nLedyard or the Wandering Jew. Whence, pray, did he come out of the\nfoggy night? and whither through the sunny day will he go? We observe\nonly his transit; important to us, forgotten by him, transiting all\nday. There are two of them. May be, they are Virgil and Dante. But when\nthey crossed the Styx, none were seen bound up or down the stream, that\nI remember. It is only a _transjectus_, a transitory voyage, like life\nitself, none but the long-lived gods bound up or down the stream. Many\nof these Monday men are ministers, no doubt, reseeking their parishes\nwith hired horses, with sermons in their valises all read and gutted,\nthe day after never with them. They cross each other\u2019s routes all the\ncountry over like woof and warp, making a garment of loose texture;\nvacation now for six days. They stop to pick nuts and berries, and\ngather apples by the wayside at their leisure. Good religious men, with\nthe love of men in their hearts, and the means to pay their toll in\ntheir pockets. We got over this ferry chain without scraping, rowing\nathwart the tide of travel,\u2014no toll for us that day.\n\nThe fog dispersed and we rowed leisurely along through Tyngsborough,\nwith a clear sky and a mild atmosphere, leaving the habitations of men\nbehind and penetrating yet farther into the territory of ancient\nDunstable. It was from Dunstable, then a frontier town, that the famous\nCaptain Lovewell, with his company, marched in quest of the Indians on\nthe 18th of April, 1725. He was the son of \u201can ensign in the army of\nOliver Cromwell, who came to this country, and settled at Dunstable,\nwhere he died at the great age of one hundred and twenty years.\u201d In the\nwords of the old nursery tale, sung about a hundred years ago,\u2014\n\n\u201cHe and his valiant soldiers did range the woods full wide,\nAnd hardships they endured to quell the Indian\u2019s pride.\u201d\n\n\nIn the shaggy pine forest of Pequawket they met the \u201crebel Indians,\u201d\nand prevailed, after a bloody fight, and a remnant returned home to\nenjoy the fame of their victory. A township called Lovewell\u2019s Town, but\nnow, for some reason, or perhaps without reason, Pembroke, was granted\nthem by the State.\n\n\u201cOf all our valiant English, there were but thirty-four,\nAnd of the rebel Indians, there were about four-score;\nAnd sixteen of our English did safely home return,\nThe rest were killed and wounded, for which we all must mourn.\n\n\u201cOur worthy Capt. Lovewell among them there did die,\nThey killed Lieut. Robbins, and wounded good young Frye,\nWho was our English Chaplin; he many Indians slew,\nAnd some of them he scalped while bullets round him flew.\u201d\n\n\nOur brave forefathers have exterminated all the Indians, and their\ndegenerate children no longer dwell in garrisoned houses nor hear any\nwar-whoop in their path. It would be well, perchance, if many an\n\u201cEnglish Chaplin\u201d in these days could exhibit as unquestionable\ntrophies of his valor as did \u201cgood young Frye.\u201d We have need to be as\nsturdy pioneers still as Miles Standish, or Church, or Lovewell. We are\nto follow on another trail, it is true, but one as convenient for\nambushes. What if the Indians are exterminated, are not savages as grim\nprowling about the clearings to-day?\u2014\n\n\u201cAnd braving many dangers and hardships in the way,\nThey safe arrived at Dunstable the thirteenth (?) day of May.\u201d\n\n\nBut they did not all \u201csafe arrive in Dunstable the thirteenth,\u201d or the\nfifteenth, or the thirtieth \u201cday of May.\u201d Eleazer Davis and Josiah\nJones, both of Concord, for our native town had seven men in this\nfight, Lieutenant Farwell, of Dunstable, and Jonathan Frye, of Andover,\nwho were all wounded, were left behind, creeping toward the\nsettlements. \u201cAfter travelling several miles, Frye was left and lost,\u201d\nthough a more recent poet has assigned him company in his last hours.\n\n\u201cA man he was of comely form,\n    Polished and brave, well learned and kind;\nOld Harvard\u2019s learned halls he left\n    Far in the wilds a grave to find.\n\n\u201cAh! now his blood-red arm he lifts;\n    His closing lids he tries to raise;\nAnd speak once more before he dies,\n    In supplication and in praise.\n\n\u201cHe prays kind Heaven to grant success,\n    Brave Lovewell\u2019s men to guide and bless,\nAnd when they\u2019ve shed their heart-blood true,\n    To raise them all to happiness.\u201d . . .\n\n\u201cLieutenant Farwell took his hand,\n    His arm around his neck he threw,\nAnd said, \u2018Brave Chaplain, I could wish\n    That Heaven had made me die for you.\u2019\u201d\n\n\nFarwell held out eleven days. \u201cA tradition says,\u201d as we learn from the\nHistory of Concord, \u201cthat arriving at a pond with Lieut. Farwell, Davis\npulled off one of his moccasins, cut it in strings, on which he\nfastened a hook, caught some fish, fried and ate them. They refreshed\nhim, but were injurious to Farwell, who died soon after.\u201d Davis had a\nball lodged in his body, and his right hand shot off; but on the whole,\nhe seems to have been less damaged than his companion. He came into\nBerwick after being out fourteen days. Jones also had a ball lodged in\nhis body, but he likewise got into Saco after fourteen days, though not\nin the best condition imaginable. \u201cHe had subsisted,\u201d says an old\njournal, \u201con the spontaneous vegetables of the forest; and cranberries\nwhich he had eaten came out of wounds he had received in his body.\u201d\nThis was also the case with Davis. The last two reached home at length,\nsafe if not sound, and lived many years in a crippled state to enjoy\ntheir pension.\n\nBut alas! of the crippled Indians, and their adventures in the woods,\u2014\n\n\u201cFor as we are informed, so thick and fast they fell,\nScarce twenty of their number at night did get home well,\u201d\u2014\n\n\nhow many balls lodged with them, how fared their cranberries, what\nBerwick or Saco they got into, and finally what pension or township was\ngranted them, there is no journal to tell.\n\nIt is stated in the History of Dunstable, that just before his last\nmarch, Lovewell was warned to beware of the ambuscades of the enemy,\nbut \u201che replied, \u2018that he did not care for them,\u2019 and bending down a\nsmall elm beside which he was standing into a bow, declared \u2018that he\nwould treat the Indians in the same way.\u2019 This elm is still standing\n[in Nashua], a venerable and magnificent tree.\u201d\n\nMeanwhile, having passed the Horseshoe Interval in Tyngsborough, where\nthe river makes a sudden bend to the northwest,\u2014for our reflections\nhave anticipated our progress somewhat,\u2014we were advancing farther into\nthe country and into the day, which last proved almost as golden as the\npreceding, though the slight bustle and activity of the Monday seemed\nto penetrate even to this scenery. Now and then we had to muster all\nour energy to get round a point, where the river broke rippling over\nrocks, and the maples trailed their branches in the stream, but there\nwas generally a backwater or eddy on the side, of which we took\nadvantage. The river was here about forty rods wide and fifteen feet\ndeep. Occasionally one ran along the shore, examining the country, and\nvisiting the nearest farm-houses, while the other followed the windings\nof the stream alone, to meet his companion at some distant point, and\nhear the report of his adventures; how the farmer praised the coolness\nof his well, and his wife offered the stranger a draught of milk, or\nthe children quarrelled for the only transparency in the window that\nthey might get sight of the man at the well. For though the country\nseemed so new, and no house was observed by us, shut in between the\nbanks that sunny day, we did not have to travel far to find where men\ninhabited, like wild bees, and had sunk wells in the loose sand and\nloam of the Merrimack. There dwelt the subject of the Hebrew\nscriptures, and the Esprit des Lois, where a thin vaporous smoke curled\nup through the noon. All that is told of mankind, of the inhabitants of\nthe Upper Nile, and the Sunderbunds, and Timbuctoo, and the Orinoko,\nwas experience here. Every race and class of men was represented.\nAccording to Belknap, the historian of New Hampshire, who wrote sixty\nyears ago, here too, perchance, dwelt \u201cnew lights,\u201d and free thinking\nmen even then. \u201cThe people in general throughout the State,\u201d it is\nwritten, \u201care professors of the Christian religion in some form or\nother. There is, however, a sort of _wise men_ who pretend to reject\nit; but they have not yet been able to substitute a better in its\nplace.\u201d\n\nThe other voyageur, perhaps, would in the mean while have seen a brown\nhawk, or a woodchuck, or a musquash creeping under the alders.\n\nWe occasionally rested in the shade of a maple or a willow, and drew\nforth a melon for our refreshment, while we contemplated at our leisure\nthe lapse of the river and of human life; and as that current, with its\nfloating twigs and leaves, so did all things pass in review before us,\nwhile far away in cities and marts on this very stream, the old routine\nwas proceeding still. There is, indeed, a tide in the affairs of men,\nas the poet says, and yet as things flow they circulate, and the ebb\nalways balances the flow. All streams are but tributary to the ocean,\nwhich itself does not stream, and the shores are unchanged, but in\nlonger periods than man can measure. Go where we will, we discover\ninfinite change in particulars only, not in generals. When I go into a\nmuseum and see the mummies wrapped in their linen bandages, I see that\nthe lives of men began to need reform as long ago as when they walked\nthe earth. I come out into the streets, and meet men who declare that\nthe time is near at hand for the redemption of the race. But as men\nlived in Thebes, so do they live in Dunstable to-day. \u201cTime drinketh up\nthe essence of every great and noble action which ought to be\nperformed, and is delayed in the execution.\u201d So says Veeshnoo Sarma;\nand we perceive that the schemers return again and again to common\nsense and labor. Such is the evidence of history.\n\n\u201cYet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs,\nAnd the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the Suns.\u201d\n\n\nThere are secret articles in our treaties with the gods, of more\nimportance than all the rest, which the historian can never know.\n\nThere are many skilful apprentices, but few master workmen. On every\nhand we observe a truly wise practice, in education, in morals, and in\nthe arts of life, the embodied wisdom of many an ancient philosopher.\nWho does not see that heresies have some time prevailed, that reforms\nhave already taken place? All this worldly wisdom might be regarded as\nthe once unamiable heresy of some wise man. Some interests have got a\nfooting on the earth which we have not made sufficient allowance for.\nEven they who first built these barns and cleared the land thus, had\nsome valor. The abrupt epochs and chasms are smoothed down in history\nas the inequalities of the plain are concealed by distance. But unless\nwe do more than simply learn the trade of our time, we are but\napprentices, and not yet masters of the art of life.\n\nNow that we are casting away these melon seeds, how can we help feeling\nreproach? He who eats the fruit, should at least plant the seed; aye,\nif possible, a better seed than that whose fruit he has enjoyed. Seeds!\nthere are seeds enough which need only to be stirred in with the soil\nwhere they lie, by an inspired voice or pen, to bear fruit of a divine\nflavor. O thou spendthrift! Defray thy debt to the world; eat not the\nseed of institutions, as the luxurious do, but plant it rather, while\nthou devourest the pulp and tuber for thy subsistence; that so,\nperchance, one variety may at last be found worthy of preservation.\n\nThere are moments when all anxiety and stated toil are becalmed in the\ninfinite leisure and repose of nature. All laborers must have their\nnooning, and at this season of the day, we are all, more or less,\nAsiatics, and give over all work and reform. While lying thus on our\noars by the side of the stream, in the heat of the day, our boat held\nby an osier put through the staple in its prow, and slicing the melons,\nwhich are a fruit of the East, our thoughts reverted to Arabia, Persia,\nand Hindostan, the lands of contemplation and dwelling-places of the\nruminant nations. In the experience of this noontide we could find some\napology even for the instinct of the opium, betel, and tobacco chewers.\nMount Sab\u00e9r, according to the French traveller and naturalist, Botta,\nis celebrated for producing the K\u00e1t-tree, of which \u201cthe soft tops of\nthe twigs and tender leaves are eaten,\u201d says his reviewer, \u201cand produce\nan agreeable soothing excitement, restoring from fatigue, banishing\nsleep, and disposing to the enjoyment of conversation.\u201d We thought that\nwe might lead a dignified Oriental life along this stream as well, and\nthe maple and alders would be our K\u00e1t-trees.\n\nIt is a great pleasure to escape sometimes from the restless class of\nReformers. What if these grievances exist? So do you and I. Think you\nthat sitting hens are troubled with ennui these long summer days,\nsitting on and on in the crevice of a hay-loft, without active\nemployment? By the faint cackling in distant barns, I judge that dame\nNature is interested still to know how many eggs her hens lay. The\nUniversal Soul, as it is called, has an interest in the stacking of\nhay, the foddering of cattle, and the draining of peat-meadows. Away in\nScythia, away in India, it makes butter and cheese. Suppose that all\nfarms _are_ run out, and we youths must buy old land and bring it to,\nstill everywhere the relentless opponents of reform bear a strange\nresemblance to ourselves; or, perchance, they are a few old maids and\nbachelors, who sit round the kitchen hearth and listen to the singing\nof the kettle. \u201cThe oracles often give victory to our choice, and not\nto the order alone of the mundane periods. As, for instance, when they\nsay that our voluntary sorrows germinate in us as the growth of the\nparticular life we lead.\u201d The reform which you talk about can be\nundertaken any morning before unbarring our doors. We need not call any\nconvention. When two neighbors begin to eat corn bread, who before ate\nwheat, then the gods smile from ear to ear, for it is very pleasant to\nthem. Why do you not try it? Don\u2019t let me hinder you.\n\nThere are theoretical reformers at all times, and all the world over,\nliving on anticipation. Wolff, travelling in the deserts of Bokhara,\nsays, \u201cAnother party of derveeshes came to me and observed, \u2018The time\nwill come when there shall be no difference between rich and poor,\nbetween high and low, when property will be in common, even wives and\nchildren.\u2019\u201d But forever I ask of such, What then? The derveeshes in the\ndeserts of Bokhara and the reformers in Marlboro\u2019 Chapel sing the same\nsong. \u201cThere\u2019s a good time coming, boys,\u201d but, asked one of the\naudience, in good faith, \u201cCan you fix the date?\u201d Said I, \u201cWill you help\nit along?\u201d\n\nThe nonchalance and _dolce-far-niente_ air of nature and society hint\nat infinite periods in the progress of mankind. The States have leisure\nto laugh from Maine to Texas at some newspaper joke, and New England\nshakes at the double-entendres of Australian circles, while the poor\nreformer cannot get a hearing.\n\nMen do not fail commonly for want of knowledge, but for want of\nprudence to give wisdom the preference. What we need to know in any\ncase is very simple. It is but too easy to establish another durable\nand harmonious routine. Immediately all parts of nature consent to it.\nOnly make something to take the place of something, and men will behave\nas if it was the very thing they wanted. They _must_ behave, at any\nrate, and will work up any material. There is always a present and\nextant life, be it better or worse, which all combine to uphold. We\nshould be slow to mend, my friends, as slow to require mending, \u201cNot\nhurling, according to the oracle, a transcendent foot towards piety.\u201d\nThe language of excitement is at best picturesque merely. You must be\ncalm before you can utter oracles. What was the excitement of the\nDelphic priestess compared with the calm wisdom of Socrates?\u2014or whoever\nit was that was wise.\u2014Enthusiasm is a supernatural serenity.\n\n\u201cMen find that action is another thing\n    Than what they in discoursing papers read;\nThe world\u2019s affairs require in managing\n    More arts than those wherein you clerks proceed.\u201d\n\n\nAs in geology, so in social institutions, we may discover the causes of\nall past change in the present invariable order of society. The\ngreatest appreciable physical revolutions are the work of the\nlight-footed air, the stealthy-paced water, and the subterranean fire.\nAristotle said, \u201cAs time never fails, and the universe is eternal,\nneither the Tanais nor the Nile can have flowed forever.\u201d We are\nindependent of the change we detect. The longer the lever the less\nperceptible its motion. It is the slowest pulsation which is the most\nvital. The hero then will know how to wait, as well as to make haste.\nAll good abides with him who waiteth _wisely_; we shall sooner overtake\nthe dawn by remaining here than by hurrying over the hills of the west.\nBe assured that every man\u2019s success is in proportion to his _average_\nability. The meadow flowers spring and bloom where the waters annually\ndeposit their slime, not where they reach in some freshet only. A man\nis not his hope, nor his despair, nor yet his past deed. We know not\nyet what we have done, still less what we are doing. Wait till evening,\nand other parts of our day\u2019s work will shine than we had thought at\nnoon, and we shall discover the real purport of our toil. As when the\nfarmer has reached the end of the furrow and looks back, he can tell\nbest where the pressed earth shines most.\n\nTo one who habitually endeavors to contemplate the true state of\nthings, the political state can hardly be said to have any existence\nwhatever. It is unreal, incredible, and insignificant to him, and for\nhim to endeavor to extract the truth from such lean material is like\nmaking sugar from linen rags, when sugar-cane may be had. Generally\nspeaking, the political news, whether domestic or foreign, might be\nwritten to-day for the next ten years, with sufficient accuracy. Most\nrevolutions in society have not power to interest, still less alarm us;\nbut tell me that our rivers are drying up, or the genus pine dying out\nin the country, and I might attend. Most events recorded in history are\nmore remarkable than important, like eclipses of the sun and moon, by\nwhich all are attracted, but whose effects no one takes the trouble to\ncalculate.\n\nBut will the government never be so well administered, inquired one,\nthat we private men shall hear nothing about it? \u201cThe king answered: At\nall events, I require a prudent and able man, who is capable of\nmanaging the state affairs of my kingdom. The ex-minister said: The\ncriterion, O Sire! of a wise and competent man is, that he will not\nmeddle with such like matters.\u201d Alas that the ex-minister should have\nbeen so nearly right!\n\nIn my short experience of human life, the _outward_ obstacles, if there\nwere any such, have not been living men, but the institutions of the\ndead. It is grateful to make one\u2019s way through this latest generation\nas through dewy grass. Men are as innocent as the morning to the\nunsuspicious.\n\n\u201cAnd round about good morrows fly,\nAs if day taught humanity.\u201d\n\n\nNot being Reve of this Shire,\n\n\u201cThe early pilgrim blithe he hailed,\n    That o\u2019er the hills did stray,\nAnd many an early husbandman,\n    That he met on the way\u201d;\u2014\n\n\nthieves and robbers all, nevertheless. I have not so surely foreseen\nthat any Cossack or Chippeway would come to disturb the honest and\nsimple commonwealth, as that some monster institution would at length\nembrace and crush its free members in its scaly folds; for it is not to\nbe forgotten, that while the law holds fast the thief and murderer, it\nlets itself go loose. When I have not paid the tax which the State\ndemanded for that protection which I did not want, itself has robbed\nme; when I have asserted the liberty it presumed to declare, itself has\nimprisoned me. Poor creature! if it knows no better I will not blame\nit. If it cannot live but by these means, I can. I do not wish, it\nhappens, to be associated with Massachusetts, either in holding slaves\nor in conquering Mexico. I am a little better than herself in these\nrespects.\u2014As for Massachusetts, that huge she Briareus, Argus and\nColchian Dragon conjoined, set to watch the Heifer of the Constitution\nand the Golden Fleece, we would not warrant our respect for her, like\nsome compositions, to preserve its qualities through all weathers.\u2014Thus\nit has happened, that not the Arch Fiend himself has been in my way,\nbut these toils which tradition says were originally spun to obstruct\nhim. They are cobwebs and trifling obstacles in an earnest man\u2019s path,\nit is true, and at length one even becomes attached to his unswept and\nundusted garret. I love man\u2014kind, but I hate the institutions of the\ndead un-kind. Men execute nothing so faithfully as the wills of the\ndead, to the last codicil and letter. _They_ rule this world, and the\nliving are but their executors. Such foundation too have our lectures\nand our sermons, commonly. They are all _Dudleian;_ and piety derives\nits origin still from that exploit of _pius \u00c6neas_, who bore his\nfather, Anchises, on his shoulders from the ruins of Troy. Or rather,\nlike some Indian tribes, we bear about with us the mouldering relics of\nour ancestors on our shoulders. If, for instance, a man asserts the\nvalue of individual liberty over the merely political commonweal, his\nneighbor still tolerates him, that he who is _living near_ him,\nsometimes even sustains him, but never the State. Its officer, as a\nliving man, may have human virtues and a thought in his brain, but as\nthe tool of an institution, a jailer or constable it may be, he is not\na whit superior to his prison key or his staff. Herein is the tragedy;\nthat men doing outrage to their proper natures, even those called wise\nand good, lend themselves to perform the office of inferior and brutal\nones. Hence come war and slavery in; and what else may not come in by\nthis opening? But certainly there are modes by which a man may put\nbread into his mouth which will not prejudice him as a companion and\nneighbor.\n\n\u201cNow turn again, turn again, said the pind\u00e8r,\n    For a wrong way you have gone,\nFor you have forsaken the king\u2019s highway,\n    And made a path over the corn.\u201d\n\n\nUndoubtedly, countless reforms are called for, because society is not\nanimated, or instinct enough with life, but in the condition of some\nsnakes which I have seen in early spring, with alternate portions of\ntheir bodies torpid and flexible, so that they could wriggle neither\nway. All men are partially buried in the grave of custom, and of some\nwe see only the crown of the head above ground. Better are the\nphysically dead, for they more lively rot. Even virtue is no longer\nsuch if it be stagnant. A man\u2019s life should be constantly as fresh as\nthis river. It should be the same channel, but a new water every\ninstant.\n\n        \u201cVirtues as rivers pass,\nBut still remains that virtuous man there was.\u201d\n\n\nMost men have no inclination, no rapids, no cascades, but marshes, and\nalligators, and miasma instead. We read that when in the expedition of\nAlexander, Onesicritus was sent forward to meet certain of the Indian\nsect of Gymnosophists, and he had told them of those new philosophers\nof the West, Pythagoras, Socrates, and Diogenes, and their doctrines,\none of them named Dandamis answered, that \u201cThey appeared to him to have\nbeen men of genius, but to have lived with too passive a regard for the\nlaws.\u201d The philosophers of the West are liable to this rebuke still.\n\u201cThey say that Lieou-hia-hoei, and Chao-lien did not sustain to the end\ntheir resolutions, and that they dishonored their character. Their\nlanguage was in harmony with reason and justice; while their acts were\nin harmony with the sentiments of men.\u201d\n\nChateaubriand said: \u201cThere are two things which grow stronger in the\nbreast of man, in proportion as he advances in years: the love of\ncountry and religion. Let them be never so much forgotten in youth,\nthey sooner or later present themselves to us arrayed in all their\ncharms, and excite in the recesses of our hearts an attachment justly\ndue to their beauty.\u201d It may be so. But even this infirmity of noble\nminds marks the gradual decay of youthful hope and faith. It is the\nallowed infidelity of age. There is a saying of the Yoloffs, \u201cHe who\nwas born first has the greatest number of old clothes,\u201d consequently M.\nChateaubriand has more old clothes than I have. It is comparatively a\nfaint and reflected beauty that is admired, not an essential and\nintrinsic one. It is because the old are weak, feel their mortality,\nand think that they have measured the strength of man. They will not\nboast; they will be frank and humble. Well, let them have the few poor\ncomforts they can keep. Humility is still a very human virtue. They\nlook back on life, and so see not into the future. The prospect of the\nyoung is forward and unbounded, mingling the future with the present.\nIn the declining day the thoughts make haste to rest in darkness, and\nhardly look forward to the ensuing morning. The thoughts of the old\nprepare for night and slumber. The same hopes and prospects are not for\nhim who stands upon the rosy mountain-tops of life, and him who expects\nthe setting of his earthly day.\n\nI must conclude that Conscience, if that be the name of it, was not\ngiven us for no purpose, or for a hinderance. However flattering order\nand expediency may look, it is but the repose of a lethargy, and we\nwill choose rather to be awake, though it be stormy, and maintain\nourselves on this earth and in this life, as we may, without signing\nour death-warrant. Let us see if we cannot stay here, where He has put\nus, on his own conditions. Does not his law reach as far as his light?\nThe expedients of the nations clash with one another, only the\nabsolutely right is expedient for all.\n\nThere are some passages in the Antigone of Sophocles, well known to\nscholars, of which I am reminded in this connection. Antigone has\nresolved to sprinkle sand on the dead body of her brother Polynices,\nnotwithstanding the edict of King Creon condemning to death that one\nwho should perform this service, which the Greeks deemed so important,\nfor the enemy of his country; but Ismene, who is of a less resolute and\nnoble spirit, declines taking part with her sister in this work, and\nsays,\u2014\n\n\u201cI, therefore, asking those under the earth to consider me, that I am\ncompelled to do thus, will obey those who are placed in office; for to\ndo extreme things is not wise.\u201d\n\nANTIGONE.\n\n\n\u201cI would not ask you, nor would you, if you still wished, do it\njoyfully with me. Be such as seems good to you. But I will bury him. It\nis glorious for me doing this to die. I beloved will lie with him\nbeloved, having, like a criminal, done what is holy; since the time is\nlonger which it is necessary for me to please those below, than those\nhere, for there I shall always lie. But if it seems good to you, hold\nin dishonor things which are honored by the gods.\u201d\n\nISMENE.\n\n\n\u201cI indeed do not hold them in dishonor; but to act in opposition to the\ncitizens I am by nature unable.\u201d\n\nAntigone being at length brought before King Creon, he asks,\u2014\n\n\u201cDid you then dare to transgress these laws?\u201d\n\nANTIGONE.\n\n\n\u201cFor it was not Zeus who proclaimed these to me, nor Justice who dwells\nwith the gods below; it was not they who established these laws among\nmen. Nor did I think that your proclamations were so strong, as, being\na mortal, to be able to transcend the unwritten and immovable laws of\nthe gods. For not something now and yesterday, but forever these live,\nand no one knows from what time they appeared. I was not about to pay\nthe penalty of violating these to the gods, fearing the presumption of\nany man. For I well knew that I should die, and why not? even if you\nhad not proclaimed it.\u201d\n\nThis was concerning the burial of a dead body.\n\nThe wisest conservatism is that of the Hindoos. \u201cImmemorial custom is\ntranscendent law,\u201d says Menu. That is, it was the custom of the gods\nbefore men used it. The fault of our New England custom is that it is\nmemorial. What is morality but immemorial custom? Conscience is the\nchief of conservatives. \u201cPerform the settled functions,\u201d says Kreeshna\nin the Bhagvat-Geeta; \u201caction is preferable to inaction. The journey of\nthy mortal frame may not succeed from inaction.\u201d\u2014\u201cA man\u2019s own calling\nwith all its faults, ought not to be forsaken. Every undertaking is\ninvolved in its faults as the fire in its smoke.\u201d\u2014\u201cThe man who is\nacquainted with the whole, should not drive those from their works who\nare slow of comprehension, and less experienced than\nhimself.\u201d\u2014\u201cWherefore, O Arjoon, resolve to fight,\u201d is the advice of the\nGod to the irresolute soldier who fears to slay his best friends. It is\na sublime conservatism; as wide as the world, and as unwearied as time;\npreserving the universe with Asiatic anxiety, in that state in which it\nappeared to their minds. These philosophers dwell on the inevitability\nand unchangeableness of laws, on the power of temperament and\nconstitution, the three goon or qualities, and the circumstances of\nbirth and affinity. The end is an immense consolation; eternal\nabsorption in Brahma. Their speculations never venture beyond their own\ntable-lands, though they are high and vast as they. Buoyancy, freedom,\nflexibility, variety, possibility, which also are qualities of the\nUnnamed, they deal not with. The undeserved reward is to be earned by\nan everlasting moral drudgery; the incalculable promise of the morrow\nis, as it were, weighed. And who will say that their conservatism has\nnot been effectual? \u201cAssuredly,\u201d says a French translator, speaking of\nthe antiquity and durability of the Chinese and Indian nations, and of\nthe wisdom of their legislators, \u201cthere are there some vestiges of the\neternal laws which govern the world.\u201d\n\nChristianity, on the other hand, is humane, practical, and, in a large\nsense, radical. So many years and ages of the gods those Eastern sages\nsat contemplating Brahm, uttering in silence the mystic \u201cOm,\u201d being\nabsorbed into the essence of the Supreme Being, never going out of\nthemselves, but subsiding farther and deeper within; so infinitely\nwise, yet infinitely stagnant; until, at last, in that same Asia, but\nin the western part of it, appeared a youth, wholly unforetold by\nthem,\u2014not being absorbed into Brahm, but bringing Brahm down to earth\nand to mankind; in whom Brahm had awaked from his long sleep, and\nexerted himself, and the day began,\u2014a new avatar. The Brahman had never\nthought to be a brother of mankind as well as a child of God. Christ is\nthe prince of Reformers and Radicals. Many expressions in the New\nTestament come naturally to the lips of all Protestants, and it\nfurnishes the most pregnant and practical texts. There is no harmless\ndreaming, no wise speculation in it, but everywhere a substratum of\ngood sense. It never _reflects_, but it _repents_. There is no poetry\nin it, we may say nothing regarded in the light of beauty merely, but\nmoral truth is its object. All mortals are convicted by its conscience.\n\nThe New Testament is remarkable for its pure morality; the best of the\nHindo Scripture, for its pure intellectuality. The reader is nowhere\nraised into and sustained in a higher, purer, or _rarer_ region of\nthought than in the Bhagvat-Geeta. Warren Hastings, in his sensible\nletter recommending the translation of this book to the Chairman of the\nEast India Company, declares the original to be \u201cof a sublimity of\nconception, reasoning, and diction almost unequalled,\u201d and that the\nwritings of the Indian philosophers \u201cwill survive when the British\ndominion in India shall have long ceased to exist, and when the sources\nwhich it once yielded of wealth and power are lost to remembrance.\u201d It\nis unquestionably one of the noblest and most sacred scriptures which\nhave come down to us. Books are to be distinguished by the grandeur of\ntheir topics, even more than by the manner in which they are treated.\nThe Oriental philosophy approaches, easily, loftier themes than the\nmodern aspires to; and no wonder if it sometimes prattle about them.\n_It_ only assigns their due rank respectively to Action and\nContemplation, or rather does full justice to the latter. Western\nphilosophers have not conceived of the significance of Contemplation in\ntheir sense. Speaking of the spiritual discipline to which the Brahmans\nsubjected themselves, and the wonderful power of abstraction to which\nthey attained, instances of which had come under his notice, Hastings\nsays:\u2014\n\n\u201cTo those who have never been accustomed to the separation of the mind\nfrom the notices of the senses, it may not be easy to conceive by what\nmeans such a power is to be attained; since even the most studious men\nof our hemisphere will find it difficult so to restrain their\nattention, but that it will wander to some object of present sense or\nrecollection; and even the buzzing of a fly will sometimes have the\npower to disturb it. But if we are told that there have been men who\nwere successively, for ages past, in the daily habit of abstracted\ncontemplation, begun in the earliest period of youth, and continued in\nmany to the maturity of age, each adding some portion of knowledge to\nthe store accumulated by his predecessors; it is not assuming too much\nto conclude, that as the mind ever gathers strength, like the body, by\nexercise, so in such an exercise it may in each have acquired the\nfaculty to which they aspired, and that their collective studies may\nhave led them to the discovery of new tracts and combinations of\nsentiment, totally different from the doctrines with which the learned\nof other nations are acquainted; doctrines which, however speculative\nand subtle, still as they possess the advantage of being derived from a\nsource so free from every adventitious mixture, may be equally founded\nin truth with the most simple of our own.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe forsaking of works\u201d was taught by Kreeshna to the most ancient of\nmen, and handed down from age to age,\n\n\u201cuntil at length, in the course of time, the mighty art was lost.\n\n\u201cIn wisdom is to be found every work without exception,\u201d says\nKreeshna.\n\n\u201cAlthough thou wert the greatest of all offenders, thou shalt\nbe able to cross the gulf of sin with the bark of wisdom.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is not anything in this world to be compared with wisdom\nfor purity.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe action stands at a distance inferior to the application of\nwisdom.\u201d\n\nThe wisdom of a Moonee \u201cis confirmed, when, like the tortoise, he can\ndraw in all his members, and restrain them from their wonted purposes.\u201d\n\n\u201cChildren only, and not the learned, speak of the speculative and the\npractical doctrines as two. They are but one. For both obtain the\nselfsame end, and the place which is gained by the followers of the one\nis gained by the followers of the other.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe man enjoyeth not freedom from action, from the non-commencement of\nthat which he hath to do; nor doth he obtain happiness from a total\ninactivity. No one ever resteth a moment inactive. Every man is\ninvoluntarily urged to act by those principles which are inherent in\nhis nature. The man who restraineth his active faculties, and sitteth\ndown with his mind attentive to the objects of his senses, is called\none of an astrayed soul, and the practiser of deceit. So the man is\npraised, who, having subdued all his passions, performeth with his\nactive faculties all the functions of life, unconcerned about the\nevent.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet the motive be in the deed and not in the event. Be not one whose\nmotive for action is the hope of reward. Let not thy life be spent in\ninaction.\u201d\n\n\u201cFor the man who doeth that which he hath to do, without affection,\nobtaineth the Supreme.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe who may behold, as it were inaction in action, and action in\ninaction, is wise amongst mankind. He is a perfect performer of all\nduty.\u201d\n\n\u201cWise men call him a _Pandeet_, whose every undertaking is free from\nthe idea of desire, and whose actions are consumed by the fire of\nwisdom. He abandoneth the desire of a reward of his actions; he is\nalways contented and independent; and although he may be engaged in a\nwork, he, as it were, doeth nothing.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is both a Yogee and a Sannyasee who performeth that which he hath\nto do independent of the fruit thereof; not he who liveth without the\nsacrificial fire and without action.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe who enjoyeth but the Amreeta which is left of his offerings,\nobtaineth the eternal spirit of Brahm, the Supreme.\u201d\n\nWhat, after all, does the practicalness of life amount to? The things\nimmediate to be done are very trivial. I could postpone them all to\nhear this locust sing. The most glorious fact in my experience is not\nanything that I have done or may hope to do, but a transient thought,\nor vision, or dream, which I have had. I would give all the wealth of\nthe world, and all the deeds of all the heroes, for one true vision.\nBut how can I communicate with the gods who am a pencil-maker on the\nearth, and not be insane?\n\n\u201cI am the same to all mankind,\u201d says Kreeshna; \u201cthere is not one who is\nworthy of my love or hatred.\u201d\n\nThis teaching is not practical in the sense in which the New Testament\nis. It is not always sound sense in practice. The Brahman never\nproposes courageously to assault evil, but patiently to starve it out.\nHis active faculties are paralyzed by the idea of cast, of impassable\nlimits, of destiny and the tyranny of time. Kreeshna\u2019s argument, it\nmust be allowed, is defective. No sufficient reason is given why Arjoon\nshould fight. Arjoon may be convinced, but the reader is not, for his\njudgment is _not_ \u201cformed upon the speculative doctrines of the\n_Sankhya Sastra_.\u201d \u201cSeek an asylum in wisdom alone\u201d; but what is wisdom\nto a Western mind? The duty of which he speaks is an arbitrary one.\nWhen was it established? The Brahman\u2019s virtue consists in doing, not\nright, but arbitrary things. What is that which a man \u201chath to do\u201d?\nWhat is \u201caction\u201d? What are the \u201csettled functions\u201d? What is \u201ca man\u2019s\nown religion,\u201d which is so much better than another\u2019s? What is \u201ca man\u2019s\nown particular calling\u201d? What are the duties which are appointed by\none\u2019s birth? It is a defence of the institution of casts, of what is\ncalled the \u201cnatural duty\u201d of the Kshetree, or soldier, \u201cto attach\nhimself to the discipline,\u201d \u201cnot to flee from the field,\u201d and the like.\nBut they who are unconcerned about the consequences of their actions\nare not therefore unconcerned about their actions.\n\nBehold the difference between the Oriental and the Occidental. The\nformer has nothing to do in this world; the latter is full of activity.\nThe one looks in the sun till his eyes are put out; the other follows\nhim prone in his westward course. There is such a thing as caste, even\nin the West; but it is comparatively faint; it is conservatism here. It\nsays, forsake not your calling, outrage no institution, use no\nviolence, rend no bonds; the State is thy parent. Its virtue or manhood\nis wholly filial. There is a struggle between the Oriental and\nOccidental in every nation; some who would be forever contemplating the\nsun, and some who are hastening toward the sunset. The former class\nsays to the latter, When you have reached the sunset, you will be no\nnearer to the sun. To which the latter replies, But we so prolong the\nday. The former \u201cwalketh but in that night, when all things go to rest\nthe night of _time_. The contemplative Moonee sleepeth but in the day\nof _time_, when all things wake.\u201d\n\nTo conclude these extracts, I can say, in the words of Sanjay, \u201cAs, O\nmighty Prince! I recollect again and again this holy and wonderful\ndialogue of Kreeshna and Arjoon, I continue more and more to rejoice;\nand as I recall to my memory the more than miraculous form of Haree, my\nastonishment is great, and I marvel and rejoice again and again!\nWherever Kreeshna the God of devotion may be, wherever Arjoon the\nmighty bowman may be, there too, without doubt, are fortune, riches,\nvictory, and good conduct. This is my firm belief.\u201d\n\nI would say to the readers of Scriptures, if they wish for a good book,\nread the Bhagvat-Geeta, an episode to the Mahabharat, said to have been\nwritten by Kreeshna Dwypayen Veias,\u2014known to have been written by\u2014\u2014,\nmore than four thousand years ago,\u2014it matters not whether three or\nfour, or when,\u2014translated by Charles Wilkins. It deserves to be read\nwith reverence even by Yankees, as a part of the sacred writings of a\ndevout people; and the intelligent Hebrew will rejoice to find in it a\nmoral grandeur and sublimity akin to those of his own Scriptures.\n\nTo an American reader, who, by the advantage of his position, can see\nover that strip of Atlantic coast to Asia and the Pacific, who, as it\nwere, sees the shore slope upward over the Alps to the Himmaleh\nMountains, the comparatively recent literature of Europe often appears\npartial and clannish, and, notwithstanding the limited range of his own\nsympathies and studies, the European writer who presumes that he is\nspeaking for the world, is perceived by him to speak only for that\ncorner of it which he inhabits. One of the rarest of England\u2019s scholars\nand critics, in his classification of the worthies of the world,\nbetrays the narrowness of his European culture and the exclusiveness of\nhis reading. None of her children has done justice to the poets and\nphilosophers of Persia or of India. They have even been better known to\nher merchant scholars than to her poets and thinkers by profession. You\nmay look in vain through English poetry for a single memorable verse\ninspired by these themes. Nor is Germany to be excepted, though her\nphilological industry is indirectly serving the cause of philosophy and\npoetry. Even Goethe wanted that universality of genius which could have\nappreciated the philosophy of India, if he had more nearly approached\nit. His genius was more practical, dwelling much more in the regions of\nthe understanding, and was less native to contemplation than the genius\nof those sages. It is remarkable that Homer and a few Hebrews are the\nmost Oriental names which modern Europe, whose literature has taken its\nrise since the decline of the Persian, has admitted into her list of\nWorthies, and perhaps the _worthiest_ of mankind, and the fathers of\nmodern thinking,\u2014for the contemplations of those Indian sages have\ninfluenced, and still influence, the intellectual development of\nmankind,\u2014whose works even yet survive in wonderful completeness, are,\nfor the most part, not recognized as ever having existed. If the lions\nhad been the painters it would have been otherwise. In every one\u2019s\nyouthful dreams philosophy is still vaguely but inseparably, and with\nsingular truth, associated with the East, nor do after years discover\nits local habitation in the Western world. In comparison with the\nphilosophers of the East, we may say that modern Europe has yet given\nbirth to none. Beside the vast and cosmogonal philosophy of the\nBhagvat-Geeta, even our Shakespeare seems sometimes youthfully green\nand practical merely. Some of these sublime sentences, as the Chaldaean\noracles of Zoroaster, still surviving after a thousand revolutions and\ntranslations, alone make us doubt if the poetic form and dress are not\ntransitory, and not essential to the most effective and enduring\nexpression of thought. _Ex oriente lux_ may still be the motto of\nscholars, for the Western world has not yet derived from the East all\nthe light which it is destined to receive thence.\n\nIt would be worthy of the age to print together the collected\nScriptures or Sacred Writings of the several nations, the Chinese, the\nHindoos, the Persians, the Hebrews, and others, as the Scripture of\nmankind. The New Testament is still, perhaps, too much on the lips and\nin the hearts of men to be called a Scripture in this sense. Such a\njuxtaposition and comparison might help to liberalize the faith of men.\nThis is a work which Time will surely edit, reserved to crown the\nlabors of the printing-press. This would be the Bible, or Book of\nBooks, which let the missionaries carry to the uttermost parts of the\nearth.\n\nWhile engaged in these reflections, thinking ourselves the only\nnavigators of these waters, suddenly a canal-boat, with its sail set,\nglided round a point before us, like some huge river beast, and changed\nthe scene in an instant; and then another and another glided into\nsight, and we found ourselves in the current of commerce once more. So\nwe threw our rinds in the water for the fishes to nibble, and added our\nbreath to the life of living men. Little did we think, in the distant\ngarden in which we had planted the seed and reared this fruit, where it\nwould be eaten. Our melons lay at home on the sandy bottom of the\nMerrimack, and our potatoes in the sun and water at the bottom of the\nboat looked like a fruit of the country. Soon, however, we were\ndelivered from this fleet of junks, and possessed the river in\nsolitude, once more rowing steadily upward through the noon, between\nthe territories of Nashua on the one hand, and Hudson, once Nottingham,\non the other. From time to time we scared up a kingfisher or a summer\nduck, the former flying rather by vigorous impulses than by steady and\npatient steering with that short rudder of his, sounding his rattle\nalong the fluvial street.\n\nErelong another scow hove in sight, creeping down the river; and\nhailing it, we attached ourselves to its side, and floated back in\ncompany, chatting with the boatmen, and obtaining a draught of cooler\nwater from their jug. They appeared to be green hands from far among\nthe hills, who had taken this means to get to the seaboard, and see the\nworld; and would possibly visit the Falkland Isles, and the China seas,\nbefore they again saw the waters of the Merrimack, or, perchance, they\nwould not return this way forever. They had already embarked the\nprivate interests of the landsman in the larger venture of the race,\nand were ready to mess with mankind, reserving only the till of a chest\nto themselves. But they too were soon lost behind a point, and we went\ncroaking on our way alone. What grievance has its root among the New\nHampshire hills? we asked; what is wanting to human life here, that\nthese men should make such haste to the antipodes? We prayed that their\nbright anticipations might not be rudely disappointed.\n\nThough all the fates should prove unkind,\nLeave not your native land behind.\nThe ship, becalmed, at length stands still;\nThe steed must rest beneath the hill;\nBut swiftly still our fortunes pace\nTo find us out in every place.\n\nThe vessel, though her masts be firm,\nBeneath her copper bears a worm;\nAround the cape, across the line,\nTill fields of ice her course confine;\nIt matters not how smooth the breeze,\nHow shallow or how deep the seas,\nWhether she bears Manilla twine,\nOr in her hold Madeira wine,\nOr China teas, or Spanish hides,\nIn port or quarantine she rides;\nFar from New England\u2019s blustering shore,\nNew England\u2019s worm her hulk shall bore,\nAnd sink her in the Indian seas,\nTwine, wine, and hides, and China teas.\n\n\nWe passed a small desert here on the east bank, between Tyngsborough\nand Hudson, which was interesting and even refreshing to our eyes in\nthe midst of the almost universal greenness. This sand was indeed\nsomewhat impressive and beautiful to us. A very old inhabitant, who was\nat work in a field on the Nashua side, told us that he remembered when\ncorn and grain grew there, and it was a cultivated field. But at length\nthe fishermen, for this was a fishing place, pulled up the bushes on\nthe shore, for greater convenience in hauling their seines, and when\nthe bank was thus broken, the wind began to blow up the sand from the\nshore, until at length it had covered about fifteen acres several feet\ndeep. We saw near the river, where the sand was blown off down to some\nancient surface, the foundation of an Indian wigwam exposed, a perfect\ncircle of burnt stones, four or five feet in diameter, mingled with\nfine charcoal, and the bones of small animals which had been preserved\nin the sand. The surrounding sand was sprinkled with other burnt stones\non which their fires had been built, as well as with flakes of\narrow-head stone, and we found one perfect arrow-head. In one place we\nnoticed where an Indian had sat to manufacture arrow-heads out of\nquartz, and the sand was sprinkled with a quart of small glass-like\nchips about as big as a fourpence, which he had broken off in his work.\nHere, then, the Indians must have fished before the whites arrived.\nThere was another similar sandy tract about half a mile above this.\n\nStill the noon prevailed, and we turned the prow aside to bathe, and\nrecline ourselves under some buttonwoods, by a ledge of rocks, in a\nretired pasture sloping to the water\u2019s edge, and skirted with pines and\nhazels, in the town of Hudson. Still had India, and that old noontide\nphilosophy, the better part of our thoughts.\n\nIt is always singular, but encouraging, to meet with common sense in\nvery old books, as the Heetopades of Veeshnoo Sarma; a playful wisdom\nwhich has eyes behind as well as before, and oversees itself. It\nasserts their health and independence of the experience of later times.\nThis pledge of sanity cannot be spared in a book, that it sometimes\npleasantly reflect upon itself. The story and fabulous portion of this\nbook winds loosely from sentence to sentence as so many oases in a\ndesert, and is as indistinct as a camel\u2019s track between Mourzouk and\nDarfour. It is a comment on the flow and freshet of modern books. The\nreader leaps from sentence to sentence, as from one stepping-stone to\nanother, while the stream of the story rushes past unregarded. The\nBhagvat-Geeta is less sententious and poetic, perhaps, but still more\nwonderfully sustained and developed. Its sanity and sublimity have\nimpressed the minds even of soldiers and merchants. It is the\ncharacteristic of great poems that they will yield of their sense in\ndue proportion to the hasty and the deliberate reader. To the practical\nthey will be common sense, and to the wise wisdom; as either the\ntraveller may wet his lips, or an army may fill its water-casks at a\nfull stream.\n\nOne of the most attractive of those ancient books that I have met with\nis the Laws of Menu. According to Sir William Jones, \u201cVyasa, the son of\nParasara, has decided that the Veda, with its Angas, or the six\ncompositions deduced from it, the revealed system of medicine, the\nPuranas or sacred histories, and the code of Menu, were four works of\nsupreme authority, which ought never to be shaken by arguments merely\nhuman.\u201d The last is believed by the Hindoos \u201cto have been promulged in\nthe beginning of time, by Menu, son or grandson of Brahma,\u201d and \u201cfirst\nof created beings\u201d; and Brahma is said to have \u201ctaught his laws to Menu\nin a hundred thousand verses, which Menu explained to the primitive\nworld in the very words of the book now translated.\u201d Others affirm that\nthey have undergone successive abridgments for the convenience of\nmortals, \u201cwhile the gods of the lower heaven and the band of celestial\nmusicians are engaged in studying the primary code.\u201d\u2014\u201cA number of\nglosses or comments on Menu were composed by the Munis, or old\nphilosophers, whose treatises, together with that before us, constitute\nthe Dherma Sastra, in a collective sense, or Body of Law.\u201d Culluca\nBhatta was one of the more modern of these.\n\nEvery sacred book, successively, has been accepted in the faith that it\nwas to be the final resting-place of the sojourning soul; but after\nall, it was but a caravansary which supplied refreshment to the\ntraveller, and directed him farther on his way to Isphahan or Bagdat.\nThank God, no Hindoo tyranny prevailed at the framing of the world, but\nwe are freemen of the universe, and not sentenced to any caste.\n\nI know of no book which has come down to us with grander pretensions\nthan this, and it is so impersonal and sincere that it is never\noffensive nor ridiculous. Compare the modes in which modern literature\nis advertised with the prospectus of this book, and think what a\nreading public it addresses, what criticism it expects. It seems to\nhave been uttered from some eastern summit, with a sober morning\nprescience in the dawn of time, and you cannot read a sentence without\nbeing elevated as upon the table-land of the Ghauts. It has such a\nrhythm as the winds of the desert, such a tide as the Ganges, and is as\nsuperior to criticism as the Himmaleh Mountains. Its tone is of such\nunrelaxed fibre, that even at this late day, unworn by time, it wears\nthe English and the Sanscrit dress indifferently; and its fixed\nsentences keep up their distant fires still, like the stars, by whose\ndissipated rays this lower world is illumined. The whole book by noble\ngestures and inclinations renders many words unnecessary. English sense\nhas toiled, but Hindoo wisdom never perspired. Though the sentences\nopen as we read them, unexpensively, and at first almost unmeaningly,\nas the petals of a flower, they sometimes startle us with that rare\nkind of wisdom which could only have been learned from the most trivial\nexperience; but it comes to us as refined as the porcelain earth which\nsubsides to the bottom of the ocean. They are clean and dry as fossil\ntruths, which have been exposed to the elements for thousands of years,\nso impersonally and scientifically true that they are the ornament of\nthe parlor and the cabinet. Any _moral_ philosophy is exceedingly rare.\nThis of Menu addresses our privacy more than most. It is a more private\nand familiar, and, at the same time, a more public and universal word,\nthan is spoken in parlor or pulpit now-a-days. As our domestic fowls\nare said to have their original in the wild pheasant of India, so our\ndomestic thoughts have their prototypes in the thoughts of her\nphilosophers. We are dabbling in the very elements of our present\nconventional and actual life; as if it were the primeval conventicle\nwhere how to eat, and to drink, and to sleep, and maintain life with\nadequate dignity and sincerity, were the questions to be decided. It is\nlater and more intimate with us even than the advice of our nearest\nfriends. And yet it is true for the widest horizon, and read out of\ndoors has relation to the dim mountain line, and is native and\naboriginal there. Most books belong to the house and street only, and\nin the fields their leaves feel very thin. They are bare and obvious,\nand have no halo nor haze about them. Nature lies far and fair behind\nthem all. But this, as it proceeds from, so it addresses, what is\ndeepest and most abiding in man. It belongs to the noontide of the day,\nthe midsummer of the year, and after the snows have melted, and the\nwaters evaporated in the spring, still its truth speaks freshly to our\nexperience. It helps the sun to shine, and his rays fall on its page to\nillustrate it. It spends the mornings and the evenings, and makes such\nan impression on us overnight as to awaken us before dawn, and its\ninfluence lingers around us like a fragrance late into the day. It\nconveys a new gloss to the meadows and the depths of the wood, and its\nspirit, like a more subtile ether, sweeps along with the prevailing\nwinds of a country. The very locusts and crickets of a summer day are\nbut later or earlier glosses on the Dherma Sastra of the Hindoos, a\ncontinuation of the sacred code. As we have said, there is an\norientalism in the most restless pioneer, and the farthest west is but\nthe farthest east. While we are reading these sentences, this fair\nmodern world seems only a reprint of the Laws of Menu with the gloss of\nCulluca. Tried by a New England eye, or the mere practical wisdom of\nmodern times, they are the oracles of a race already in its dotage, but\nheld up to the sky, which is the only impartial and incorruptible\nordeal, they are of a piece with its depth and serenity, and I am\nassured that they will have a place and significance as long as there\nis a sky to test them by.\n\nGive me a sentence which no intelligence can understand. There must be\na kind of life and palpitation to it, and under its words a kind of\nblood must circulate forever. It is wonderful that this sound should\nhave come down to us from so far, when the voice of man can be heard so\nlittle way, and we are not now within ear-shot of any contemporary. The\nwoodcutters have here felled an ancient pine forest, and brought to\nlight to these distant hills a fair lake in the southwest; and now in\nan instant it is distinctly shown to these woods as if its image had\ntravelled hither from eternity. Perhaps these old stumps upon the knoll\nremember when anciently this lake gleamed in the horizon. One wonders\nif the bare earth itself did not experience emotion at beholding again\nso fair a prospect. That fair water lies there in the sun thus\nrevealed, so much the prouder and fairer because its beauty needed not\nto be seen. It seems yet lonely, sufficient to itself, and superior to\nobservation.\u2014So are these old sentences like serene lakes in the\nsouthwest, at length revealed to us, which have so long been reflecting\nour own sky in their bosom.\n\nThe great plain of India lies as in a cup between the Himmaleh and the\nocean on the north and south, and the Brahmapootra and Indus, on the\neast and west, wherein the primeval race was received. We will not\ndispute the story. We are pleased to read in the natural history of the\ncountry, of the \u201cpine, larch, spruce, and silver fir,\u201d which cover the\nsouthern face of the Himmaleh range; of the \u201cgooseberry, raspberry,\nstrawberry,\u201d which from an imminent temperate zone overlook the torrid\nplains. So did this active modern life have even then a foothold and\nlurking-place in the midst of the stateliness and contemplativeness of\nthose Eastern plains. In another era the \u201clily of the valley, cowslip,\ndandelion,\u201d were to work their way down into the plain, and bloom in a\nlevel zone of their own reaching round the earth. Already has the era\nof the temperate zone arrived, the era of the pine and the oak, for the\npalm and the banian do not supply the wants of this age. The lichens on\nthe summits of the rocks will perchance find their level erelong.\n\nAs for the tenets of the Brahmans, we are not so much concerned to know\nwhat doctrines they held, as that they were held by any. We can\ntolerate all philosophies, Atomists, Pneumatologists, Atheists,\nTheists,\u2014Plato, Aristotle, Leucippus, Democritus, Pythagoras,\nZoroaster, and Confucius. It is the attitude of these men, more than\nany communication which they make, that attracts us. Between them and\ntheir commentators, it is true, there is an endless dispute. But if it\ncomes to this, that you compare notes, then you are all wrong. As it\nis, each takes us up into the serene heavens, whither the smallest\nbubble rises as surely as the largest, and paints earth and sky for us.\nAny sincere thought is irresistible. The very austerity of the Brahmans\nis tempting to the devotional soul, as a more refined and nobler\nluxury. Wants so easily and gracefully satisfied seem like a more\nrefined pleasure. Their conception of creation is peaceful as a dream.\n\u201cWhen that power awakes, then has this world its full expansion; but\nwhen he slumbers with a tranquil spirit, then the whole system fades\naway.\u201d In the very indistinctness of their theogony a sublime truth is\nimplied. It hardly allows the reader to rest in any supreme first\ncause, but directly it hints at a supremer still which created the\nlast, and the Creator is still behind increate.\n\nNor will we disturb the antiquity of this Scripture; \u201cFrom fire, from\nair, and from the sun,\u201d it was \u201cmilked out.\u201d One might as well\ninvestigate the chronology of light and heat. Let the sun shine. Menu\nunderstood this matter best, when he said, \u201cThose best know the\ndivisions of days and nights who understand that the day of Brahma,\nwhich endures to the end of a thousand such ages, [infinite ages,\nnevertheless, according to mortal reckoning,] gives rise to virtuous\nexertions; and that his night endures as long as his day.\u201d Indeed, the\nMussulman and Tartar dynasties are beyond all dating. Methinks I have\nlived under them myself. In every man\u2019s brain is the Sanscrit. The\nVedas and their Angas are not so ancient as serene contemplation. Why\nwill we be imposed on by antiquity? Is the babe young? When I behold\nit, it seems more venerable than the oldest man; it is more ancient\nthan Nestor or the Sibyls, and bears the wrinkles of father Saturn\nhimself. And do we live but in the present? How broad a line is that? I\nsit now on a stump whose rings number centuries of growth. If I look\naround I see that the soil is composed of the remains of just such\nstumps, ancestors to this. The earth is covered with mould. I thrust\nthis stick many \u00e6ons deep into its surface, and with my heel make a\ndeeper furrow than the elements have ploughed here for a thousand\nyears. If I listen, I hear the peep of frogs which is older than the\nslime of Egypt, and the distant drumming of a partridge on a log, as if\nit were the pulse-beat of the summer air. I raise my fairest and\nfreshest flowers in the old mould. Why, what we would fain call new is\nnot skin deep; the earth is not yet stained by it. It is not the\nfertile ground which we walk on, but the leaves which flutter over our\nheads. The newest is but the oldest made visible to our senses. When we\ndig up the soil from a thousand feet below the surface, we call it new,\nand the plants which spring from it; and when our vision pierces deeper\ninto space, and detects a remoter star, we call that new also. The\nplace where we sit is called Hudson,\u2014once it was Nottingham,\u2014once \u2014\n\nWe should read history as little critically as we consider the\nlandscape, and be more interested by the atmospheric tints and various\nlights and shades which the intervening spaces create, than by its\ngroundwork and composition. It is the morning now turned evening and\nseen in the west,\u2014the same sun, but a new light and atmosphere. Its\nbeauty is like the sunset; not a fresco painting on a wall, flat and\nbounded, but atmospheric and roving or free. In reality, history\nfluctuates as the face of the landscape from morning to evening. What\nis of moment is its hue and color. Time hides no treasures; we want not\nits _then_, but its _now_. We do not complain that the mountains in the\nhorizon are blue and indistinct; they are the more like the heavens.\n\nOf what moment are facts that can be lost,\u2014which need to be\ncommemorated? The monument of death will outlast the memory of the\ndead. The pyramids do not tell the tale which was confided to them; the\nliving fact commemorates itself. Why look in the dark for light?\nStrictly speaking, the historical societies have not recovered one fact\nfrom oblivion, but are themselves, instead of the fact, that is lost.\nThe researcher is more memorable than the researched. The crowd stood\nadmiring the mist and the dim outlines of the trees seen through it,\nwhen one of their number advanced to explore the phenomenon, and with\nfresh admiration all eyes were turned on his dimly retreating figure.\nIt is astonishing with how little co-operation of the societies the\npast is remembered. Its story has indeed had another muse than has been\nassigned it. There is a good instance of the manner in which all\nhistory began, in Alw\u00e1kidis\u2019 Arabian Chronicle: \u201cI was informed by\n_Ahmed Almatin Aljorhami_, who had it from _Reph\u00e2a Ebn Kais Al\u00e1miri_,\nwho had it from _Saiph Ebn Fabalah Alch\u00e2tquarmi_, who had it from\n_Thabet Ebn Alkamah_, who said he was present at the action.\u201d These\nfathers of history were not anxious to preserve, but to learn the fact;\nand hence it was not forgotten. Critical acumen is exerted in vain to\nuncover the past; the _past_ cannot be _presented_; we cannot know what\nwe are not. But one veil hangs over past, present, and future, and it\nis the province of the historian to find out, not what was, but what\nis. Where a battle has been fought, you will find nothing but the bones\nof men and beasts; where a battle is being fought, there are hearts\nbeating. We will sit on a mound and muse, and not try to make these\nskeletons stand on their legs again. Does Nature remember, think you,\nthat they _were_ men, or not rather that they _are_ bones?\n\nAncient history has an air of antiquity. It should be more modern. It\nis written as if the spectator should be thinking of the backside of\nthe picture on the wall, or as if the author expected that the dead\nwould be his readers, and wished to detail to them their own\nexperience. Men seem anxious to accomplish an orderly retreat through\nthe centuries, earnestly rebuilding the works behind, as they are\nbattered down by the encroachments of time; but while they loiter, they\nand their works both fall a prey to the arch enemy. History has neither\nthe venerableness of antiquity, nor the freshness of the modern. It\ndoes as if it would go to the beginning of things, which natural\nhistory might with reason assume to do; but consider the Universal\nHistory, and then tell us,\u2014when did burdock and plantain sprout first?\nIt has been so written for the most part, that the times it describes\nare with remarkable propriety called _dark ages_. They are dark, as one\nhas observed, because we are so in the dark about them. The sun rarely\nshines in history, what with the dust and confusion; and when we meet\nwith any cheering fact which implies the presence of this luminary, we\nexcerpt and modernize it. As when we read in the history of the Saxons\nthat Edwin of Northumbria \u201ccaused stakes to be fixed in the highways\nwhere he had seen a clear spring,\u201d and \u201cbrazen dishes were chained to\nthem to refresh the weary sojourner, whose fatigues Edwin had himself\nexperienced.\u201d This is worth all Arthur\u2019s twelve battles.\n\n\u201cThrough the shadow of the world we sweep into the younger day:\nBetter fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.\u201d\nThan fifty years of Europe better one New England ray!\n\n\nBiography, too, is liable to the same objection; it should be\nautobiography. Let us not, as the Germans advise, endeavor to go abroad\nand vex our bowels that we may be somebody else to explain him. If I am\nnot I, who will be?\n\nBut it is fit that the Past should be dark; though the darkness is not\nso much a quality of the past as of tradition. It is not a distance of\ntime, but a distance of relation, which makes thus dusky its memorials.\nWhat is near to the heart of this generation is fair and bright still.\nGreece lies outspread fair and sunshiny in floods of light, for there\nis the sun and daylight in her literature and art. Homer does not allow\nus to forget that the sun shone,\u2014nor Phidias, nor the Parthenon. Yet no\nera has been wholly dark, nor will we too hastily submit to the\nhistorian, and congratulate ourselves on a blaze of light. If we could\npierce the obscurity of those remote years, we should find it light\nenough; only _there_ is not our day. Some creatures are made to see in\nthe dark. There has always been the same amount of light in the world.\nThe new and missing stars, the comets and eclipses, do not affect the\ngeneral illumination, for only our glasses appreciate them. The eyes of\nthe oldest fossil remains, they tell us, indicate that the same laws of\nlight prevailed then as now. Always the laws of light are the same, but\nthe modes and degrees of seeing vary. The gods are partial to no era,\nbut steadily shines their light in the heavens, while the eye of the\nbeholder is turned to stone. There was but the sun and the eye from the\nfirst. The ages have not added a new ray to the one, nor altered a\nfibre of the other.\n\nIf we will admit time into our thoughts at all, the mythologies, those\nvestiges of ancient poems, wrecks of poems, so to speak, the world\u2019s\ninheritance, still reflecting some of their original splendor, like the\nfragments of clouds tinted by the rays of the departed sun; reaching\ninto the latest summer day, and allying this hour to the morning of\ncreation; as the poet sings:\u2014\n\n    \u201cFragments of the lofty strain\n    Float down the tide of years,\nAs buoyant on the stormy main\n    A parted wreck appears.\u201d\n\n\nThese are the materials and hints for a history of the rise and\nprogress of the race; how, from the condition of ants, it arrived at\nthe condition of men, and arts were gradually invented. Let a thousand\nsurmises shed some light on this story. We will not be confined by\nhistorical, even geological periods which would allow us to doubt of a\nprogress in human affairs. If we rise above this wisdom for the day, we\nshall expect that this morning of the race, in which it has been\nsupplied with the simplest necessaries, with corn, and wine, and honey,\nand oil, and fire, and articulate speech, and agricultural and other\narts, reared up by degrees from the condition of ants to men, will be\nsucceeded by a day of equally progressive splendor; that, in the lapse\nof the divine periods, other divine agents and godlike men will assist\nto elevate the race as much above its present condition. But we do not\nknow much about it.\n\nThus did one voyageur waking dream, while his companion slumbered on\nthe bank. Suddenly a boatman\u2019s horn was heard echoing from shore to\nshore, to give notice of his approach to the farmer\u2019s wife with whom he\nwas to take his dinner, though in that place only muskrats and\nkingfishers seemed to hear. The current of our reflections and our\nslumbers being thus disturbed, we weighed anchor once more.\n\nAs we proceeded on our way in the afternoon, the western bank became\nlower, or receded farther from the channel in some places, leaving a\nfew trees only to fringe the water\u2019s edge; while the eastern rose\nabruptly here and there into wooded hills fifty or sixty feet high. The\nbass, _Tilia Americana_, also called the lime or linden, which was a\nnew tree to us, overhung the water with its broad and rounded leaf,\ninterspersed with clusters of small hard berries now nearly ripe, and\nmade an agreeable shade for us sailors. The inner bark of this genus is\nthe bast, the material of the fisherman\u2019s matting, and the ropes and\npeasant\u2019s shoes of which the Russians make so much use, and also of\nnets and a coarse cloth in some places. According to poets, this was\nonce Philyra, one of the Oceanides. The ancients are said to have used\nits bark for the roofs of cottages, for baskets, and for a kind of\npaper called Philyra. They also made bucklers of its wood, \u201con account\nof its flexibility, lightness, and resiliency.\u201d It was once much used\nfor carving, and is still in demand for sounding-boards of piano-fortes\nand panels of carriages, and for various uses for which toughness and\nflexibility are required. Baskets and cradles are made of the twigs.\nIts sap affords sugar, and the honey made from its flowers is said to\nbe preferred to any other. Its leaves are in some countries given to\ncattle, a kind of chocolate has been made of its fruit, a medicine has\nbeen prepared from an infusion of its flowers, and finally, the\ncharcoal made of its wood is greatly valued for gunpowder.\n\nThe sight of this tree reminded us that we had reached a strange land\nto us. As we sailed under this canopy of leaves we saw the sky through\nits chinks, and, as it were, the meaning and idea of the tree stamped\nin a thousand hieroglyphics on the heavens. The universe is so aptly\nfitted to our organization that the eye wanders and reposes at the same\ntime. On every side there is something to soothe and refresh this\nsense. Look up at the tree-tops and see how finely Nature finishes off\nher work there. See how the pines spire without end higher and higher,\nand make a graceful fringe to the earth. And who shall count the finer\ncobwebs that soar and float away from their utmost tops, and the myriad\ninsects that dodge between them. Leaves are of more various forms than\nthe alphabets of all languages put together; of the oaks alone there\nare hardly two alike, and each expresses its own character.\n\nIn all her products Nature only develops her simplest germs. One would\nsay that it was no great stretch of invention to create birds. The\nhawk, which now takes his flight over the top of the wood, was at\nfirst, perchance, only a leaf which fluttered in its aisles. From\nrustling leaves she came in the course of ages to the loftier flight\nand clear carol of the bird.\n\nSalmon Brook comes in from the west under the railroad, a mile and a\nhalf below the village of Nashua. We rowed up far enough into the\nmeadows which border it to learn its piscatorial history from a\nhaymaker on its banks. He told us that the silver eel was formerly\nabundant here, and pointed to some sunken creels at its mouth. This\nman\u2019s memory and imagination were fertile in fishermen\u2019s tales of\nfloating isles in bottomless ponds, and of lakes mysteriously stocked\nwith fishes, and would have kept us till nightfall to listen, but we\ncould not afford to loiter in this roadstead, and so stood out to our\nsea again. Though we never trod in those meadows, but only touched\ntheir margin with our hands, we still retain a pleasant memory of them.\n\nSalmon Brook, whose name is said to be a translation from the Indian,\nwas a favorite haunt of the aborigines. Here, too, the first white\nsettlers of Nashua planted, and some dents in the earth where their\nhouses stood and the wrecks of ancient apple-trees are still visible.\nAbout one mile up this stream stood the house of old John Lovewell, who\nwas an ensign in the army of Oliver Cromwell, and the father of \u201cfamous\nCaptain Lovewell.\u201d He settled here before 1690, and died about 1754, at\nthe age of one hundred and twenty years. He is thought to have been\nengaged in the famous Narragansett swamp fight, which took place in\n1675, before he came here. The Indians are said to have spared him in\nsucceeding wars on account of his kindness to them. Even in 1700 he was\nso old and gray-headed that his scalp was worth nothing, since the\nFrench Governor offered no bounty for such. I have stood in the dent of\nhis cellar on the bank of the brook, and talked there with one whose\ngrandfather had, whose father might have, talked with Lovewell. Here\nalso he had a mill in his old age, and kept a small store. He was\nremembered by some who were recently living, as a hale old man who\ndrove the boys out of his orchard with his cane. Consider the triumphs\nof the mortal man, and what poor trophies it would have to show, to\nwit:\u2014He cobbled shoes without glasses at a hundred, and cut a handsome\nswath at a hundred and five! Lovewell\u2019s house is said to have been the\nfirst which Mrs. Dustan reached on her escape from the Indians. Here\nprobably the hero of Pequawket was born and bred. Close by may be seen\nthe cellar and the gravestone of Joseph Hassell, who, as is elsewhere\nrecorded, with his wife Anna, and son Benjamin, and Mary Marks, \u201cwere\nslain by our Indian enemies on September 2d, [1691,] in the evening.\u201d\nAs Gookin observed on a previous occasion, \u201cThe Indian rod upon the\nEnglish backs had not yet done God\u2019s errand.\u201d Salmon Brook near its\nmouth is still a solitary stream, meandering through woods and meadows,\nwhile the then uninhabited mouth of the Nashua now resounds with the\ndin of a manufacturing town.\n\nA stream from Otternic Pond in Hudson comes in just above Salmon Brook,\non the opposite side. There was a good view of Uncannunuc, the most\nconspicuous mountain in these parts, from the bank here, seen rising\nover the west end of the bridge above. We soon after passed the village\nof Nashua, on the river of the same name, where there is a covered\nbridge over the Merrimack. The Nashua, which is one of the largest\ntributaries, flows from Wachusett Mountain, through Lancaster, Groton,\nand other towns, where it has formed well-known elm-shaded meadows, but\nnear its mouth it is obstructed by falls and factories, and did not\ntempt us to explore it.\n\nFar away from here, in Lancaster, with another companion, I have\ncrossed the broad valley of the Nashua, over which we had so long\nlooked westward from the Concord hills without seeing it to the blue\nmountains in the horizon. So many streams, so many meadows and woods\nand quiet dwellings of men had lain concealed between us and those\nDelectable Mountains;\u2014from yonder hill on the road to Tyngsborough you\nmay get a good view of them. There where it seemed uninterrupted forest\nto our youthful eyes, between two neighboring pines in the horizon, lay\nthe valley of the Nashua, and this very stream was even then winding at\nits bottom, and then, as now, it was here silently mingling its waters\nwith the Merrimack. The clouds which floated over its meadows and were\nborn there, seen far in the west, gilded by the rays of the setting\nsun, had adorned a thousand evening skies for us. But as it were, by a\nturf wall this valley was concealed, and in our journey to those hills\nit was first gradually revealed to us. Summer and winter our eyes had\nrested on the dim outline of the mountains, to which distance and\nindistinctness lent a grandeur not their own, so that they served to\ninterpret all the allusions of poets and travellers. Standing on the\nConcord Cliffs we thus spoke our mind to them:\u2014\n\nWith frontier strength ye stand your ground,\nWith grand content ye circle round,\nTumultuous silence for all sound,\nYe distant nursery of rills,\nMonadnock and the Peterborough Hills;\u2014\nFirm argument that never stirs,\nOutcircling the philosophers,\u2014\nLike some vast fleet,\nSailing through rain and sleet,\nThrough winter\u2019s cold and summer\u2019s heat;\nStill holding on upon your high emprise,\nUntil ye find a shore amid the skies;\nNot skulking close to land,\nWith cargo contraband,\nFor they who sent a venture out by ye\nHave set the Sun to see\nTheir honesty.\n\nShips of the line, each one,\nYe westward run,\nConvoying clouds,\nWhich cluster in your shrouds,\nAlways before the gale,\nUnder a press of sail,\nWith weight of metal all untold,\u2014\nI seem to feel ye in my firm seat here,\nImmeasurable depth of hold,\nAnd breadth of beam, and length of running gear\n\nMethinks ye take luxurious pleasure\nIn your novel western leisure;\nSo cool your brows and freshly blue,\nAs Time had naught for ye to do;\nFor ye lie at your length,\nAn unappropriated strength,\nUnhewn primeval timber,\nFor knees so stiff, for masts so limber;\nThe stock of which new earths are made,\nOne day to be our _western_ trade,\nFit for the stanchions of a world\nWhich through the seas of space is hurled.\n\nWhile we enjoy a lingering ray,\nYe still o\u2019ertop the western day,\nReposing yonder on God\u2019s croft\nLike solid stacks of hay;\nSo bold a line as ne\u2019er was writ\nOn any page by human wit;\nThe forest glows as if\nAn enemy\u2019s camp-fires shone\nAlong the horizon,\nOr the day\u2019s funeral pyre\nWere lighted there;\nEdged with silver and with gold,\nThe clouds hang o\u2019er in damask fold,\nAnd with such depth of amber light\nThe west is dight,\nWhere still a few rays slant,\nThat even Heaven seems extravagant.\nWatatic Hill\nLies on the horizon\u2019s sill\nLike a child\u2019s toy left overnight,\nAnd other duds to left and right,\nOn the earth\u2019s edge, mountains and trees\nStand as they were on air graven,\nOr as the vessels in a haven\nAwait the morning breeze.\nI fancy even\nThrough your defiles windeth the way to heaven;\nAnd yonder still, in spite of history\u2019s page,\nLinger the golden and the silver age;\nUpon the laboring gale\nThe news of future centuries is brought,\nAnd of new dynasties of thought,\nFrom your remotest vale.\n\nBut special I remember thee,\nWachusett, who like me\nStandest alone without society.\nThy far blue eye,\nA remnant of the sky,\nSeen through the clearing or the gorge,\nOr from the windows of the forge,\nDoth leaven all it passes by.\nNothing is true\nBut stands \u2019tween me and you,\nThou western pioneer,\nWho know\u2019st not shame nor fear,\nBy venturous spirit driven\nUnder the eaves of heaven;\nAnd canst expand thee there,\nAnd breathe enough of air?\nEven beyond the West\nThou migratest,\nInto unclouded tracts,\nWithout a pilgrim\u2019s axe,\nCleaving thy road on high\nWith thy well-tempered brow,\nAnd mak\u2019st thyself a clearing in the sky.\nUpholding heaven, holding down earth,\nThy pastime from thy birth;\nNot steadied by the one, nor leaning on the other,\nMay I approve myself thy worthy brother!\n\n\nAt length, like Rasselas and other inhabitants of happy valleys, we had\nresolved to scale the blue wall which bounded the western horizon,\nthough not without misgivings that thereafter no visible fairy-land\nwould exist for us. But it would be long to tell of our adventures, and\nwe have no time this afternoon, transporting ourselves in imagination\nup this hazy Nashua valley, to go over again that pilgrimage. We have\nsince made many similar excursions to the principal mountains of New\nEngland and New York, and even far in the wilderness, and have passed a\nnight on the summit of many of them. And now, when we look again\nwestward from our native hills, Wachusett and Monadnock have retreated\nonce more among the blue and fabulous mountains in the horizon, though\nour eyes rest on the very rocks on both of them, where we have pitched\nour tent for a night, and boiled our hasty-pudding amid the clouds.\n\nAs late as 1724 there was no house on the north side of the Nashua, but\nonly scattered wigwams and grisly forests between this frontier and\nCanada. In September of that year, two men who were engaged in making\nturpentine on that side, for such were the first enterprises in the\nwilderness, were taken captive and carried to Canada by a party of\nthirty Indians. Ten of the inhabitants of Dunstable, going to look for\nthem, found the hoops of their barrel cut, and the turpentine spread on\nthe ground. I have been told by an inhabitant of Tyngsborough, who had\nthe story from his ancestors, that one of these captives, when the\nIndians were about to upset his barrel of turpentine, seized a pine\nknot and flourishing it, swore so resolutely that he would kill the\nfirst who touched it, that they refrained, and when at length he\nreturned from Canada he found it still standing. Perhaps there was more\nthan one barrel. However this may have been, the scouts knew by marks\non the trees, made with coal mixed with grease, that the men were not\nkilled, but taken prisoners. One of the company, named Farwell,\nperceiving that the turpentine had not done spreading, concluded that\nthe Indians had been gone but a short time, and they accordingly went\nin instant pursuit. Contrary to the advice of Farwell, following\ndirectly on their trail up the Merrimack, they fell into an ambuscade\nnear Thornton\u2019s Ferry, in the present town of Merrimack, and nine were\nkilled, only one, Farwell, escaping after a vigorous pursuit. The men\nof Dunstable went out and picked up their bodies, and carried them all\ndown to Dunstable and buried them. It is almost word for word as in the\nRobin Hood ballad:\u2014\n\n\u201cThey carried these foresters into fair Nottingham,\n    As many there did know,\nThey digged them graves in their churchyard,\n    And they buried them all a-row.\u201d\n\n\nNottingham is only the other side of the river, and they were not\nexactly all a-row. You may read in the churchyard at Dunstable, under\nthe \u201cMemento Mori,\u201d and the name of one of them, how they \u201cdeparted\nthis life,\u201d and\n\n\u201cThis man with seven more that lies in\n    this grave was slew all in a day by\n        the Indians.\u201d\n\n\nThe stones of some others of the company stand around the common grave\nwith their separate inscriptions. Eight were buried here, but nine were\nkilled, according to the best authorities.\n\n\u201cGentle river, gentle river,\n    Lo, thy streams are stained with gore,\nMany a brave and noble captain\n    Floats along thy willowed shore.\n\n\u201cAll beside thy limpid waters,\n    All beside thy sands so bright,\n_Indian_ Chiefs and Christian warriors\n    Joined in fierce and mortal fight.\u201d\n\n\nIt is related in the History of Dunstable, that on the return of\nFarwell the Indians were engaged by a fresh party which they compelled\nto retreat, and pursued as far as the Nashua, where they fought across\nthe stream at its mouth. After the departure of the Indians, the figure\nof an Indian\u2019s head was found carved by them on a large tree by the\nshore, which circumstance has given its name to this part of the\nvillage of Nashville,\u2014the \u201cIndian Head.\u201d \u201cIt was observed by some\njudicious,\u201d says Gookin, referring to Philip\u2019s war, \u201cthat at the\nbeginning of the war the English soldiers made a nothing of the\nIndians, and many spake words to this effect: that one Englishman was\nsufficient to chase ten Indians; many reckoned it was no other but\n_Veni, vidi, vici._\u201d But we may conclude that the judicious would by\nthis time have made a different observation.\n\nFarwell appears to have been the only one who had studied his\nprofession, and understood the business of hunting Indians. He lived to\nfight another day, for the next year he was Lovewell\u2019s lieutenant at\nPequawket, but that time, as we have related, he left his bones in the\nwilderness. His name still reminds us of twilight days and forest\nscouts on Indian trails, with an uneasy scalp;\u2014an indispensable hero to\nNew England. As the more recent poet of Lovewell\u2019s fight has sung,\nhalting a little but bravely still:\u2014\n\n\u201cThen did the crimson streams that flowed\n    Seem like the waters of the brook,\nThat brightly shine, that loudly dash,\n    Far down the cliffs of Agiochook.\u201d\n\n\nThese battles sound incredible to us. I think that posterity will doubt\nif such things ever were; if our bold ancestors who settled this land\nwere not struggling rather with the forest shadows, and not with a\ncopper-colored race of men. They were vapors, fever and ague of the\nunsettled woods. Now, only a few arrow-heads are turned up by the\nplough. In the Pelasgic, the Etruscan, or the British story, there is\nnothing so shadowy and unreal.\n\nIt is a wild and antiquated looking graveyard, overgrown with bushes,\non the high-road, about a quarter of a mile from and overlooking the\nMerrimack, with a deserted mill-stream bounding it on one side, where\nlie the earthly remains of the ancient inhabitants of Dunstable. We\npassed it three or four miles below here. You may read there the names\nof Lovewell, Farwell, and many others whose families were distinguished\nin Indian warfare. We noticed there two large masses of granite more\nthan a foot thick and rudely squared, lying flat on the ground over the\nremains of the first pastor and his wife.\n\nIt is remarkable that the dead lie everywhere under stones,\u2014\n\n\u201cStrata jacent passim _suo_ qu\u00e6que sub\u201d _lapide_\u2014\n\n\n_corpora_, we might say, if the measure allowed. When the stone is a\nslight one, it does not oppress the spirits of the traveller to\nmeditate by it; but these did seem a little heathenish to us; and so\nare all large monuments over men\u2019s bodies, from the pyramids down. A\nmonument should at least be \u201cstar-y-pointing,\u201d to indicate whither the\nspirit is gone, and not prostrate, like the body it has deserted. There\nhave been some nations who could do nothing but construct tombs, and\nthese are the only traces which they have left. They are the heathen.\nBut why these stones, so upright and emphatic, like exclamation-points?\nWhat was there so remarkable that lived? Why should the monument be so\nmuch more enduring than the fame which it is designed to perpetuate,\u2014a\nstone to a bone? \u201cHere lies,\u201d\u2014\u201cHere lies\u201d;\u2014why do they not sometimes\nwrite, There rises? Is it a monument to the body only that is intended?\n\u201cHaving reached the term of his _natural_ life\u201d;\u2014would it not be truer\nto say, Having reached the term of his _unnatural_ life? The rarest\nquality in an epitaph is truth. If any character is given, it should be\nas severely true as the decision of the three judges below, and not the\npartial testimony of friends. Friends and contemporaries should supply\nonly the name and date, and leave it to posterity to write the epitaph.\n\nHere lies an honest man,\nRear-Admiral Van.\n\n        \u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nFaith, then ye have\nTwo in one grave,\nFor in his favor,\nHere too lies the Engraver.\n\n\nFame itself is but an epitaph; as late, as false, as true. But they\nonly are the true epitaphs which Old Mortality retouches.\n\nA man might well pray that he may not taboo or curse any portion of\nnature by being buried in it. For the most part, the best man\u2019s spirit\nmakes a fearful sprite to haunt his grave, and it is therefore much to\nthe credit of Little John, the famous follower of Robin Hood, and\nreflecting favorably on his character, that his grave was \u201clong\ncelebrous for the yielding of excellent whetstones.\u201d I confess that I\nhave but little love for such collections as they have at the\nCatacombs, P\u00e8re la Chaise, Mount Auburn, and even this Dunstable\ngraveyard. At any rate, nothing but great antiquity can make graveyards\ninteresting to me. I have no friends there. It may be that I am not\ncompetent to write the poetry of the grave. The farmer who has skimmed\nhis farm might perchance leave his body to Nature to be ploughed in,\nand in some measure restore its fertility. We should not retard but\nforward her economies.\n\nSoon the village of Nashua was out of sight, and the woods were gained\nagain, and we rowed slowly on before sunset, looking for a solitary\nplace in which to spend the night. A few evening clouds began to be\nreflected in the water and the surface was dimpled only here and there\nby a muskrat crossing the stream. We camped at length near Penichook\nBrook, on the confines of what is now Nashville, by a deep ravine,\nunder the skirts of a pine wood, where the dead pine-leaves were our\ncarpet, and their tawny boughs stretched overhead. But fire and smoke\nsoon tamed the scene; the rocks consented to be our walls, and the\npines our roof. A woodside was already the fittest locality for us.\n\nThe wilderness is near as well as dear to every man. Even the oldest\nvillages are indebted to the border of wild wood which surrounds them,\nmore than to the gardens of men. There is something indescribably\ninspiriting and beautiful in the aspect of the forest skirting and\noccasionally jutting into the midst of new towns, which, like the\nsand-heaps of fresh fox-burrows, have sprung up in their midst. The\nvery uprightness of the pines and maples asserts the ancient rectitude\nand vigor of nature. Our lives need the relief of such a background,\nwhere the pine flourishes and the jay still screams.\n\nWe had found a safe harbor for our boat, and as the sun was setting\ncarried up our furniture, and soon arranged our house upon the bank,\nand while the kettle steamed at the tent door, we chatted of distant\nfriends and of the sights which we were to behold, and wondered which\nway the towns lay from us. Our cocoa was soon boiled, and supper set\nupon our chest, and we lengthened out this meal, like old voyageurs,\nwith our talk. Meanwhile we spread the map on the ground, and read in\nthe Gazetteer when the first settlers came here and got a township\ngranted. Then, when supper was done and we had written the journal of\nour voyage, we wrapped our buffaloes about us and lay down with our\nheads pillowed on our arms listening awhile to the distant baying of a\ndog, or the murmurs of the river, or to the wind, which had not gone to\nrest:\u2014\n\nThe western wind came lumbering in,\nBearing a faint Pacific din,\nOur evening mail, swift at the call\nOf its Postmaster General;\nLaden with news from Californ\u2019,\nWhate\u2019er transpired hath since morn,\nHow wags the world by brier and brake\nFrom hence to Athabasca Lake;\u2014\n\n\nor half awake and half asleep, dreaming of a star which glimmered\nthrough our cotton roof. Perhaps at midnight one was awakened by a\ncricket shrilly singing on his shoulder, or by a hunting spider in his\neye, and was lulled asleep again by some streamlet purling its way\nalong at the bottom of a wooded and rocky ravine in our neighborhood.\nIt was pleasant to lie with our heads so low in the grass, and hear\nwhat a tinkling ever-busy laboratory it was. A thousand little artisans\nbeat on their anvils all night long.\n\nFar in the night as we were falling asleep on the bank of the\nMerrimack, we heard some tyro beating a drum incessantly, in\npreparation for a country muster, as we learned, and we thought of the\nline,\u2014\n\n\u201cWhen the drum beat at dead of night.\u201d\n\n\nWe could have assured him that his beat would be answered, and the\nforces be mustered. Fear not, thou drummer of the night, we too will be\nthere. And still he drummed on in the silence and the dark. This stray\nsound from a far-off sphere came to our ears from time to time, far,\nsweet, and significant, and we listened with such an unprejudiced sense\nas if for the first time we heard at all. No doubt he was an\ninsignificant drummer enough, but his music afforded us a prime and\nleisure hour, and we felt that we were in season wholly. These simple\nsounds related us to the stars. Ay, there was a logic in them so\nconvincing that the combined sense of mankind could never make me doubt\ntheir conclusions. I stop my habitual thinking, as if the plough had\nsuddenly run deeper in its furrow through the crust of the world. How\ncan I go on, who have just stepped over such a bottomless skylight in\nthe bog of my life. Suddenly old Time winked at me,\u2014Ah, you know me,\nyou rogue,\u2014and news had come that IT was well. That ancient universe is\nin such capital health, I think undoubtedly it will never die. Heal\nyourselves, doctors; by God, I live.\n\n    Then idle Time ran gadding by\n    And left me with Eternity alone;\nI hear beyond the range of sound,\nI see beyond the verge of sight,\u2014\n\n\nI see, smell, taste, hear, feel, that everlasting Something to which we\nare allied, at once our maker, our abode, our destiny, our very Selves;\nthe one historic truth, the most remarkable fact which can become the\ndistinct and uninvited subject of our thought, the actual glory of the\nuniverse; the only fact which a human being cannot avoid recognizing,\nor in some way forget or dispense with.\n\n    It doth expand my privacies\nTo all, and leave me single in the crowd.\n\n\nI have seen how the foundations of the world are laid, and I have not\nthe least doubt that it will stand a good while.\n\nNow chiefly is my natal hour,\nAnd only now my prime of life.\nI will not doubt the love untold,\nWhich not my worth nor want hath bought,\nWhich wooed me young and wooes me old,\nAnd to this evening hath me brought.\n\n\nWhat are ears? what is Time? that this particular series of sounds\ncalled a strain of music, an invisible and fairy troop which never\nbrushed the dew from any mead, can be wafted down through the centuries\nfrom Homer to me, and he have been conversant with that same aerial and\nmysterious charm which now so tingles my ears? What a fine\ncommunication from age to age, of the fairest and noblest thoughts, the\naspirations of ancient men, even such as were never communicated by\nspeech, is music! It is the flower of language, thought colored and\ncurved, fluent and flexible, its crystal fountain tinged with the sun\u2019s\nrays, and its purling ripples reflecting the grass and the clouds. A\nstrain of music reminds me of a passage of the Vedas, and I associate\nwith it the idea of infinite remoteness, as well as of beauty and\nserenity, for to the senses that is farthest from us which addresses\nthe greatest depth within us. It teaches us again and again to trust\nthe remotest and finest as the divinest instinct, and makes a dream our\nonly real experience. We feel a sad cheer when we hear it, perchance\nbecause we that hear are not one with that which is heard.\n\nTherefore a torrent of sadness deep,\nThrough the strains of thy triumph is heard to sweep.\n\n\nThe sadness is ours. The Indian poet Calidas says in the Sacontala:\n\u201cPerhaps the sadness of men on seeing beautiful forms and hearing sweet\nmusic arises from some faint remembrance of past joys, and the traces\nof connections in a former state of existence.\u201d As polishing expresses\nthe vein in marble, and grain in wood, so music brings out what of\nheroic lurks anywhere. The hero is the sole patron of music. That\nharmony which exists naturally between the hero\u2019s moods and the\nuniverse the soldier would fain imitate with drum and trumpet. When we\nare in health all sounds fife and drum for us; we hear the notes of\nmusic in the air, or catch its echoes dying away when we awake in the\ndawn. Marching is when the pulse of the hero beats in unison with the\npulse of Nature, and he steps to the measure of the universe; then\nthere is true courage and invincible strength.\n\nPlutarch says that \u201cPlato thinks the gods never gave men music, the\nscience of melody and harmony, for mere delectation or to tickle the\near; but that the discordant parts of the circulations and beauteous\nfabric of the soul, and that of it that roves about the body, and many\ntimes, for want of tune and air, breaks forth into many extravagances\nand excesses, might be sweetly recalled and artfully wound up to their\nformer consent and agreement.\u201d\n\nMusic is the sound of the universal laws promulgated. It is the only\nassured tone. There are in it such strains as far surpass any man\u2019s\nfaith in the loftiness of his destiny. Things are to be learned which\nit will be worth the while to learn. Formerly I heard these\n\nRUMORS FROM AN \u00c6OLIAN HARP.\n\n\nThere is a vale which none hath seen,\nWhere foot of man has never been,\nSuch as here lives with toil and strife,\nAn anxious and a sinful life.\n\nThere every virtue has its birth,\nEre it descends upon the earth,\nAnd thither every deed returns,\nWhich in the generous bosom burns.\n\nThere love is warm, and youth is young,\nAnd poetry is yet unsung,\nFor Virtue still adventures there,\nAnd freely breathes her native air.\n\nAnd ever, if you hearken well,\nYou still may hear its vesper bell,\nAnd tread of high-souled men go by,\nTheir thoughts conversing with the sky.\n\n\nAccording to Jamblichus, \u201cPythagoras did not procure for himself a\nthing of this kind through instruments or the voice, but employing a\ncertain ineffable divinity, and which it is difficult to apprehend, he\nextended his ears and fixed his intellect in the sublime symphonies of\nthe world, he alone hearing and understanding, as it appears, the\nuniversal harmony and consonance of the spheres, and the stars that are\nmoved through them, and which produce a fuller and more intense melody\nthan anything effected by mortal sounds.\u201d\n\nTravelling on foot very early one morning due east from here about\ntwenty miles, from Caleb Harriman\u2019s tavern in Hampstead toward\nHaverhill, when I reached the railroad in Plaistow, I heard at some\ndistance a faint music in the air like an \u00c6olian harp, which I\nimmediately suspected to proceed from the cord of the telegraph\nvibrating in the just awakening morning wind, and applying my ear to\none of the posts I was convinced that it was so. It was the telegraph\nharp singing its message through the country, its message sent not by\nmen, but by gods. Perchance, like the statue of Memnon, it resounds\nonly in the morning, when the first rays of the sun fall on it. It was\nlike the first lyre or shell heard on the sea-shore,\u2014that vibrating\ncord high in the air over the shores of earth. So have all things their\nhigher and their lower uses. I heard a fairer news than the journals\never print. It told of things worthy to hear, and worthy of the\nelectric fluid to carry the news of, not of the price of cotton and\nflour, but it hinted at the price of the world itself and of things\nwhich are priceless, of absolute truth and beauty.\n\nStill the drum rolled on, and stirred our blood to fresh extravagance\nthat night. The clarion sound and clang of corselet and buckler were\nheard from many a hamlet of the soul, and many a knight was arming for\nthe fight behind the encamped stars.\n\n                    \u201cBefore each van\nPrick forth the aery knights, and couch their spears\nTill thickest legions close; with feats of arms\nFrom either end of Heaven the welkin burns.\u201d\n\n        \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nAway! away! away! away!\n    Ye have not kept your secret well,\nI will abide that other day,\n    Those other lands ye tell.\n\nHas time no leisure left for these,\n    The acts that ye rehearse?\nIs not eternity a lease\n    For better deeds than verse?\n\n\u2019T is sweet to hear of heroes dead,\n    To know them still alive,\nBut sweeter if we earn their bread,\n    And in us they survive.\n\nOur life should feed the springs of fame\n    With a perennial wave.\nAs ocean feeds the babbling founts\n    Which find in it their grave.\n\nYe skies drop gently round my breast,\n    And be my corselet blue,\nYe earth receive my lance in rest,\n    My faithful charger you;\n\nYe stars my spear-heads in the sky,\n    My arrow-tips ye are;\nI see the routed foemen fly,\n    My bright spears fixed are.\n\nGive me an angel for a foe,\n    Fix now the place and time,\nAnd straight to meet him I will go\n    Above the starry chime.\n\nAnd with our clashing bucklers\u2019 clang\n    The heavenly spheres shall ring,\nWhile bright the northern lights shall hang\n    Beside our tourneying.\n\nAnd if she lose her champion true,\n    Tell Heaven not despair,\nFor I will be her champion new,\n    Her fame I will repair.\n\n\nThere was a high wind this night, which we afterwards learned had been\nstill more violent elsewhere, and had done much injury to the\ncornfields far and near; but we only heard it sigh from time to time,\nas if it had no license to shake the foundations of our tent; the pines\nmurmured, the water rippled, and the tent rocked a little, but we only\nlaid our ears closer to the ground, while the blast swept on to alarm\nother men, and long before sunrise we were ready to pursue our voyage\nas usual.\n\n\n\n\nTUESDAY\n\n\n\u201cOn either side the river lie\nLong fields of barley and of rye,\nThat clothe the wold and meet the sky;\nAnd through the fields the road runs by\n        To many-towered Camelot.\u201d\n\nTENNYSON.\n\nLong before daylight we ranged abroad, hatchet in hand, in search of\nfuel, and made the yet slumbering and dreaming wood resound with our\nblows. Then with our fire we burned up a portion of the loitering\nnight, while the kettle sang its homely strain to the morning star. We\ntramped about the shore, waked all the muskrats, and scared up the\nbittern and birds that were asleep upon their roosts; we hauled up and\nupset our boat and washed it and rinsed out the clay, talking aloud as\nif it were broad day, until at length, by three o\u2019clock, we had\ncompleted our preparations and were ready to pursue our voyage as\nusual; so, shaking the clay from our feet, we pushed into the fog.\n\nThough we were enveloped in mist as usual, we trusted that there was a\nbright day behind it.\n\n    Ply the oars! away! away!\nIn each dew-drop of the morning\n    Lies the promise of a day.\n\nRivers from the sunrise flow,\n    Springing with the dewy morn;\nVoyageurs \u2019gainst time do row,\nIdle noon nor sunset know,\n    Ever even with the dawn.\n\n\nBelknap, the historian of this State, says that, \u201cIn the neighborhood\nof fresh rivers and ponds, a whitish fog in the morning lying over the\nwater is a sure indication of fair weather for that day; and when no\nfog is seen, rain is expected before night.\u201d That which seemed to us to\ninvest the world was only a narrow and shallow wreath of vapor\nstretched over the channel of the Merrimack from the seaboard to the\nmountains. More extensive fogs, however, have their own limits. I once\nsaw the day break from the top of Saddle-back Mountain in\nMassachusetts, above the clouds. As we cannot distinguish objects\nthrough this dense fog, let me tell this story more at length.\n\nI had come over the hills on foot and alone in serene summer days,\nplucking the raspberries by the wayside, and occasionally buying a loaf\nof bread at a farmer\u2019s house, with a knapsack on my back which held a\nfew traveller\u2019s books and a change of clothing, and a staff in my hand.\nI had that morning looked down from the Hoosack Mountain, where the\nroad crosses it, on the village of North Adams in the valley three\nmiles away under my feet, showing how uneven the earth may sometimes\nbe, and making it seem an accident that it should ever be level and\nconvenient for the feet of man. Putting a little rice and sugar and a\ntin cup into my knapsack at this village, I began in the afternoon to\nascend the mountain, whose summit is three thousand six hundred feet\nabove the level of the sea, and was seven or eight miles distant by the\npath. My route lay up a long and spacious valley called the Bellows,\nbecause the winds rush up or down it with violence in storms, sloping\nup to the very clouds between the principal range and a lower mountain.\nThere were a few farms scattered along at different elevations, each\ncommanding a fine prospect of the mountains to the north, and a stream\nran down the middle of the valley on which near the head there was a\nmill. It seemed a road for the pilgrim to enter upon who would climb to\nthe gates of heaven. Now I crossed a hay-field, and now over the brook\non a slight bridge, still gradually ascending all the while with a sort\nof awe, and filled with indefinite expectations as to what kind of\ninhabitants and what kind of nature I should come to at last. It now\nseemed some advantage that the earth was uneven, for one could not\nimagine a more noble position for a farm-house than this vale afforded,\nfarther from or nearer to its head, from a glen-like seclusion\noverlooking the country at a great elevation between these two mountain\nwalls.\n\nIt reminded me of the homesteads of the Huguenots, on Staten Island,\noff the coast of New Jersey. The hills in the interior of this island,\nthough comparatively low, are penetrated in various directions by\nsimilar sloping valleys on a humble scale, gradually narrowing and\nrising to the centre, and at the head of these the Huguenots, who were\nthe first settlers, placed their houses quite within the land, in rural\nand sheltered places, in leafy recesses where the breeze played with\nthe poplar and the gum-tree, from which, with equal security in calm\nand storm, they looked out through a widening vista, over miles of\nforest and stretching salt marsh, to the Huguenot\u2019s Tree, an old elm on\nthe shore at whose root they had landed, and across the spacious outer\nbay of New York to Sandy Hook and the Highlands of Neversink, and\nthence over leagues of the Atlantic, perchance to some faint vessel in\nthe horizon, almost a day\u2019s sail on her voyage to that Europe whence\nthey had come. When walking in the interior there, in the midst of\nrural scenery, where there was as little to remind me of the ocean as\namid the New Hampshire hills, I have suddenly, through a gap, a cleft\nor \u201cclove road,\u201d as the Dutch settlers called it, caught sight of a\nship under full sail, over a field of corn, twenty or thirty miles at\nsea. The effect was similar, since I had no means of measuring\ndistances, to seeing a painted ship passed backwards and forwards\nthrough a magic-lantern.\n\nBut to return to the mountain. It seemed as if he must be the most\nsingular and heavenly minded man whose dwelling stood highest up the\nvalley. The thunder had rumbled at my heels all the way, but the shower\npassed off in another direction, though if it had not, I half believed\nthat I should get above it. I at length reached the last house but one,\nwhere the path to the summit diverged to the right, while the summit\nitself rose directly in front. But I determined to follow up the valley\nto its head, and then find my own route up the steep as the shorter and\nmore adventurous way. I had thoughts of returning to this house, which\nwas well kept and so nobly placed, the next day, and perhaps remaining\na week there, if I could have entertainment. Its mistress was a frank\nand hospitable young woman, who stood before me in a dishabille, busily\nand unconcernedly combing her long black hair while she talked, giving\nher head the necessary toss with each sweep of the comb, with lively,\nsparkling eyes, and full of interest in that lower world from which I\nhad come, talking all the while as familiarly as if she had known me\nfor years, and reminding me of a cousin of mine. She at first had taken\nme for a student from Williamstown, for they went by in parties, she\nsaid, either riding or walking, almost every pleasant day, and were a\npretty wild set of fellows; but they never went by the way I was going.\nAs I passed the last house, a man called out to know what I had to\nsell, for seeing my knapsack, he thought that I might be a pedler who\nwas taking this unusual route over the ridge of the valley into South\nAdams. He told me that it was still four or five miles to the summit by\nthe path which I had left, though not more than two in a straight line\nfrom where I was, but that nobody ever went this way; there was no\npath, and I should find it as steep as the roof of a house. But I knew\nthat I was more used to woods and mountains than he, and went along\nthrough his cow-yard, while he, looking at the sun, shouted after me\nthat I should not get to the top that night. I soon reached the head of\nthe valley, but as I could not see the summit from this point, I\nascended a low mountain on the opposite side, and took its bearing with\nmy compass. I at once entered the woods, and began to climb the steep\nside of the mountain in a diagonal direction, taking the bearing of a\ntree every dozen rods. The ascent was by no means difficult or\nunpleasant, and occupied much less time than it would have taken to\nfollow the path. Even country people, I have observed, magnify the\ndifficulty of travelling in the forest, and especially among mountains.\nThey seem to lack their usual common sense in this. I have climbed\nseveral higher mountains without guide or path, and have found, as\nmight be expected, that it takes only more time and patience commonly\nthan to travel the smoothest highway. It is very rare that you meet\nwith obstacles in this world which the humblest man has not faculties\nto surmount. It is true we may come to a perpendicular precipice, but\nwe need not jump off nor run our heads against it. A man may jump down\nhis own cellar stairs or dash his brains out against his chimney, if he\nis mad. So far as my experience goes, travellers generally exaggerate\nthe difficulties of the way. Like most evil, the difficulty is\nimaginary; for what\u2019s the hurry? If a person lost would conclude that\nafter all he is not lost, he is not beside himself, but standing in his\nown old shoes on the very spot where he is, and that for the time being\nhe will live there; but the places that have known him, _they_ are\nlost,\u2014how much anxiety and danger would vanish. I am not alone if I\nstand by myself. Who knows where in space this globe is rolling? Yet we\nwill not give ourselves up for lost, let it go where it will.\n\nI made my way steadily upward in a straight line through a dense\nundergrowth of mountain laurel, until the trees began to have a scraggy\nand infernal look, as if contending with frost goblins, and at length I\nreached the summit, just as the sun was setting. Several acres here had\nbeen cleared, and were covered with rocks and stumps, and there was a\nrude observatory in the middle which overlooked the woods. I had one\nfair view of the country before the sun went down, but I was too\nthirsty to waste any light in viewing the prospect, and set out\ndirectly to find water. First, going down a well-beaten path for half a\nmile through the low scrubby wood, till I came to where the water stood\nin the tracks of the horses which had carried travellers up, I lay down\nflat, and drank these dry, one after another, a pure, cold, spring-like\nwater, but yet I could not fill my dipper, though I contrived little\nsiphons of grass-stems, and ingenious aqueducts on a small scale; it\nwas too slow a process. Then remembering that I had passed a moist\nplace near the top, on my way up, I returned to find it again, and\nhere, with sharp stones and my hands, in the twilight, I made a well\nabout two feet deep, which was soon filled with pure cold water, and\nthe birds too came and drank at it. So I filled my dipper, and, making\nmy way back to the observatory, collected some dry sticks, and made a\nfire on some flat stones which had been placed on the floor for that\npurpose, and so I soon cooked my supper of rice, having already\nwhittled a wooden spoon to eat it with.\n\nI sat up during the evening, reading by the light of the fire the\nscraps of newspapers in which some party had wrapped their luncheon;\nthe prices current in New York and Boston, the advertisements, and the\nsingular editorials which some had seen fit to publish, not foreseeing\nunder what critical circumstances they would be read. I read these\nthings at a vast advantage there, and it seemed to me that the\nadvertisements, or what is called the business part of a paper, were\ngreatly the best, the most useful, natural, and respectable. Almost all\nthe opinions and sentiments expressed were so little considered, so\nshallow and flimsy, that I thought the very texture of the paper must\nbe weaker in that part and tear the more easily. The advertisements and\nthe prices current were more closely allied to nature, and were\nrespectable in some measure as tide and meteorological tables are; but\nthe reading-matter, which I remembered was most prized down below,\nunless it was some humble record of science, or an extract from some\nold classic, struck me as strangely whimsical, and crude, and\none-idea\u2019d, like a school-boy\u2019s theme, such as youths write and after\nburn. The opinions were of that kind that are doomed to wear a\ndifferent aspect to-morrow, like last year\u2019s fashions; as if mankind\nwere very green indeed, and would be ashamed of themselves in a few\nyears, when they had outgrown this verdant period. There was, moreover,\na singular disposition to wit and humor, but rarely the slightest real\nsuccess; and the apparent success was a terrible satire on the attempt;\nthe Evil Genius of man laughed the loudest at his best jokes. The\nadvertisements, as I have said, such as were serious, and not of the\nmodern quack kind, suggested pleasing and poetic thoughts; for commerce\nis really as interesting as nature. The very names of the commodities\nwere poetic, and as suggestive as if they had been inserted in a\npleasing poem,\u2014Lumber, Cotton, Sugar, Hides, Guano, Logwood. Some\nsober, private, and original thought would have been grateful to read\nthere, and as much in harmony with the circumstances as if it had been\nwritten on a mountain-top; for it is of a fashion which never changes,\nand as respectable as hides and logwood, or any natural product. What\nan inestimable companion such a scrap of paper would have been,\ncontaining some fruit of a mature life. What a relic! What a recipe! It\nseemed a divine invention, by which not mere shining coin, but shining\nand current thoughts, could be brought up and left there.\n\nAs it was cold, I collected quite a pile of wood and lay down on a\nboard against the side of the building, not having any blanket to cover\nme, with my head to the fire, that I might look after it, which is not\nthe Indian rule. But as it grew colder towards midnight, I at length\nencased myself completely in boards, managing even to put a board on\ntop of me, with a large stone on it, to keep it down, and so slept\ncomfortably. I was reminded, it is true, of the Irish children, who\ninquired what their neighbors did who had no door to put over them in\nwinter nights as they had; but I am convinced that there was nothing\nvery strange in the inquiry. Those who have never tried it can have no\nidea how far a door, which keeps the single blanket down, may go toward\nmaking one comfortable. We are constituted a good deal like chickens,\nwhich taken from the hen, and put in a basket of cotton in the\nchimney-corner, will often peep till they die, nevertheless, but if you\nput in a book, or anything heavy, which will press down the cotton, and\nfeel like the hen, they go to sleep directly. My only companions were\nthe mice, which came to pick up the crumbs that had been left in those\nscraps of paper; still, as everywhere, pensioners on man, and not\nunwisely improving this elevated tract for their habitation. They\nnibbled what was for them; I nibbled what was for me. Once or twice in\nthe night, when I looked up, I saw a white cloud drifting through the\nwindows, and filling the whole upper story.\n\nThis observatory was a building of considerable size, erected by the\nstudents of Williamstown College, whose buildings might be seen by\ndaylight gleaming far down in the valley. It would be no small\nadvantage if every college were thus located at the base of a mountain,\nas good at least as one well-endowed professorship. It were as well to\nbe educated in the shadow of a mountain as in more classical shades.\nSome will remember, no doubt, not only that they went to the college,\nbut that they went to the mountain. Every visit to its summit would, as\nit were, generalize the particular information gained below, and\nsubject it to more catholic tests.\n\nI was up early and perched upon the top of this tower to see the\ndaybreak, for some time reading the names that had been engraved there,\nbefore I could distinguish more distant objects. An \u201cuntamable fly\u201d\nbuzzed at my elbow with the same nonchalance as on a molasses hogshead\nat the end of Long Wharf. Even there I must attend to his stale\nhumdrum. But now I come to the pith of this long digression.\u2014As the\nlight increased I discovered around me an ocean of mist, which by\nchance reached up exactly to the base of the tower, and shut out every\nvestige of the earth, while I was left floating on this fragment of the\nwreck of a world, on my carved plank, in cloudland; a situation which\nrequired no aid from the imagination to render it impressive. As the\nlight in the east steadily increased, it revealed to me more clearly\nthe new world into which I had risen in the night, the new _terra\nfirma_ perchance of my future life. There was not a crevice left\nthrough which the trivial places we name Massachusetts or Vermont or\nNew York could be seen, while I still inhaled the clear atmosphere of a\nJuly morning,\u2014if it were July there. All around beneath me was spread\nfor a hundred miles on every side, as far as the eye could reach, an\nundulating country of clouds, answering in the varied swell of its\nsurface to the terrestrial world it veiled. It was such a country as we\nmight see in dreams, with all the delights of paradise. There were\nimmense snowy pastures, apparently smooth-shaven and firm, and shady\nvales between the vaporous mountains; and far in the horizon I could\nsee where some luxurious misty timber jutted into the prairie, and\ntrace the windings of a water-course, some unimagined Amazon or\nOrinoko, by the misty trees on its brink. As there was wanting the\nsymbol, so there was not the substance of impurity, no spot nor stain.\nIt was a favor for which to be forever silent to be shown this vision.\nThe earth beneath had become such a flitting thing of lights and\nshadows as the clouds had been before. It was not merely veiled to me,\nbut it had passed away like the phantom of a shadow, \u03c3\u03ba\u03b9\u1fb6\u03c2 \u1f44\u03bd\u03b1\u03c1, and\nthis new platform was gained. As I had climbed above storm and cloud,\nso by successive days\u2019 journeys I might reach the region of eternal\nday, beyond the tapering shadow of the earth; ay,\n\n        \u201cHeaven itself shall slide,\nAnd roll away, like melting stars that glide\nAlong their oily threads.\u201d\n\n\nBut when its own sun began to rise on this pure world, I found myself a\ndweller in the dazzling halls of Aurora, into which poets have had but\na partial glance over the eastern hills, drifting amid the\nsaffron-colored clouds, and playing with the rosy fingers of the Dawn,\nin the very path of the Sun\u2019s chariot, and sprinkled with its dewy\ndust, enjoying the benignant smile, and near at hand the far-darting\nglances of the god. The inhabitants of earth behold commonly but the\ndark and shadowy under-side of heaven\u2019s pavement; it is only when seen\nat a favorable angle in the horizon, morning or evening, that some\nfaint streaks of the rich lining of the clouds are revealed. But my\nmuse would fail to convey an impression of the gorgeous tapestry by\nwhich I was surrounded, such as men see faintly reflected afar off in\nthe chambers of the east. Here, as on earth, I saw the gracious god\n\n\u201cFlatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,\n\n.   .   .   .   .   .\n\nGilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy.\u201d\n\n\nBut never here did \u201cHeaven\u2019s sun\u201d stain himself.\n\nBut, alas, owing, as I think, to some unworthiness in myself, my\nprivate sun did stain himself, and\n\n\u201cAnon permit the basest clouds to ride\nWith ugly wrack on his celestial face,\u201d\u2014\n\n\nfor before the god had reached the zenith the heavenly pavement rose\nand embraced my wavering virtue, or rather I sank down again into that\n\u201cforlorn world,\u201d from which the celestial sun had hid his visage,\u2014\n\n\u201cHow may a worm that crawls along the dust,\nClamber the azure mountains, thrown so high,\nAnd fetch from thence thy fair idea just,\nThat in those sunny courts doth hidden lie,\nClothed with such light as blinds the angel\u2019s eye?\n    How may weak mortal ever hope to file\n    His unsmooth tongue, and his deprostrate style?\nO, raise thou from his corse thy now entombed exile!\u201d\n\n\nIn the preceding evening I had seen the summits of new and yet higher\nmountains, the Catskills, by which I might hope to climb to heaven\nagain, and had set my compass for a fair lake in the southwest, which\nlay in my way, for which I now steered, descending the mountain by my\nown route, on the side opposite to that by which I had ascended, and\nsoon found myself in the region of cloud and drizzling rain, and the\ninhabitants affirmed that it had been a cloudy and drizzling day\nwholly.\n\nBut now we must make haste back before the fog disperses to the blithe\nMerrimack water.\n\nSince that first \u201cAway! away!\u201d\n    Many a lengthy reach we\u2019ve rowed,\nStill the sparrow on the spray\nHastes to usher in the day\n    With her simple stanza\u2019d ode.\n\n\nWe passed a canal-boat before sunrise, groping its way to the seaboard,\nand, though we could not see it on account of the fog, the few dull,\nthumping, stertorous sounds which we heard, impressed us with a sense\nof weight and irresistible motion. One little rill of commerce already\nawake on this distant New Hampshire river. The fog, as it required more\nskill in the steering, enhanced the interest of our early voyage, and\nmade the river seem indefinitely broad. A slight mist, through which\nobjects are faintly visible, has the effect of expanding even ordinary\nstreams, by a singular mirage, into arms of the sea or inland lakes. In\nthe present instance it was even fragrant and invigorating, and we\nenjoyed it as a sort of earlier sunshine, or dewy and embryo light.\n\nLow-anchored cloud,\nNewfoundland air,\nFountain-head and source of rivers,\nDew-cloth, dream drapery,\nAnd napkin spread by fays;\nDrifting meadow of the air,\nWhere bloom the daisied banks and violets,\nAnd in whose fenny labyrinth\nThe bittern booms and heron wades;\nSpirit of lakes and seas and rivers,\nBear only perfumes and the scent\nOf healing herbs to just men\u2019s fields!\n\n\nThe same pleasant and observant historian whom we quoted above says,\nthat, \u201cIn the mountainous parts of the country, the ascent of vapors,\nand their formation into clouds, is a curious and entertaining object.\nThe vapors are seen rising in small columns like smoke from many\nchimneys. When risen to a certain height, they spread, meet, condense,\nand are attracted to the mountains, where they either distil in gentle\ndews, and replenish the springs, or descend in showers, accompanied\nwith thunder. After short intermissions, the process is repeated many\ntimes in the course of a summer day, affording to travellers a lively\nillustration of what is observed in the Book of Job, \u2018They are wet with\nthe showers of the mountains.\u2019\u201d\n\nFogs and clouds which conceal the overshadowing mountains lend the\nbreadth of the plains to mountain vales. Even a small-featured country\nacquires some grandeur in stormy weather when clouds are seen drifting\nbetween the beholder and the neighboring hills. When, in travelling\ntoward Haverhill through Hampstead in this State, on the height of land\nbetween the Merrimack and the Piscataqua or the sea, you commence the\ndescent eastward, the view toward the coast is so distant and\nunexpected, though the sea is invisible, that you at first suppose the\nunobstructed atmosphere to be a fog in the lowlands concealing hills of\ncorresponding elevation to that you are upon; but it is the mist of\nprejudice alone, which the winds will not disperse. The most stupendous\nscenery ceases to be sublime when it becomes distinct, or in other\nwords limited, and the imagination is no longer encouraged to\nexaggerate it. The actual height and breadth of a mountain or a\nwaterfall are always ridiculously small; they are the imagined only\nthat content us. Nature is not made after such a fashion as we would\nhave her. We piously exaggerate her wonders, as the scenery around our\nhome.\n\nSuch was the heaviness of the dews along this river that we were\ngenerally obliged to leave our tent spread over the bows of the boat\ntill the sun had dried it, to avoid mildew. We passed the mouth of\nPenichook Brook, a wild salmon-stream, in the fog, without seeing it.\nAt length the sun\u2019s rays struggled through the mist and showed us the\npines on shore dripping with dew, and springs trickling from the moist\nbanks,\u2014\n\n\u201cAnd now the taller sons, whom Titan warms,\nOf unshorn mountains blown with easy winds,\nDandle the morning\u2019s childhood in their arms,\nAnd, if they chanced to slip the prouder pines,\nThe under corylets did catch their shines,\nTo gild their leaves.\u201d\n\n\nWe rowed for some hours between glistening banks before the sun had\ndried the grass and leaves, or the day had established its character.\nIts serenity at last seemed the more profound and secure for the\ndenseness of the morning\u2019s fog. The river became swifter, and the\nscenery more pleasing than before. The banks were steep and clayey for\nthe most part, and trickling with water, and where a spring oozed out a\nfew feet above the river the boatmen had cut a trough out of a slab\nwith their axes, and placed it so as to receive the water and fill\ntheir jugs conveniently. Sometimes this purer and cooler water,\nbursting out from under a pine or a rock, was collected into a basin\nclose to the edge of and level with the river, a fountain-head of the\nMerrimack. So near along life\u2019s stream are the fountains of innocence\nand youth making fertile its sandy margin; and the voyageur will do\nwell to replenish his vessels often at these uncontaminated sources.\nSome youthful spring, perchance, still empties with tinkling music into\nthe oldest river, even when it is falling into the sea, and we imagine\nthat its music is distinguished by the river-gods from the general\nlapse of the stream, and falls sweeter on their ears in proportion as\nit is nearer to the ocean. As the evaporations of the river feed thus\nthese unsuspected springs which filter through its banks, so,\nperchance, our aspirations fall back again in springs on the margin of\nlife\u2019s stream to refresh and purify it. The yellow and tepid river may\nfloat his scow, and cheer his eye with its reflections and its ripples,\nbut the boatman quenches his thirst at this small rill alone. It is\nthis purer and cooler element that chiefly sustains his life. The race\nwill long survive that is thus discreet.\n\nOur course this morning lay between the territories of Merrimack, on\nthe west, and Litchfield, once called Brenton\u2019s Farm, on the east,\nwhich townships were anciently the Indian Naticook. Brenton was a\nfur-trader among the Indians, and these lands were granted to him in\n1656. The latter township contains about five hundred inhabitants, of\nwhom, however, we saw none, and but few of their dwellings. Being on\nthe river, whose banks are always high and generally conceal the few\nhouses, the country appeared much more wild and primitive than to the\ntraveller on the neighboring roads. The river is by far the most\nattractive highway, and those boatmen who have spent twenty or\ntwenty-five years on it must have had a much fairer, more wild, and\nmemorable experience than the dusty and jarring one of the teamster who\nhas driven, during the same time, on the roads which run parallel with\nthe stream. As one ascends the Merrimack he rarely sees a village, but\nfor the most part alternate wood and pasture lands, and sometimes a\nfield of corn or potatoes, of rye or oats or English grass, with a few\nstraggling apple-trees, and, at still longer intervals, a farmer\u2019s\nhouse. The soil, excepting the best of the interval, is commonly as\nlight and sandy as a patriot could desire. Sometimes this forenoon the\ncountry appeared in its primitive state, and as if the Indian still\ninhabited it, and, again, as if many free, new settlers occupied it,\ntheir slight fences straggling down to the water\u2019s edge; and the\nbarking of dogs, and even the prattle of children, were heard, and\nsmoke was seen to go up from some hearthstone, and the banks were\ndivided into patches of pasture, mowing, tillage, and woodland. But\nwhen the river spread out broader, with an uninhabited islet, or a\nlong, low sandy shore which ran on single and devious, not answering to\nits opposite, but far off as if it were sea-shore or single coast, and\nthe land no longer nursed the river in its bosom, but they conversed as\nequals, the rustling leaves with rippling waves, and few fences were\nseen, but high oak woods on one side, and large herds of cattle, and\nall tracks seemed a point to one centre behind some statelier grove,\u2014we\nimagined that the river flowed through an extensive manor, and that the\nfew inhabitants were retainers to a lord, and a feudal state of things\nprevailed.\n\nWhen there was a suitable reach, we caught sight of the Goffstown\nmountain, the Indian Uncannunuc, rising before us on the west side. It\nwas a calm and beautiful day, with only a slight zephyr to ripple the\nsurface of the water, and rustle the woods on shore, and just warmth\nenough to prove the kindly disposition of Nature to her children. With\nbuoyant spirits and vigorous impulses we tossed our boat rapidly along\ninto the very middle of this forenoon. The fish-hawk sailed and\nscreamed overhead. The chipping or striped squirrel, _Sciurus striatus_\n(_Tamias Lysteri_, Aud.), sat upon the end of some Virginia fence or\nrider reaching over the stream, twirling a green nut with one paw, as\nin a lathe, while the other held it fast against its incisors as\nchisels. Like an independent russet leaf, with a will of its own,\nrustling whither it could; now under the fence, now over it, now\npeeping at the voyageurs through a crack with only its tail visible,\nnow at its lunch deep in the toothsome kernel, and now a rod off\nplaying at hide-and-seek, with the nut stowed away in its chops, where\nwere half a dozen more besides, extending its cheeks to a ludicrous\nbreadth,\u2014as if it were devising through what safe valve of frisk or\nsomerset to let its superfluous life escape; the stream passing\nharmlessly off, even while it sits, in constant electric flashes\nthrough its tail. And now with a chuckling squeak it dives into the\nroot of a hazel, and we see no more of it. Or the larger red squirrel\nor chickaree, sometimes called the Hudson Bay squirrel (_Scriurus\nHudsonius_), gave warning of our approach by that peculiar alarum of\nhis, like the winding up of some strong clock, in the top of a\npine-tree, and dodged behind its stem, or leaped from tree to tree with\nsuch caution and adroitness, as if much depended on the fidelity of his\nscout, running along the white-pine boughs sometimes twenty rods by our\nside, with such speed, and by such unerring routes, as if it were some\nwell-worn familiar path to him; and presently, when we have passed, he\nreturns to his work of cutting off the pine-cones, and letting them\nfall to the ground.\n\nWe passed Cromwell\u2019s Falls, the first we met with on this river, this\nforenoon, by means of locks, without using our wheels. These falls are\nthe Nesenkeag of the Indians. Great Nesenkeag Stream comes in on the\nright just above, and Little Nesenkeag some distance below, both in\nLitchfield. We read in the Gazetteer, under the head of Merrimack, that\n\u201cThe first house in this town was erected on the margin of the river\n[soon after 1665] for a house of traffic with the Indians. For some\ntime one Cromwell carried on a lucrative trade with them, weighing\ntheir furs with his foot, till, enraged at his supposed or real\ndeception, they formed the resolution to murder him. This intention\nbeing communicated to Cromwell, he buried his wealth and made his\nescape. Within a few hours after his flight, a party of the Penacook\ntribe arrived, and, not finding the object of their resentment, burnt\nhis habitation.\u201d Upon the top of the high bank here, close to the\nriver, was still to be seen his cellar, now overgrown with trees. It\nwas a convenient spot for such a traffic, at the foot of the first\nfalls above the settlements, and commanding a pleasant view up the\nriver, where he could see the Indians coming down with their furs. The\nlock-man told us that his shovel and tongs had been ploughed up here,\nand also a stone with his name on it. But we will not vouch for the\ntruth of this story. In the New Hampshire Historical Collections for\n1815 it says, \u201cSome time after pewter was found in the well, and an\niron pot and trammel in the sand; the latter are preserved.\u201d These were\nthe traces of the white trader. On the opposite bank, where it jutted\nover the stream cape-wise, we picked up four arrow-heads and a small\nIndian tool made of stone, as soon as we had climbed it, where plainly\nthere had once stood a wigwam of the Indians with whom Cromwell traded,\nand who fished and hunted here before he came.\n\nAs usual the gossips have not been silent respecting Cromwell\u2019s buried\nwealth, and it is said that some years ago a farmer\u2019s plough, not far\nfrom here, slid over a flat stone which emitted a hollow sound, and, on\nits being raised, a small hole six inches in diameter was discovered,\nstoned about, from which a sum of money was taken. The lock-man told us\nanother similar story about a farmer in a neighboring town, who had\nbeen a poor man, but who suddenly bought a good farm, and was well to\ndo in the world, and, when he was questioned, did not give a\nsatisfactory account of the matter; how few, alas, could! This caused\nhis hired man to remember that one day, as they were ploughing\ntogether, the plough struck something, and his employer, going back to\nlook, concluded not to go round again, saying that the sky looked\nrather lowering, and so put up his team. The like urgency has caused\nmany things to be remembered which never transpired. The truth is,\nthere is money buried everywhere, and you have only to go to work to\nfind it.\n\nNot far from these falls stands an oak-tree, on the interval, about a\nquarter of a mile from the river, on the farm of a Mr. Lund, which was\npointed out to us as the spot where French, the leader of the party\nwhich went in pursuit of the Indians from Dunstable, was killed.\nFarwell dodged them in the thick woods near. It did not look as if men\nhad ever had to run for their lives on this now open and peaceful\ninterval.\n\nHere too was another extensive desert by the side of the road in\nLitchfield, visible from the bank of the river. The sand was blown off\nin some places to the depth of ten or twelve feet, leaving small\ngrotesque hillocks of that height, where there was a clump of bushes\nfirmly rooted. Thirty or forty years ago, as we were told, it was a\nsheep-pasture, but the sheep, being worried by the fleas, began to paw\nthe ground, till they broke the sod, and so the sand began to blow,\ntill now it had extended over forty or fifty acres. This evil might\neasily have been remedied, at first, by spreading birches with their\nleaves on over the sand, and fastening them down with stakes, to break\nthe wind. The fleas bit the sheep, and the sheep bit the ground, and\nthe sore had spread to this extent. It is astonishing what a great sore\na little scratch breedeth. Who knows but Sahara, where caravans and\ncities are buried, began with the bite of an African flea? This poor\nglobe, how it must itch in many places! Will no god be kind enough to\nspread a salve of birches over its sores? Here too we noticed where the\nIndians had gathered a heap of stones, perhaps for their council-fire,\nwhich, by their weight having prevented the sand under them from\nblowing away, were left on the summit of a mound. They told us that\narrow-heads, and also bullets of lead and iron, had been found here. We\nnoticed several other sandy tracts in our voyage; and the course of the\nMerrimack can be traced from the nearest mountain by its yellow\nsandbanks, though the river itself is for the most part invisible.\nLawsuits, as we hear, have in some cases grown out of these causes.\nRailroads have been made through certain irritable districts, breaking\ntheir sod, and so have set the sand to blowing, till it has converted\nfertile farms into deserts, and the company has had to pay the damages.\n\nThis sand seemed to us the connecting link between land and water. It\nwas a kind of water on which you could walk, and you could see the\nripple-marks on its surface, produced by the winds, precisely like\nthose at the bottom of a brook or lake. We had read that Mussulmen are\npermitted by the Koran to perform their ablutions in sand when they\ncannot get water, a necessary indulgence in Arabia, and we now\nunderstood the propriety of this provision.\n\nPlum Island, at the mouth of this river, to whose formation, perhaps,\nthese very banks have sent their contribution, is a similar desert of\ndrifting sand, of various colors, blown into graceful curves by the\nwind. It is a mere sand-bar exposed, stretching nine miles parallel to\nthe coast, and, exclusive of the marsh on the inside, rarely more than\nhalf a mile wide. There are but half a dozen houses on it, and it is\nalmost without a tree, or a sod, or any green thing with which a\ncountryman is familiar. The thin vegetation stands half buried in sand,\nas in drifting snow. The only shrub, the beach-plum, which gives the\nisland its name, grows but a few feet high; but this is so abundant\nthat parties of a hundred at once come from the main-land and down the\nMerrimack, in September, pitch their tents, and gather the plums, which\nare good to eat raw and to preserve. The graceful and delicate\nbeach-pea, too, grows abundantly amid the sand, and several strange,\nmoss-like and succulent plants. The island for its whole length is\nscalloped into low hills, not more than twenty feet high, by the wind,\nand, excepting a faint trail on the edge of the marsh, is as trackless\nas Sahara. There are dreary bluffs of sand and valleys ploughed by the\nwind, where you might expect to discover the bones of a caravan.\nSchooners come from Boston to load with the sand for masons\u2019 uses, and\nin a few hours the wind obliterates all traces of their work. Yet you\nhave only to dig a foot or two anywhere to come to fresh water; and you\nare surprised to learn that woodchucks abound here, and foxes are\nfound, though you see not where they can burrow or hide themselves. I\nhave walked down the whole length of its broad beach at low tide, at\nwhich time alone you can find a firm ground to walk on, and probably\nMassachusetts does not furnish a more grand and dreary walk. On the\nseaside there are only a distant sail and a few coots to break the\ngrand monotony. A solitary stake stuck up, or a sharper sand-hill than\nusual, is remarkable as a landmark for miles; while for music you hear\nonly the ceaseless sound of the surf, and the dreary peep of the\nbeach-birds.\n\nThere were several canal-boats at Cromwell\u2019s Falls passing through the\nlocks, for which we waited. In the forward part of one stood a brawny\nNew Hampshire man, leaning on his pole, bareheaded and in shirt and\ntrousers only, a rude Apollo of a man, coming down from that \u201cvast\nuplandish country\u201d to the main; of nameless age, with flaxen hair, and\nvigorous, weather-bleached countenance, in whose wrinkles the sun still\nlodged, as little touched by the heats and frosts and withering cares\nof life as a maple of the mountain; an undressed, unkempt, uncivil man,\nwith whom we parleyed awhile, and parted not without a sincere interest\nin one another. His humanity was genuine and instinctive, and his\nrudeness only a manner. He inquired, just as we were passing out of\nearshot, if we had killed anything, and we shouted after him that we\nhad shot a _buoy_, and could see him for a long while scratching his\nhead in vain to know if he had heard aright.\n\nThere is reason in the distinction of civil and uncivil. The manners\nare sometimes so rough a rind that we doubt whether they cover any core\nor sap-wood at all. We sometimes meet uncivil men, children of Amazons,\nwho dwell by mountain paths, and are said to be inhospitable to\nstrangers; whose salutation is as rude as the grasp of their brawny\nhands, and who deal with men as unceremoniously as they are wont to\ndeal with the elements. They need only to extend their clearings, and\nlet in more sunlight, to seek out the southern slopes of the hills,\nfrom which they may look down on the civil plain or ocean, and temper\ntheir diet duly with the cereal fruits, consuming less wild meat and\nacorns, to become like the inhabitants of cities. A true politeness\ndoes not result from any hasty and artificial polishing, it is true,\nbut grows naturally in characters of the right grain and quality,\nthrough a long fronting of men and events, and rubbing on good and bad\nfortune. Perhaps I can tell a tale to the purpose while the lock is\nfilling,\u2014for our voyage this forenoon furnishes but few incidents of\nimportance.\n\nEarly one summer morning I had left the shores of the Connecticut, and\nfor the livelong day travelled up the bank of a river, which came in\nfrom the west; now looking down on the stream, foaming and rippling\nthrough the forest a mile off, from the hills over which the road led,\nand now sitting on its rocky brink and dipping my feet in its rapids,\nor bathing adventurously in mid-channel. The hills grew more and more\nfrequent, and gradually swelled into mountains as I advanced, hemming\nin the course of the river, so that at last I could not see where it\ncame from, and was at liberty to imagine the most wonderful meanderings\nand descents. At noon I slept on the grass in the shade of a maple,\nwhere the river had found a broader channel than usual, and was spread\nout shallow, with frequent sand-bars exposed. In the names of the towns\nI recognized some which I had long ago read on teamsters\u2019 wagons, that\nhad come from far up country; quiet, uplandish towns, of mountainous\nfame. I walked along, musing and enchanted, by rows of sugar-maples,\nthrough the small and uninquisitive villages, and sometimes was pleased\nwith the sight of a boat drawn up on a sand-bar, where there appeared\nno inhabitants to use it. It seemed, however, as essential to the river\nas a fish, and to lend a certain dignity to it. It was like the trout\nof mountain streams to the fishes of the sea, or like the young of the\nland-crab born far in the interior, who have never yet heard the sound\nof the ocean\u2019s surf. The hills approached nearer and nearer to the\nstream, until at last they closed behind me, and I found myself just\nbefore nightfall in a romantic and retired valley, about half a mile in\nlength, and barely wide enough for the stream at its bottom. I thought\nthat there could be no finer site for a cottage among mountains. You\ncould anywhere run across the stream on the rocks, and its constant\nmurmuring would quiet the passions of mankind forever. Suddenly the\nroad, which seemed aiming for the mountain-side, turned short to the\nleft, and another valley opened, concealing the former, and of the same\ncharacter with it. It was the most remarkable and pleasing scenery I\nhad ever seen. I found here a few mild and hospitable inhabitants, who,\nas the day was not quite spent, and I was anxious to improve the light,\ndirected me four or five miles farther on my way to the dwelling of a\nman whose name was Rice, who occupied the last and highest of the\nvalleys that lay in my path, and who, they said, was a rather rude and\nuncivil man. But \u201cwhat is a foreign country to those who have science?\nWho is a stranger to those who have the habit of speaking kindly?\u201d\n\nAt length, as the sun was setting behind the mountains in a still\ndarker and more solitary vale, I reached the dwelling of this man.\nExcept for the narrowness of the plain, and that the stones were solid\ngranite, it was the counterpart of that retreat to which Belph\u0153be bore\nthe wounded Timias,\u2014\n\n        \u201cIn a pleasant glade,\nWith mountains round about environed,\nAnd mighty woods, which did the valley shade,\nAnd like a stately theatre it made,\nSpreading itself into a spacious plain;\nAnd in the midst a little river played\nAmongst the pumy stones which seemed to plain,\nWith gentle murmur, that his course they did restrain.\u201d\n\n\nI observed, as I drew near, that he was not so rude as I had\nanticipated, for he kept many cattle, and dogs to watch them, and I saw\nwhere he had made maple-sugar on the sides of the mountains, and above\nall distinguished the voices of children mingling with the murmur of\nthe torrent before the door. As I passed his stable I met one whom I\nsupposed to be a hired man, attending to his cattle, and I inquired if\nthey entertained travellers at that house. \u201cSometimes we do,\u201d he\nanswered, gruffly, and immediately went to the farthest stall from me,\nand I perceived that it was Rice himself whom I had addressed. But\npardoning this incivility to the wildness of the scenery, I bent my\nsteps to the house. There was no sign-post before it, nor any of the\nusual invitations to the traveller, though I saw by the road that many\nwent and came there, but the owner\u2019s name only was fastened to the\noutside; a sort of implied and sullen invitation, as I thought. I\npassed from room to room without meeting any one, till I came to what\nseemed the guests\u2019 apartment, which was neat, and even had an air of\nrefinement about it, and I was glad to find a map against the wall\nwhich would direct me on my journey on the morrow. At length I heard a\nstep in a distant apartment, which was the first I had entered, and\nwent to see if the landlord had come in; but it proved to be only a\nchild, one of those whose voices I had heard, probably his son, and\nbetween him and me stood in the doorway a large watch-dog, which\ngrowled at me, and looked as if he would presently spring, but the boy\ndid not speak to him; and when I asked for a glass of water, he briefly\nsaid, \u201cIt runs in the corner.\u201d So I took a mug from the counter and\nwent out of doors, and searched round the corner of the house, but\ncould find neither well nor spring, nor any water but the stream which\nran all along the front. I came back, therefore, and, setting down the\nmug, asked the child if the stream was good to drink; whereupon he\nseized the mug, and, going to the corner of the room, where a cool\nspring which issued from the mountain behind trickled through a pipe\ninto the apartment, filled it, and drank, and gave it to me empty\nagain, and, calling to the dog, rushed out of doors. Erelong some of\nthe hired men made their appearance, and drank at the spring, and\nlazily washed themselves and combed their hair in silence, and some sat\ndown as if weary, and fell asleep in their seats. But all the while I\nsaw no women, though I sometimes heard a bustle in that part of the\nhouse from which the spring came.\n\nAt length Rice himself came in, for it was now dark, with an ox-whip in\nhis hand, breathing hard, and he too soon settled down into his seat\nnot far from me, as if, now that his day\u2019s work was done, he had no\nfarther to travel, but only to digest his supper at his leisure. When I\nasked him if he could give me a bed, he said there was one ready, in\nsuch a tone as implied that I ought to have known it, and the less said\nabout that the better. So far so good. And yet he continued to look at\nme as if he would fain have me say something further like a traveller.\nI remarked, that it was a wild and rugged country he inhabited, and\nworth coming many miles to see. \u201cNot so very rough neither,\u201d said he,\nand appealed to his men to bear witness to the breadth and smoothness\nof his fields, which consisted in all of one small interval, and to the\nsize of his crops; \u201cand if we have some hills,\u201d added he, \u201cthere\u2019s no\nbetter pasturage anywhere.\u201d I then asked if this place was the one I\nhad heard of, calling it by a name I had seen on the map, or if it was\na certain other; and he answered, gruffly, that it was neither the one\nnor the other; that he had settled it and cultivated it, and made it\nwhat it was, and I could know nothing about it. Observing some guns and\nother implements of hunting hanging on brackets around the room, and\nhis hounds now sleeping on the floor, I took occasion to change the\ndiscourse, and inquired if there was much game in that country, and he\nanswered this question more graciously, having some glimmering of my\ndrift; but when I inquired if there were any bears, he answered\nimpatiently that he was no more in danger of losing his sheep than his\nneighbors; he had tamed and civilized that region. After a pause,\nthinking of my journey on the morrow, and the few hours of daylight in\nthat hollow and mountainous country, which would require me to be on my\nway betimes, I remarked that the day must be shorter by an hour there\nthan on the neighboring plains; at which he gruffly asked what I knew\nabout it, and affirmed that he had as much daylight as his neighbors;\nhe ventured to say, the days were longer there than where I lived, as I\nshould find if I stayed; that in some way, I could not be expected to\nunderstand how, the sun came over the mountains half an hour earlier,\nand stayed half an hour later there than on the neighboring plains. And\nmore of like sort he said. He was, indeed, as rude as a fabled satyr.\nBut I suffered him to pass for what he was,\u2014for why should I quarrel\nwith nature?\u2014and was even pleased at the discovery of such a singular\nnatural phenomenon. I dealt with him as if to me all manners were\nindifferent, and he had a sweet, wild way with him. I would not\nquestion nature, and I would rather have him as he was than as I would\nhave him. For I had come up here not for sympathy, or kindness, or\nsociety, but for novelty and adventure, and to see what nature had\nproduced here. I therefore did not repel his rudeness, but quite\ninnocently welcomed it all, and knew how to appreciate it, as if I were\nreading in an old drama a part well sustained. He was indeed a coarse\nand sensual man, and, as I have said, uncivil, but he had his just\nquarrel with nature and mankind, I have no doubt, only he had no\nartificial covering to his ill-humors. He was earthy enough, but yet\nthere was good soil in him, and even a long-suffering Saxon probity at\nbottom. If you could represent the case to him, he would not let the\nrace die out in him, like a red Indian.\n\nAt length I told him that he was a fortunate man, and I trusted that he\nwas grateful for so much light; and, rising, said I would take a lamp,\nand that I would pay him then for my lodging, for I expected to\nrecommence my journey even as early as the sun rose in his country; but\nhe answered in haste, and this time civilly, that I should not fail to\nfind some of his household stirring, however early, for they were no\nsluggards, and I could take my breakfast with them before I started, if\nI chose; and as he lighted the lamp I detected a gleam of true\nhospitality and ancient civility, a beam of pure and even gentle\nhumanity, from his bleared and moist eyes. It was a look more intimate\nwith me, and more explanatory, than any words of his could have been if\nhe had tried to his dying day. It was more significant than any Rice of\nthose parts could even comprehend, and long anticipated this man\u2019s\nculture,\u2014a glance of his pure genius, which did not much enlighten him,\nbut did impress and rule him for the moment, and faintly constrain his\nvoice and manner. He cheerfully led the way to my apartment, stepping\nover the limbs of his men, who were asleep on the floor in an\nintervening chamber, and showed me a clean and comfortable bed. For\nmany pleasant hours after the household was asleep I sat at the open\nwindow, for it was a sultry night, and heard the little river\n\n\u201cAmongst the pumy stones, which seemed to plain,\nWith gentle murmur, that his course they did restrain.\u201d\n\n\nBut I arose as usual by starlight the next morning, before my host, or\nhis men, or even his dogs, were awake; and, having left a ninepence on\nthe counter, was already half-way over the mountain with the sun before\nthey had broken their fast.\n\nBefore I had left the country of my host, while the first rays of the\nsun slanted over the mountains, as I stopped by the wayside to gather\nsome raspberries, a very old man, not far from a hundred, came along\nwith a milking-pail in his hand, and turning aside began to pluck the\nberries near me:\u2014\n\n    \u201cHis reverend locks\nIn comelye curles did wave;\nAnd on his aged temples grew\n    The blossoms of the grave.\u201d\n\n\nBut when I inquired the way, he answered in a low, rough voice, without\nlooking up or seeming to regard my presence, which I imputed to his\nyears; and presently, muttering to himself, he proceeded to collect his\ncows in a neighboring pasture; and when he had again returned near to\nthe wayside, he suddenly stopped, while his cows went on before, and,\nuncovering his head, prayed aloud in the cool morning air, as if he had\nforgotten this exercise before, for his daily bread, and also that He\nwho letteth his rain fall on the just and on the unjust, and without\nwhom not a sparrow falleth to the ground, would not neglect the\nstranger (meaning me), and with even more direct and personal\napplications, though mainly according to the long-established formula\ncommon to lowlanders and the inhabitants of mountains. When he had done\npraying, I made bold to ask him if he had any cheese in his hut which\nhe would sell me, but he answered without looking up, and in the same\nlow and repulsive voice as before, that they did not make any, and went\nto milking. It is written, \u201cThe stranger who turneth away from a house\nwith disappointed hopes, leaveth there his own offences, and departeth,\ntaking with him all the good actions of the owner.\u201d\n\nBeing now fairly in the stream of this week\u2019s commerce, we began to\nmeet with boats more frequently, and hailed them from time to time with\nthe freedom of sailors. The boatmen appeared to lead an easy and\ncontented life, and we thought that we should prefer their employment\nourselves to many professions which are much more sought after. They\nsuggested how few circumstances are necessary to the well-being and\nserenity of man, how indifferent all employments are, and that any may\nseem noble and poetic to the eyes of men, if pursued with sufficient\nbuoyancy and freedom. With liberty and pleasant weather, the simplest\noccupation, any unquestioned country mode of life which detains us in\nthe open air, is alluring. The man who picks peas steadily for a living\nis more than respectable, he is even envied by his shop-worn neighbors.\nWe are as happy as the birds when our Good Genius permits us to pursue\nany out-door work, without a sense of dissipation. Our penknife\nglitters in the sun; our voice is echoed by yonder wood; if an oar\ndrops, we are fain to let it drop again.\n\nThe canal-boat is of very simple construction, requiring but little\nship-timber, and, as we were told, costs about two hundred dollars.\nThey are managed by two men. In ascending the stream they use poles\nfourteen or fifteen feet long, pointed with iron, walking about one\nthird the length of the boat from the forward end. Going down, they\ncommonly keep in the middle of the stream, using an oar at each end; or\nif the wind is favorable they raise their broad sail, and have only to\nsteer. They commonly carry down wood or bricks,\u2014fifteen or sixteen\ncords of wood, and as many thousand bricks, at a time,\u2014and bring back\nstores for the country, consuming two or three days each way between\nConcord and Charlestown. They sometimes pile the wood so as to leave a\nshelter in one part where they may retire from the rain. One can hardly\nimagine a more healthful employment, or one more favorable to\ncontemplation and the observation of nature. Unlike the mariner, they\nhave the constantly varying panorama of the shore to relieve the\nmonotony of their labor, and it seemed to us that as they thus glided\nnoiselessly from town to town, with all their furniture about them, for\ntheir very homestead is a movable, they could comment on the character\nof the inhabitants with greater advantage and security to themselves\nthan the traveller in a coach, who would be unable to indulge in such\nbroadsides of wit and humor in so small a vessel for fear of the\nrecoil. They are not subject to great exposure, like the lumberers of\nMaine, in any weather, but inhale the healthfullest breezes, being\nslightly encumbered with clothing, frequently with the head and feet\nbare. When we met them at noon as they were leisurely descending the\nstream, their busy commerce did not look like toil, but rather like\nsome ancient Oriental game still played on a large scale, as the game\nof chess, for instance, handed down to this generation. From morning\ntill night, unless the wind is so fair that his single sail will\nsuffice without other labor than steering, the boatman walks backwards\nand forwards on the side of his boat, now stooping with his shoulder to\nthe pole, then drawing it back slowly to set it again, meanwhile moving\nsteadily forward through an endless valley and an everchanging scenery,\nnow distinguishing his course for a mile or two, and now shut in by a\nsudden turn of the river in a small woodland lake. All the phenomena\nwhich surround him are simple and grand, and there is something\nimpressive, even majestic, in the very motion he causes, which will\nnaturally be communicated to his own character, and he feels the slow,\nirresistible movement under him with pride, as if it were his own\nenergy.\n\nThe news spread like wildfire among us youths, when formerly, once in a\nyear or two, one of these boats came up the Concord River, and was seen\nstealing mysteriously through the meadows and past the village. It came\nand departed as silently as a cloud, without noise or dust, and was\nwitnessed by few. One summer day this huge traveller might be seen\nmoored at some meadow\u2019s wharf, and another summer day it was not there.\nWhere precisely it came from, or who these men were who knew the rocks\nand soundings better than we who bathed there, we could never tell. We\nknew some river\u2019s bay only, but they took rivers from end to end. They\nwere a sort of fabulous river-men to us. It was inconceivable by what\nsort of mediation any mere landsman could hold communication with them.\nWould they heave to, to gratify his wishes? No, it was favor enough to\nknow faintly of their destination, or the time of their possible\nreturn. I have seen them in the summer when the stream ran low, mowing\nthe weeds in mid-channel, and with hayers\u2019 jests cutting broad swaths\nin three feet of water, that they might make a passage for their scow,\nwhile the grass in long windrows was carried down the stream, undried\nby the rarest hay-weather. We admired unweariedly how their vessel\nwould float, like a huge chip, sustaining so many casks of lime, and\nthousands of bricks, and such heaps of iron ore, with wheelbarrows\naboard, and that, when we stepped on it, it did not yield to the\npressure of our feet. It gave us confidence in the prevalence of the\nlaw of buoyancy, and we imagined to what infinite uses it might be put.\nThe men appeared to lead a kind of life on it, and it was whispered\nthat they slept aboard. Some affirmed that it carried sail, and that\nsuch winds blew here as filled the sails of vessels on the ocean; which\nagain others much doubted. They had been seen to sail across our Fair\nHaven bay by lucky fishers who were out, but unfortunately others were\nnot there to see. We might then say that our river was navigable,\u2014why\nnot? In after-years I read in print, with no little satisfaction, that\nit was thought by some that, with a little expense in removing rocks\nand deepening the channel, \u201cthere might be a profitable inland\nnavigation.\u201d _I_ then lived some-where to tell of.\n\nSuch is Commerce, which shakes the cocoa-nut and bread-fruit tree in\nthe remotest isle, and sooner or later dawns on the duskiest and most\nsimple-minded savage. If we may be pardoned the digression, who can\nhelp being affected at the thought of the very fine and slight, but\npositive relation, in which the savage inhabitants of some remote isle\nstand to the mysterious white mariner, the child of the sun?\u2014as if _we_\nwere to have dealings with an animal higher in the scale of being than\nourselves. It is a barely recognized fact to the natives that he\nexists, and has his home far away somewhere, and is glad to buy their\nfresh fruits with his superfluous commodities. Under the same catholic\nsun glances his white ship over Pacific waves into their smooth bays,\nand the poor savage\u2019s paddle gleams in the air.\n\nMan\u2019s little acts are grand,\nBeheld from land to land,\nThere as they lie in time,\nWithin their native clime\n    Ships with the noontide weigh,\n    And glide before its ray\n    To some retired bay,\n    Their haunt,\n    Whence, under tropic sun,\n    Again they run,\n    Bearing gum Senegal and Tragicant.\nFor this was ocean meant,\nFor this the sun was sent,\nAnd moon was lent,\nAnd winds in distant caverns pent.\n\n\nSince our voyage the railroad on the bank has been extended, and there\nis now but little boating on the Merrimack. All kinds of produce and\nstores were formerly conveyed by water, but now nothing is carried up\nthe stream, and almost wood and bricks alone are carried down, and\nthese are also carried on the railroad. The locks are fast wearing out,\nand will soon be impassable, since the tolls will not pay the expense\nof repairing them, and so in a few years there will be an end of\nboating on this river. The boating at present is principally between\nMerrimack and Lowell, or Hooksett and Manchester. They make two or\nthree trips in a week, according to wind and weather, from Merrimack to\nLowell and back, about twenty-five miles each way. The boatman comes\nsinging in to shore late at night, and moors his empty boat, and gets\nhis supper and lodging in some house near at hand, and again early in\nthe morning, by starlight perhaps, he pushes away up stream, and, by a\nshout, or the fragment of a song, gives notice of his approach to the\nlock-man, with whom he is to take his breakfast. If he gets up to his\nwood-pile before noon he proceeds to load his boat, with the help of\nhis single \u201chand,\u201d and is on his way down again before night. When he\ngets to Lowell he unloads his boat, and gets his receipt for his cargo,\nand, having heard the news at the public house at Middlesex or\nelsewhere, goes back with his empty boat and his receipt in his pocket\nto the owner, and to get a new load. We were frequently advertised of\ntheir approach by some faint sound behind us, and looking round saw\nthem a mile off, creeping stealthily up the side of the stream like\nalligators. It was pleasant to hail these sailors of the Merrimack from\ntime to time, and learn the news which circulated with them. We\nimagined that the sun shining on their bare heads had stamped a liberal\nand public character on their most private thoughts.\n\nThe open and sunny interval still stretched away from the river\nsometimes by two or more terraces, to the distant hill-country, and\nwhen we climbed the bank we commonly found an irregular copse-wood\nskirting the river, the primitive having floated down-stream long ago\nto\u2014\u2014the \u201cKing\u2019s navy.\u201d Sometimes we saw the river-road a quarter or\nhalf a mile distant, and the particolored Concord stage, with its cloud\nof dust, its van of earnest travelling faces, and its rear of dusty\ntrunks, reminding us that the country had its places of rendezvous for\nrestless Yankee men. There dwelt along at considerable distances on\nthis interval a quiet agricultural and pastoral people, with every\nhouse its well, as we sometimes proved, and every household, though\nnever so still and remote it appeared in the noontide, its dinner about\nthese times. There they lived on, those New England people, farmer\nlives, father and grandfather and great-grandfather, on and on without\nnoise, keeping up tradition, and expecting, beside fair weather and\nabundant harvests, we did not learn what. They were contented to live,\nsince it was so contrived for them, and where their lines had fallen.\n\nOur uninquiring corpses lie more low\nThan our life\u2019s curiosity doth go.\n\n\nYet these men had no need to travel to be as wise as Solomon in all his\nglory, so similar are the lives of men in all countries, and fraught\nwith the same homely experiences. One half the world _knows_ how the\nother half lives.\n\nAbout noon we passed a small village in Merrimack at Thornton\u2019s Ferry,\nand tasted of the waters of Naticook Brook on the same side, where\nFrench and his companions, whose grave we saw in Dunstable, were\nambuscaded by the Indians. The humble village of Litchfield, with its\nsteepleless meeting-house, stood on the opposite or east bank, near\nwhere a dense grove of willows backed by maples skirted the shore.\nThere also we noticed some shagbark-trees, which, as they do not grow\nin Concord, were as strange a sight to us as the palm would be, whose\nfruit only we have seen. Our course now curved gracefully to the north,\nleaving a low, flat shore on the Merrimack side, which forms a sort of\nharbor for canal-boats. We observed some fair elms and particularly\nlarge and handsome white-maples standing conspicuously on this\ninterval; and the opposite shore, a quarter of a mile below, was\ncovered with young elms and maples six inches high, which had probably\nsprung from the seeds which had been washed across.\n\nSome carpenters were at work here mending a scow on the green and\nsloping bank. The strokes of their mallets echoed from shore to shore,\nand up and down the river, and their tools gleamed in the sun a quarter\nof a mile from us, and we realized that boat-building was as ancient\nand honorable an art as agriculture, and that there might be a naval as\nwell as a pastoral life. The whole history of commerce was made\nmanifest in that scow turned bottom upward on the shore. Thus did men\nbegin to go down upon the sea in ships; _qu\u00e6que diu steterant in\nmontibus altis, Fluctibus ignotis insultav\u00eare carin\u00e6;_ \u201cand keels which\nhad long stood on high mountains careered insultingly (_insultav\u00eare_)\nover unknown waves.\u201d (Ovid, Met. I. 133.) We thought that it would be\nwell for the traveller to build his boat on the bank of a stream,\ninstead of finding a ferry or a bridge. In the Adventures of Henry the\nfur-trader, it is pleasant to read that when with his Indians he\nreached the shore of Ontario, they consumed two days in making two\ncanoes of the bark of the elm-tree, in which to transport themselves to\nFort Niagara. It is a worthy incident in a journey, a delay as good as\nmuch rapid travelling. A good share of our interest in Xenophon\u2019s story\nof his retreat is in the man\u0153uvres to get the army safely over the\nrivers, whether on rafts of logs or fagots, or sheep-skins blown up.\nAnd where could they better afford to tarry meanwhile than on the banks\nof a river?\n\nAs we glided past at a distance, these out-door workmen appeared to\nhave added some dignity to their labor by its very publicness. It was a\npart of the industry of nature, like the work of hornets and mud-wasps.\n\nThe waves slowly beat,\nJust to keep the noon sweet,\nAnd no sound is floated o\u2019er,\nSave the mallet on shore,\nWhich echoing on high\nSeems a-calking the sky.\n\n\nThe haze, the sun\u2019s dust of travel, had a Lethean influence on the land\nand its inhabitants, and all creatures resigned themselves to float\nupon the inappreciable tides of nature.\n\nWoof of the sun, ethereal gauze,\nWoven of Nature\u2019s richest stuffs,\nVisible heat, air-water, and dry sea,\nLast conquest of the eye;\nToil of the day displayed sun-dust,\nAerial surf upon the shores of earth.\nEthereal estuary, frith of light,\nBreakers of air, billows of heat\nFine summer spray on inland seas;\nBird of the sun, transparent-winged\nOwlet of noon, soft-pinioned,\nFrom heath or stubble rising without song;\nEstablish thy serenity o\u2019er the fields\n\n\nThe routine which is in the sunshine and the finest days, as that which\nhas conquered and prevailed, commends itself to us by its very\nantiquity and apparent solidity and necessity. Our weakness needs it,\nand our strength uses it. We cannot draw on our boots without bracing\nourselves against it. If there were but one erect and solid standing\ntree in the woods, all creatures would go to rub against it and make\nsure of their footing. During the many hours which we spend in this\nwaking sleep, the hand stands still on the face of the clock, and we\ngrow like corn in the night. Men are as busy as the brooks or bees, and\npostpone everything to their business; as carpenters discuss politics\nbetween the strokes of the hammer while they are shingling a roof.\n\nThis noontide was a fit occasion to make some pleasant harbor, and\nthere read the journal of some voyageur like ourselves, not too moral\nnor inquisitive, and which would not disturb the noon; or else some old\nclassic, the very flower of all reading, which we had postponed to such\na season\n\n\u201cOf Syrian peace, immortal leisure.\u201d\n\n\nBut, alas, our chest, like the cabin of a coaster, contained only its\nwell-thumbed \u201cNavigator\u201d for all literature, and we were obliged to\ndraw on our memory for these things.\n\nWe naturally remembered Alexander Henry\u2019s Adventures here, as a sort of\nclassic among books of American travel. It contains scenery and rough\nsketching of men and incidents enough to inspire poets for many years,\nand to my fancy is as full of sounding names as any page of\nhistory,\u2014Lake Winnipeg, Hudson Bay, Ottaway, and portages innumerable;\nChipeways, Gens de Terres, Les Pilleurs, The Weepers; with\nreminiscences of Hearne\u2019s journey, and the like; an immense and shaggy\nbut sincere country, summer and winter, adorned with chains of lakes\nand rivers, covered with snows, with hemlocks, and fir-trees. There is\na naturalness, an unpretending and cold life in this traveller, as in a\nCanadian winter, what life was preserved through low temperatures and\nfrontier dangers by furs within a stout heart. He has truth and\nmoderation worthy of the father of history, which belong only to an\nintimate experience, and he does not defer too much to literature. The\nunlearned traveller may quote his single line from the poets with as\ngood right as the scholar. He too may speak of the stars, for he sees\nthem shoot perhaps when the astronomer does not. The good sense of this\nauthor is very conspicuous. He is a traveller who does not exaggerate,\nbut writes for the information of his readers, for science, and for\nhistory. His story is told with as much good faith and directness as if\nit were a report to his brother traders, or the Directors of the Hudson\nBay Company, and is fitly dedicated to Sir Joseph Banks. It reads like\nthe argument to a great poem on the primitive state of the country and\nits inhabitants, and the reader imagines what in each case, with the\ninvocation of the Muse, might be sung, and leaves off with suspended\ninterest, as if the full account were to follow. In what school was\nthis fur-trader educated? He seems to travel the immense snowy country\nwith such purpose only as the reader who accompanies him, and to the\nlatter\u2019s imagination, it is, as it were, momentarily created to be the\nscene of his adventures. What is most interesting and valuable in it,\nhowever, is not the materials for the history of Pontiac, or Braddock,\nor the Northwest, which it furnishes; not the _annals_ of the country,\nbut the natural facts, or _perennials_, which are ever without date.\nWhen out of history the truth shall be extracted, it will have shed its\ndates like withered leaves.\n\nThe Souhegan, or _Crooked_ River, as some translate it, comes in from\nthe west about a mile and a half above Thornton\u2019s Ferry. Babboosuck\nBrook empties into it near its mouth. There are said to be some of the\nfinest water privileges in the country still unimproved on the former\nstream, at a short distance from the Merrimack. One spring morning,\nMarch 22, in the year 1677, an incident occurred on the banks of the\nriver here, which is interesting to us as a slight memorial of an\ninterview between two ancient tribes of men, one of which is now\nextinct, while the other, though it is still represented by a miserable\nremnant, has long since disappeared from its ancient hunting-grounds. A\nMr. James Parker, at \u201cMr. Hinchmanne\u2019s farme ner Meremack,\u201d wrote thus\n\u201cto the Honred Governer and Council at Bostown, _Hast, Post Hast\u201d:_\u2014\n\n\u201cSagamore Wanalancet come this morning to informe me, and then went to\nMr. Tyng\u2019s to informe him, that his son being on ye other sid of\nMeremack river over against Souhegan upon the 22 day of this instant,\nabout tene of the clock in the morning, he discovered 15 Indians on\nthis sid the river, which he soposed to be Mohokes by ther spech. He\ncalled to them; they answered, but he could not understand ther spech;\nand he having a conow ther in the river, he went to breck his conow\nthat they might not have ani ues of it. In the mean time they shot\nabout thirty guns at him, and he being much frighted fled, and come\nhome forthwith to Nahamcock [Pawtucket Falls or Lowell], wher ther\nwigowames now stand.\u201d\n\nPenacooks and Mohawks! _ubique gentium sunt?_ In the year 1670, a\nMohawk warrior scalped a Naamkeak or else a Wamesit Indian maiden near\nwhere Lowell now stands. She, however, recovered. Even as late as 1685,\nJohn Hogkins, a Penacook Indian, who describes his grandfather as\nhaving lived \u201cat place called Malamake rever, other name chef Natukkog\nand Panukkog, that one rever great many names,\u201d wrote thus to the\ngovernor:\u2014\n\n\u201cMay 15th, 1685.\n\n\n\u201cHonor governor my friend,\u2014\n\n\u201cYou my friend I desire your worship and your power, because I hope you\ncan do som great matters this one. I am poor and naked and I have no\nmen at my place because I afraid allwayes Mohogs he will kill me every\nday and night. If your worship when please pray help me you no let\nMohogs kill me at my place at Malamake river called Pannukkog and\nNatukkog, I will submit your worship and your power. And now I want\npouder and such alminishon shatt and guns, because I have forth at my\nhom and I plant theare.\n\n\u201cThis all Indian hand, but pray you do consider your humble servant,\n\nJOHN HOGKINS.\u201d\n\n\nSigned also by Simon Detogkom, King Hary, Sam Linis, Mr. Jorge\nRodunnonukgus, John Owamosimmin, and nine other Indians, with their\nmarks against their names.\n\nBut now, one hundred and fifty-four years having elapsed since the date\nof this letter, we went unalarmed on our way without \u201cbrecking\u201d our\n\u201cconow,\u201d reading the New England Gazetteer, and seeing no traces of\n\u201cMohogs\u201d on the banks.\n\nThe Souhegan, though a rapid river, seemed to-day to have borrowed its\ncharacter from the noon.\n\nWhere gleaming fields of haze\nMeet the voyageur\u2019s gaze,\nAnd above, the heated air\nSeems to make a river there,\nThe pines stand up with pride\nBy the Souhegan\u2019s side,\nAnd the hemlock and the larch\nWith their triumphal arch\nAre waving o\u2019er its march\n        To the sea.\nNo wind stirs its waves,\nBut the spirits of the braves\n        Hov\u2019ring o\u2019er,\nWhose antiquated graves\nIts still water laves\n        On the shore.\nWith an Indian\u2019s stealthy tread\nIt goes sleeping in its bed,\nWithout joy or grief,\nOr the rustle of a leaf,\nWithout a ripple or a billow,\nOr the sigh of a willow,\nFrom the Lyndeboro\u2019 hills\nTo the Merrimack mills.\nWith a louder din\nDid its current begin,\nWhen melted the snow\nOn the far mountain\u2019s brow,\nAnd the drops came together\nIn that rainy weather.\nExperienced river,\nHast thou flowed forever?\nSouhegan soundeth old,\nBut the half is not told,\nWhat names hast thou borne,\nIn the ages far gone,\nWhen the Xanthus and Meander\nCommenced to wander,\nEre the black bear haunted\n        Thy red forest-floor,\nOr Nature had planted\n        The pines by thy shore?\n\n\nDuring the heat of the day, we rested on a large island a mile above\nthe mouth of this river, pastured by a herd of cattle, with steep banks\nand scattered elms and oaks, and a sufficient channel for canal-boats\non each side. When we made a fire to boil some rice for our dinner, the\nflames spreading amid the dry grass, and the smoke curling silently\nupward and casting grotesque shadows on the ground, seemed phenomena of\nthe noon, and we fancied that we progressed up the stream without\neffort, and as naturally as the wind and tide went down, not outraging\nthe calm days by unworthy bustle or impatience. The woods on the\nneighboring shore were alive with pigeons, which were moving south,\nlooking for mast, but now, like ourselves, spending their noon in the\nshade. We could hear the slight, wiry, winnowing sound of their wings\nas they changed their roosts from time to time, and their gentle and\ntremulous cooing. They sojourned with us during the noontide, greater\ntravellers far than we. You may frequently discover a single pair\nsitting upon the lower branches of the white-pine in the depths of the\nwood, at this hour of the day, so silent and solitary, and with such a\nhermit-like appearance, as if they had never strayed beyond its skirts,\nwhile the acorn which was gathered in the forests of Maine is still\nundigested in their crops. We obtained one of these handsome birds,\nwhich lingered too long upon its perch, and plucked and broiled it here\nwith some other game, to be carried along for our supper; for, beside\nthe provisions which we carried with us, we depended mainly on the\nriver and forest for our supply. It is true, it did not seem to be\nputting this bird to its right use to pluck off its feathers, and\nextract its entrails, and broil its carcass on the coals; but we\nheroically persevered, nevertheless, waiting for further information.\nThe same regard for Nature which excited our sympathy for her creatures\nnerved our hands to carry through what we had begun. For we would be\nhonorable to the party we deserted; we would fulfil fate, and so at\nlength, perhaps, detect the secret innocence of these incessant\ntragedies which Heaven allows.\n\n\u201cToo quick resolves do resolution wrong,\nWhat, part so soon to be divorced so long?\nThings to be done are long to be debated;\nHeaven is not day\u2019d, Repentance is not dated.\u201d\n\n\nWe are double-edged blades, and every time we whet our virtue the\nreturn stroke straps our vice. Where is the skilful swordsman who can\ngive clean wounds, and not rip up his work with the other edge?\n\nNature herself has not provided the most graceful end for her\ncreatures. What becomes of all these birds that people the air and\nforest for our solacement? The sparrows seem always _chipper_, never\ninfirm. We do not see their bodies lie about. Yet there is a tragedy at\nthe end of each one of their lives. They must perish miserably; not one\nof them is translated. True, \u201cnot a sparrow falleth to the ground\nwithout our Heavenly Father\u2019s knowledge,\u201d but they do fall,\nnevertheless.\n\nThe carcasses of some poor squirrels, however, the same that frisked so\nmerrily in the morning, which we had skinned and embowelled for our\ndinner, we abandoned in disgust, with tardy humanity, as too wretched a\nresource for any but starving men. It was to perpetuate the practice of\na barbarous era. If they had been larger, our crime had been less.\nTheir small red bodies, little bundles of red tissue, mere gobbets of\nvenison, would not have \u201cfattened fire.\u201d With a sudden impulse we threw\nthem away, and washed our hands, and boiled some rice for our dinner.\n\u201cBehold the difference between the one who eateth flesh, and him to\nwhom it belonged! The first hath a momentary enjoyment, whilst the\nlatter is deprived of existence!\u201d \u201cWho would commit so great a crime\nagainst a poor animal, who is fed only by the herbs which grow wild in\nthe woods, and whose belly is burnt up with hunger?\u201d We remembered a\npicture of mankind in the hunter age, chasing hares down the mountains;\nO me miserable! Yet sheep and oxen are but larger squirrels, whose\nhides are saved and meat is salted, whose souls perchance are not so\nlarge in proportion to their bodies.\n\nThere should always be some flowering and maturing of the fruits of\nnature in the cooking process. Some simple dishes recommend themselves\nto our imaginations as well as palates. In parched corn, for instance,\nthere is a manifest sympathy between the bursting seed and the more\nperfect developments of vegetable life. It is a perfect flower with its\npetals, like the houstonia or anemone. On my warm hearth these\ncerealian blossoms expanded; here is the bank whereon they grew.\nPerhaps some such visible blessing would always attend the simple and\nwholesome repast.\n\nHere was that \u201cpleasant harbor\u201d which we had sighed for, where the\nweary voyageur could read the journal of some other sailor, whose bark\nhad ploughed, perchance, more famous and classic seas. At the tables of\nthe gods, after feasting follow music and song; we will recline now\nunder these island trees, and for our minstrel call on\n\nANACREON.\n\n\n\u201cNor has he ceased his charming song, for still that lyre,\nThough he is dead, sleeps not in Hades.\u201d\n\n\n_Simonides\u2019 Epigram on Anacreon._\n\n\nI lately met with an old volume from a London bookshop, containing the\nGreek Minor Poets, and it was a pleasure to read once more only the\nwords, Orpheus, Linus, Mus\u00e6us,\u2014those faint poetic sounds and echoes of\na name, dying away on the ears of us modern men; and those hardly more\nsubstantial sounds, Mimnermus, Ibycus, Alcaeus, Stesichorus, Menander.\nThey lived not in vain. We can converse with these bodiless fames\nwithout reserve or personality.\n\nI know of no studies so composing as those of the classical scholar.\nWhen we have sat down to them, life seems as still and serene as if it\nwere very far off, and I believe it is not habitually seen from any\ncommon platform so truly and unexaggerated as in the light of\nliterature. In serene hours we contemplate the tour of the Greek and\nLatin authors with more pleasure than the traveller does the fairest\nscenery of Greece or Italy. Where shall we find a more refined society?\nThat highway down from Homer and Hesiod to Horace and Juvenal is more\nattractive than the Appian. Reading the classics, or conversing with\nthose old Greeks and Latins in their surviving works, is like walking\namid the stars and constellations, a high and by way serene to travel.\nIndeed, the true scholar will be not a little of an astronomer in his\nhabits. Distracting cares will not be allowed to obstruct the field of\nhis vision, for the higher regions of literature, like astronomy, are\nabove storm and darkness.\n\nBut passing by these rumors of bards, let us pause for a moment at the\nTeian poet.\n\nThere is something strangely modern about him. He is very easily turned\ninto English. Is it that our lyric poets have resounded but that lyre,\nwhich would sound only light subjects, and which Simonides tells us\ndoes not sleep in Hades? His odes are like gems of pure ivory. They\npossess an ethereal and evanescent beauty like summer evenings, \u1f45 \u03c7\u03c1\u03ae\n\u03c3\u03b5 \u03bd\u03bf\u03b5\u1fd6\u03bd \u03bd\u03cc\u03bf\u03c5 \u1f04\u03bd\u03b8\u03b5\u03b9,\u2014_which you must perceive with the flower of the\nmind_,\u2014and show how slight a beauty could be expressed. You have to\nconsider them, as the stars of lesser magnitude, with the side of the\neye, and look aside from them to behold them. They charm us by their\nserenity and freedom from exaggeration and passion, and by a certain\nflower-like beauty, which does not propose itself, but must be\napproached and studied like a natural object. But perhaps their chief\nmerit consists in the lightness and yet security of their tread;\n\n\u201cThe young and tender stalk\nNe\u2019er bends when _they_ do walk.\u201d\n\n\nTrue, our nerves are never strung by them; it is too constantly the\nsound of the lyre, and never the note of the trumpet; but they are not\ngross, as has been presumed, but always elevated above the sensual.\n\nThese are some of the best that have come down to us.\n\nON HIS LYRE.\n\n\nI wish to sing the Atrid\u00e6,\nAnd Cadmus I wish to sing;\nBut my lyre sounds\nOnly love with its chords.\nLately I changed the strings\nAnd all the lyre;\nAnd I began to sing the labors\nOf Hercules; but my lyre\nResounded loves.\nFarewell, henceforth, for me,\nHeroes! for my lyre\nSings only loves.\n\nTO A SWALLOW.\n\n\nThou indeed, dear swallow,\nYearly going and coming,\nIn summer weavest thy nest,\nAnd in winter go\u2019st disappearing\nEither to Nile or to Memphis.\nBut Love always weaveth\nHis nest in my heart\u2026.\n\nON A SILVER CUP.\n\n\nTurning the silver,\nVulcan, make for me,\nNot indeed a panoply,\nFor what are battles to me?\nBut a hollow cup,\nAs deep as thou canst\nAnd make for me in it\nNeither stars, nor wagons,\nNor sad Orion;\nWhat are the Pleiades to me?\nWhat the shining Bootes?\nMake vines for me,\nAnd clusters of grapes in it,\nAnd of gold Love and Bathyllus\nTreading the grapes\nWith the fair Ly\u00e6us\n\nON HIMSELF.\n\n\nThou sing\u2019st the affairs of Thebes,\nAnd he the battles of Troy,\nBut I of my own defeats.\nNo horse have wasted me,\nNor foot, nor ships;\nBut a new and different host,\nFrom eyes smiting me.\n\nTO A DOVE.\n\n\nLovely dove,\nWhence, whence dost thou fly?\nWhence, running on air,\nDost thou waft and diffuse\nSo many sweet ointments?\nWho art? What thy errand?\u2014\nAnacreon sent me\nTo a boy, to Bathyllus,\nWho lately is ruler and tyrant of all.\nCythere has sold me\nFor one little song,\nAnd I\u2019m doing this service\nFor Anacreon.\nAnd now, as you see,\nI bear letters from him.\nAnd he says that directly\nHe\u2019ll make me free,\nBut though he release me,\nHis slave I will tarry with him.\nFor why should I fly\nOver mountains and fields,\nAnd perch upon trees,\nEating some wild thing?\nNow indeed I eat bread,\nPlucking it from the hands\nOf Anacreon himself;\nAnd he gives me to drink\nThe wine which he tastes,\nAnd drinking, I dance,\nAnd shadow my master\u2019s\nFace with my wings;\nAnd, going to rest,\nOn the lyre itself I sleep.\nThat is all; get thee gone.\nThou hast made me more talkative,\nMan, than a crow.\n\nON LOVE.\n\n\nLove walking swiftly,\nWith hyacinthine staff,\nBade me to take a run with him;\nAnd hastening through swift torrents,\nAnd woody places, and over precipices,\nA water-snake stung me.\nAnd my heart leaped up to\nMy mouth, and I should have fainted;\nBut Love fanning my brows\nWith his soft wings, said,\nSurely, thou art not able to love.\n\nON WOMEN.\n\n\nNature has given horns\nTo bulls, and hoofs to horses,\nSwiftness to hares,\nTo lions yawning teeth,\nTo fishes swimming,\nTo birds flight,\nTo men wisdom.\nFor woman she had nothing beside;\nWhat then does she give? Beauty,\u2014\nInstead of all shields,\nInstead of all spears;\nAnd she conquers even iron\nAnd fire, who is beautiful.\n\nON LOVERS.\n\n\nHorses have the mark\nOf fire on their sides,\nAnd some have distinguished\nThe Parthian men by their crests;\nSo I, seeing lovers,\nKnow them at once,\nFor they have a certain slight\nBrand on their hearts.\n\nTO A SWALLOW.\n\n\nWhat dost thou wish me to do to thee,\u2014\nWhat, thou loquacious swallow?\nDost thou wish me taking thee\nThy light pinions to clip?\nOr rather to pluck out\nThy tongue from within,\nAs that Tereus did?\nWhy with thy notes in the dawn\nHast thou plundered Bathyllus\nFrom my beautiful dreams?\n\nTO A COLT.\n\n\nThracian colt, why at me\nLooking aslant with thy eyes,\nDost thou cruelly flee,\nAnd think that I know nothing wise?\nKnow I could well\nPut the bridle on thee,\nAnd holding the reins, turn\nRound the bounds of the course.\nBut now thou browsest the meads,\nAnd gambolling lightly dost play,\nFor thou hast no skilful horseman\nMounted upon thy back.\n\nCUPID WOUNDED.\n\n\nLove once among roses\nSaw not\nA sleeping bee, but was stung;\nAnd being wounded in the finger\nOf his hand, cried for pain.\nRunning as well as flying\nTo the beautiful Venus,\nI am killed, mother, said he,\nI am killed, and I die.\nA little serpent has stung me,\nWinged, which they call\nA bee,\u2014the husbandmen.\nAnd she said, If the sting\nOf a bee afflicts you,\nHow, think you, are they afflicted,\nLove, whom you smite?\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\n\nLate in the afternoon, for we had lingered long on the island, we\nraised our sail for the first time, and for a short hour the southwest\nwind was our ally; but it did not please Heaven to abet us along. With\none sail raised we swept slowly up the eastern side of the stream,\nsteering clear of the rocks, while, from the top of a hill which formed\nthe opposite bank, some lumberers were rolling down timber to be rafted\ndown the stream. We could see their axes and levers gleaming in the\nsun, and the logs came down with a dust and a rumbling sound, which was\nreverberated through the woods beyond us on our side, like the roar of\nartillery. But Zephyr soon took us out of sight and hearing of this\ncommerce. Having passed Read\u2019s Ferry, and another island called McGaw\u2019s\nIsland, we reached some rapids called Moore\u2019s Falls, and entered on\n\u201cthat section of the river, nine miles in extent, converted, by law,\ninto the Union Canal, comprehending in that space six distinct falls;\nat each of which, and at several intermediate places, work has been\ndone.\u201d After passing Moore\u2019s Falls by means of locks, we again had\nrecourse to our oars, and went merrily on our way, driving the small\nsandpiper from rock to rock before us, and sometimes rowing near enough\nto a cottage on the bank, though they were few and far between, to see\nthe sunflowers, and the seed vessels of the poppy, like small goblets\nfilled with the water of Lethe, before the door, but without disturbing\nthe sluggish household behind. Thus we held on, sailing or dipping our\nway along with the paddle up this broad river, smooth and placid,\nflowing over concealed rocks, where we could see the pickerel lying low\nin the transparent water, eager to double some distant cape, to make\nsome great bend as in the life of man, and see what new perspective\nwould open; looking far into a new country, broad and serene, the\ncottages of settlers seen afar for the first time, yet with the moss of\na century on their roofs, and the third or fourth generation in their\nshadows. Strange was it to consider how the sun and the summer, the\nbuds of spring and the seared leaves of autumn, were related to these\ncabins along the shore; how all the rays which paint the landscape\nradiate from them, and the flight of the crow and the gyrations of the\nhawk have reference to their roofs. Still the ever rich and fertile\nshores accompanied us, fringed with vines and alive with small birds\nand frisking squirrels, the edge of some farmer\u2019s field or widow\u2019s\nwood-lot, or wilder, perchance, where the muskrat, the little medicine\nof the river, drags itself along stealthily over the alder-leaves and\nmuscle-shells, and man and the memory of man are banished far.\n\nAt length the unwearied, never-sinking shore, still holding on without\nbreak, with its cool copses and serene pasture-grounds, tempted us to\ndisembark; and we adventurously landed on this remote coast, to survey\nit, without the knowledge of any human inhabitant probably to this day.\nBut we still remember the gnarled and hospitable oaks which grew even\nthere for our entertainment, and were no strangers to us, the lonely\nhorse in his pasture, and the patient cows, whose path to the river, so\njudiciously chosen to overcome the difficulties of the way, we\nfollowed, and disturbed their ruminations in the shade; and, above all,\nthe cool, free aspect of the wild apple-trees, generously proffering\ntheir fruit to us, though still green and crude,\u2014the hard, round,\nglossy fruit, which, if not ripe, still was not poison, but New-English\ntoo, brought hither its ancestors by ours once. These gentler trees\nimparted a half-civilized and twilight aspect to the otherwise\nbarbarian land. Still farther on we scrambled up the rocky channel of a\nbrook, which had long served nature for a sluice there, leaping like it\nfrom rock to rock through tangled woods, at the bottom of a ravine,\nwhich grew darker and darker, and more and more hoarse the murmurs of\nthe stream, until we reached the ruins of a mill, where now the ivy\ngrew, and the trout glanced through the crumbling flume; and there we\nimagined what had been the dreams and speculations of some early\nsettler. But the waning day compelled us to embark once more, and\nredeem this wasted time with long and vigorous sweeps over the rippling\nstream.\n\nIt was still wild and solitary, except that at intervals of a mile or\ntwo the roof of a cottage might be seen over the bank. This region, as\nwe read, was once famous for the manufacture of straw bonnets of the\nLeghorn kind, of which it claims the invention in these parts; and\noccasionally some industrious damsel tripped down to the water\u2019s edge,\nto put her straw a-soak, as it appeared, and stood awhile to watch the\nretreating voyageurs, and catch the fragment of a boat-song which we\nhad made, wafted over the water.\n\nThus, perchance, the Indian hunter,\n    Many a lagging year agone,\nGliding o\u2019er thy rippling waters,\n    Lowly hummed a natural song.\n\nNow the sun\u2019s behind the willows,\n    Now he gleams along the waves,\nFaintly o\u2019er the wearied billows\n    Come the spirits of the braves.\n\n\nJust before sundown we reached some more falls in the town of Bedford,\nwhere some stone-masons were employed repairing the locks in a solitary\npart of the river. They were interested in our adventure, especially\none young man of our own age, who inquired at first if we were bound up\nto \u201c\u2019Skeag\u201d; and when he had heard our story, and examined our outfit,\nasked us other questions, but temperately still, and always turning to\nhis work again, though as if it were become his duty. It was plain that\nhe would like to go with us, and, as he looked up the river, many a\ndistant cape and wooded shore were reflected in his eye, as well as in\nhis thoughts. When we were ready he left his work, and helped us\nthrough the locks with a sort of quiet enthusiasm, telling us that we\nwere at Coos Falls, and we could still distinguish the strokes of his\nchisel for many sweeps after we had left him.\n\nWe wished to camp this night on a large rock in the middle of the\nstream, just above these falls, but the want of fuel, and the\ndifficulty of fixing our tent firmly, prevented us; so we made our bed\non the main-land opposite, on the west bank, in the town of Bedford, in\na retired place, as we supposed, there being no house in sight.\n\n\n\n\nWEDNESDAY\n\n\n_\u201cMan is man\u2019s foe and destiny.\u201d_\n\nCOTTON.\n\nEarly this morning, as we were rolling up our buffaloes and loading our\nboat amid the dew, while our embers were still smoking, the masons who\nworked at the locks, and whom we had seen crossing the river in their\nboat the evening before while we were examining the rock, came upon us\nas they were going to their work, and we found that we had pitched our\ntent directly in the path to their boat. This was the only time that we\nwere observed on our camping-ground. Thus, far from the beaten highways\nand the dust and din of travel, we beheld the country privately, yet\nfreely, and at our leisure. Other roads do some violence to Nature, and\nbring the traveller to stare at her, but the river steals into the\nscenery it traverses without intrusion, silently creating and adorning\nit, and is as free to come and go as the zephyr.\n\nAs we shoved away from this rocky coast, before sunrise, the smaller\nbittern, the genius of the shore, was moping along its edge, or stood\nprobing the mud for its food, with ever an eye on us, though so\ndemurely at work, or else he ran along over the wet stones like a\nwrecker in his storm-coat, looking out for wrecks of snails and\ncockles. Now away he goes, with a limping flight, uncertain where he\nwill alight, until a rod of clear sand amid the alders invites his\nfeet; and now our steady approach compels him to seek a new retreat. It\nis a bird of the oldest Thalesian school, and no doubt believes in the\npriority of water to the other elements; the relic of a twilight\nantediluvian age which yet inhabits these bright American rivers with\nus Yankees. There is something venerable in this melancholy and\ncontemplative race of birds, which may have trodden the earth while it\nwas yet in a slimy and imperfect state. Perchance their tracks too are\nstill visible on the stones. It still lingers into our glaring summers,\nbravely supporting its fate without sympathy from man, as if it looked\nforward to some second advent of which _he_ has no assurance. One\nwonders if, by its patient study by rocks and sandy capes, it has\nwrested the whole of her secret from Nature yet. What a rich experience\nit must have gained, standing on one leg and looking out from its dull\neye so long on sunshine and rain, moon and stars! What could it tell of\nstagnant pools and reeds and dank night-fogs! It would be worth the\nwhile to look closely into the eye which has been open and seeing at\nsuch hours, and in such solitudes, its dull, yellowish, greenish eye.\nMethinks my own soul must be a bright invisible green. I have seen\nthese birds stand by the half-dozen together in the shallower water\nalong the shore, with their bills thrust into the mud at the bottom,\nprobing for food, the whole head being concealed, while the neck and\nbody formed an arch above the water.\n\nCohass Brook, the outlet of Massabesic Pond,\u2014which last is five or six\nmiles distant, and contains fifteen hundred acres, being the largest\nbody of fresh water in Rockingham County,\u2014comes in near here from the\neast. Rowing between Manchester and Bedford, we passed, at an early\nhour, a ferry and some falls, called Goff\u2019s Falls, the Indian Cohasset,\nwhere there is a small village, and a handsome green islet in the\nmiddle of the stream. From Bedford and Merrimack have been boated the\nbricks of which Lowell is made. About twenty years before, as they told\nus, one Moore, of Bedford, having clay on his farm, contracted to\nfurnish eight millions of bricks to the founders of that city within\ntwo years. He fulfilled his contract in one year, and since then bricks\nhave been the principal export from these towns. The farmers found thus\na market for their wood, and when they had brought a load to the kilns,\nthey could cart a load of bricks to the shore, and so make a profitable\nday\u2019s work of it. Thus all parties were benefited. It was worth the\nwhile to see the place where Lowell was \u201cdug out.\u201d So likewise\nManchester is being built of bricks made still higher up the river at\nHooksett.\n\nThere might be seen here on the bank of the Merrimack, near Goff\u2019s\nFalls, in what is now the town of Bedford, famous \u201cfor hops and for its\nfine domestic manufactures,\u201d some graves of the aborigines. The land\nstill bears this scar here, and time is slowly crumbling the bones of a\nrace. Yet, without fail, every spring, since they first fished and\nhunted here, the brown thrasher has heralded the morning from a birch\nor alder spray, and the undying race of reed-birds still rustles\nthrough the withering grass. But these bones rustle not. These\nmouldering elements are slowly preparing for another metamorphosis, to\nserve new masters, and what was the Indian\u2019s will erelong be the white\nman\u2019s sinew.\n\nWe learned that Bedford was not so famous for hops as formerly, since\nthe price is fluctuating, and poles are now scarce. Yet if the\ntraveller goes back a few miles from the river, the hop-kilns will\nstill excite his curiosity.\n\nThere were few incidents in our voyage this forenoon, though the river\nwas now more rocky and the falls more frequent than before. It was a\npleasant change, after rowing incessantly for many hours, to lock\nourselves through in some retired place,\u2014for commonly there was no\nlock-man at hand,\u2014one sitting in the boat, while the other, sometimes\nwith no little labor and heave-yo-ing, opened and shut the gates,\nwaiting patiently to see the locks fill. We did not once use the wheels\nwhich we had provided. Taking advantage of the eddy, we were sometimes\nfloated up to the locks almost in the face of the falls; and, by the\nsame cause, any floating timber was carried round in a circle and\nrepeatedly drawn into the rapids before it finally went down the\nstream. These old gray structures, with their quiet arms stretched over\nthe river in the sun, appeared like natural objects in the scenery, and\nthe kingfisher and sandpiper alighted on them as readily as on stakes\nor rocks.\n\nWe rowed leisurely up the stream for several hours, until the sun had\ngot high in the sky, our thoughts monotonously beating time to our\noars. For outward variety there was only the river and the receding\nshores, a vista continually opening behind and closing before us, as we\nsat with our backs up-stream; and, for inward, such thoughts as the\nmuses grudgingly lent us. We were always passing some low, inviting\nshore, or some overhanging bank, on which, however, we never landed.\n\nSuch near aspects had we\nOf our life\u2019s scenery.\n\n\nIt might be seen by what tenure men held the earth. The smallest stream\nis _mediterranean_ sea, a smaller ocean creek within the land, where\nmen may steer by their farm-bounds and cottage-lights. For my own part,\nbut for the geographers, I should hardly have known how large a portion\nof our globe is water, my life has chiefly passed within so deep a\ncove. Yet I have sometimes ventured as far as to the mouth of my Snug\nHarbor. From an old ruined fort on Staten Island, I have loved to watch\nall day some vessel whose name I had read in the morning through the\ntelegraph-glass, when she first came upon the coast, and her hull\nheaved up and glistened in the sun, from the moment when the pilot and\nmost adventurous news-boats met her, past the Hook, and up the narrow\nchannel of the wide outer bay, till she was boarded by the\nhealth-officer, and took her station at Quarantine, or held on her\nunquestioned course to the wharves of New York. It was interesting,\ntoo, to watch the less adventurous newsman, who made his assault as the\nvessel swept through the Narrows, defying plague and quarantine law,\nand, fastening his little cockboat to her huge side, clambered up and\ndisappeared in the cabin. And then I could imagine what momentous news\nwas being imparted by the captain, which no American ear had ever\nheard, that Asia, Africa, Europe\u2014were all sunk; for which at length he\npays the price, and is seen descending the ship\u2019s side with his bundle\nof newspapers, but not where he first got up, for these arrivers do not\nstand still to gossip; and he hastes away with steady sweeps to dispose\nof his wares to the highest bidder, and we shall erelong read something\nstartling,\u2014\u201cBy the latest arrival,\u201d\u2014\u201cby the good ship\u2014\u2014.\u201d On Sunday I\nbeheld, from some interior hill, the long procession of vessels getting\nto sea, reaching from the city wharves through the Narrows, and past\nthe Hook, quite to the ocean stream, far as the eye could reach, with\nstately march and silken sails, all counting on lucky voyages, but each\ntime some of the number, no doubt, destined to go to Davy\u2019s locker, and\nnever come on this coast again. And, again, in the evening of a\npleasant day, it was my amusement to count the sails in sight. But as\nthe setting sun continually brought more and more to light, still\nfarther in the horizon, the last count always had the advantage, till,\nby the time the last rays streamed over the sea, I had doubled and\ntrebled my first number; though I could no longer class them all under\nthe several heads of ships, barks, brigs, schooners, and sloops, but\nmost were faint generic _vessels_ only. And then the temperate twilight\nlight, perchance, revealed the floating home of some sailor whose\nthoughts were already alienated from this American coast, and directed\ntowards the Europe of our dreams. I have stood upon the same hill-top\nwhen a thunder-shower, rolling down from the Catskills and Highlands,\npassed over the island, deluging the land; and, when it had suddenly\nleft us in sunshine, have seen it overtake successively, with its huge\nshadow and dark, descending wall of rain, the vessels in the bay. Their\nbright sails were suddenly drooping and dark, like the sides of barns,\nand they seemed to shrink before the storm; while still far beyond them\non the sea, through this dark veil, gleamed the sunny sails of those\nvessels which the storm had not yet reached. And at midnight, when all\naround and overhead was darkness, I have seen a field of trembling,\nsilvery light far out on the sea, the reflection of the moonlight from\nthe ocean, as if beyond the precincts of our night, where the moon\ntraversed a cloudless heaven,\u2014and sometimes a dark speck in its midst,\nwhere some fortunate vessel was pursuing its happy voyage by night.\n\nBut to us river sailors the sun never rose out of ocean waves, but from\nsome green coppice, and went down behind some dark mountain line. We,\ntoo, were but dwellers on the shore, like the bittern of the morning;\nand our pursuit, the wrecks of snails and cockles. Nevertheless, we\nwere contented to know the better one fair particular shore.\n\nMy life is like a stroll upon the beach,\n    As near the ocean\u2019s edge as I can go,\nMy tardy steps its waves sometimes o\u2019erreach,\n    Sometimes I stay to let them overflow.\n\nMy sole employment \u2019t is, and scrupulous care,\n    To place my gains beyond the reach of tides,\nEach smoother pebble, and each shell more rare,\n    Which ocean kindly to my hand confides.\n\nI have but few companions on the shore,\n    They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea,\nYet oft I think the ocean they\u2019ve sailed o\u2019er\n    Is deeper known upon the strand to me.\n\nThe middle sea contains no crimson dulse,\n    Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view,\nAlong the shore my hand is on its pulse,\n    And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew.\n\n\nThe small houses which were scattered along the river at intervals of a\nmile or more were commonly out of sight to us, but sometimes, when we\nrowed near the shore, we heard the peevish note of a hen, or some\nslight domestic sound, which betrayed them. The lock-men\u2019s houses were\nparticularly well placed, retired, and high, always at falls or rapids,\nand commanding the pleasantest reaches of the river,\u2014for it is\ngenerally wider and more lake-like just above a fall,\u2014and there they\nwait for boats. These humble dwellings, homely and sincere, in which a\nhearth was still the essential part, were more pleasing to our eyes\nthan palaces or castles would have been. In the noon of these days, as\nwe have said, we occasionally climbed the banks and approached these\nhouses, to get a glass of water and make acquaintance with their\ninhabitants. High in the leafy bank, surrounded commonly by a small\npatch of corn and beans, squashes and melons, with sometimes a graceful\nhop-yard on one side, and some running vine over the windows, they\nappeared like beehives set to gather honey for a summer. I have not\nread of any Arcadian life which surpasses the actual luxury and\nserenity of these New England dwellings. For the outward gilding, at\nleast, the age is golden enough. As you approach the sunny doorway,\nawakening the echoes by your steps, still no sound from these barracks\nof repose, and you fear that the gentlest knock may seem rude to the\nOriental dreamers. The door is opened, perchance, by some Yankee-Hindoo\nwoman, whose small-voiced but sincere hospitality, out of the\nbottomless depths of a quiet nature, has travelled quite round to the\nopposite side, and fears only to obtrude its kindness. You step over\nthe white-scoured floor to the bright \u201cdresser\u201d lightly, as if afraid\nto disturb the devotions of the household,\u2014for Oriental dynasties\nappear to have passed away since the dinner-table was last spread\nhere,\u2014and thence to the frequented curb, where you see your\nlong-forgotten, unshaven face at the bottom, in juxtaposition with\nnew-made butter and the trout in the well. \u201cPerhaps you would like some\nmolasses and ginger,\u201d suggests the faint noon voice. Sometimes there\nsits the brother who follows the sea, their representative man; who\nknows only how far it is to the nearest port, no more distances, all\nthe rest is sea and distant capes,\u2014patting the dog, or dandling the\nkitten in arms that were stretched by the cable and the oar, pulling\nagainst Boreas or the trade-winds. He looks up at the stranger, half\npleased, half astonished, with a mariner\u2019s eye, as if he were a dolphin\nwithin cast. If men will believe it, _sua si bona n\u00f4rint_, there are no\nmore quiet Tempes, nor more poetic and Arcadian lives, than may be\nlived in these New England dwellings. We thought that the employment of\ntheir inhabitants by day would be to tend the flowers and herds, and at\nnight, like the shepherds of old, to cluster and give names to the\nstars from the river banks.\n\nWe passed a large and densely wooded island this forenoon, between\nShort\u2019s and Griffith\u2019s Falls, the fairest which we had met with, with a\nhandsome grove of elms at its head. If it had been evening we should\nhave been glad to camp there. Not long after, one or two more were\npassed. The boatmen told us that the current had recently made\nimportant changes here. An island always pleases my imagination, even\nthe smallest, as a small continent and integral portion of the globe. I\nhave a fancy for building my hut on one. Even a bare, grassy isle,\nwhich I can see entirely over at a glance, has some undefined and\nmysterious charm for me. There is commonly such a one at the junction\nof two rivers, whose currents bring down and deposit their respective\nsands in the eddy at their confluence, as it were the womb of a\ncontinent. By what a delicate and far-stretched contribution every\nisland is made! What an enterprise of Nature thus to lay the\nfoundations of and to build up the future continent, of golden and\nsilver sands and the ruins of forests, with ant-like industry! Pindar\ngives the following account of the origin of Thera, whence, in after\ntimes, Libyan Cyrene was settled by Battus. Triton, in the form of\nEurypylus, presents a clod to Euphemus, one of the Argonauts, as they\nare about to return home.\n\n        \u201cHe knew of our haste,\nAnd immediately seizing a clod\nWith his right hand, strove to give it\nAs a chance stranger\u2019s gift.\nNor did the hero disregard him, but leaping on the shore,\nStretching hand to hand,\nReceived the mystic clod.\nBut I hear it sinking from the deck,\nGo with the sea brine\nAt evening, accompanying the watery sea.\nOften indeed I urged the careless\nMenials to guard it, but their minds forgot.\nAnd now in this island the imperishable seed of spacious Libya\nIs spilled before its hour.\u201d\n\n\nIt is a beautiful fable, also related by Pindar, how Helius, or the\nSun, looked down into the sea one day,\u2014when perchance his rays were\nfirst reflected from some increasing glittering sandbar,\u2014and saw the\nfair and fruitful island of Rhodes\n\n        \u201cspringing up from the bottom,\nCapable of feeding many men, and suitable for flocks;\n\n\nand at the nod of Zeus,\n\n        \u201cThe island sprang from the watery\nSea; and the genial Father of penetrating beams,\nRuler of fire-breathing horses, has it.\u201d\n\n\nThe shifting islands! who would not be willing that his house should be\nundermined by such a foe! The inhabitant of an island can tell what\ncurrents formed the land which he cultivates; and his earth is still\nbeing created or destroyed. There before his door, perchance, still\nempties the stream which brought down the material of his farm ages\nbefore, and is still bringing it down or washing it away,\u2014the graceful,\ngentle robber!\n\nNot long after this we saw the Piscataquoag, or Sparkling Water,\nemptying in on our left, and heard the Falls of Amoskeag above. Large\nquantities of lumber, as we read in the Gazetteer, were still annually\nfloated down the Piscataquoag to the Merrimack, and there are many fine\nmill privileges on it. Just above the mouth of this river we passed the\nartificial falls where the canals of the Manchester Manufacturing\nCompany discharge themselves into the Merrimack. They are striking\nenough to have a name, and, with the scenery of a Bashpish, would be\nvisited from far and near. The water falls thirty or forty feet over\nseven or eight steep and narrow terraces of stone, probably to break\nits force, and is converted into one mass of foam. This canal-water did\nnot seem to be the worse for the wear, but foamed and fumed as purely,\nand boomed as savagely and impressively, as a mountain torrent, and,\nthough it came from under a factory, we saw a rainbow here. These are\nnow the Amoskeag Falls, removed a mile down-stream. But we did not\ntarry to examine them minutely, making haste to get past the village\nhere collected, and out of hearing of the hammer which was laying the\nfoundation of another Lowell on the banks. At the time of our voyage\nManchester was a village of about two thousand inhabitants, where we\nlanded for a moment to get some cool water, and where an inhabitant\ntold us that he was accustomed to go across the river into Goffstown\nfor his water. But now, as I have been told, and indeed have witnessed,\nit contains fourteen thousand inhabitants. From a hill on the road\nbetween Goffstown and Hooksett, four miles distant, I have seen a\nthunder-shower pass over, and the sun break out and shine on a city\nthere, where I had landed nine years before in the fields; and there\nwas waving the flag of its Museum, where \u201cthe only perfect skeleton of\na Greenland or river whale in the United States\u201d was to be seen, and I\nalso read in its directory of a \u201cManchester Athen\u00e6um and Gallery of the\nFine Arts.\u201d\n\nAccording to the Gazetteer, the descent of Amoskeag Falls, which are\nthe most considerable in the Merrimack, is fifty-four feet in half a\nmile. We locked ourselves through here with much ado, surmounting the\nsuccessive watery steps of this river\u2019s staircase in the midst of a\ncrowd of villagers, jumping into the canal to their amusement, to save\nour boat from upsetting, and consuming much river-water in our service.\nAmoskeag, or Namaskeak, is said to mean \u201cgreat fishing-place.\u201d It was\nhereabouts that the Sachem Wannalancet resided. Tradition says that his\ntribe, when at war with the Mohawks, concealed their provisions in the\ncavities of the rocks in the upper part of these falls. The Indians,\nwho hid their provisions in these holes, and affirmed \u201cthat God had cut\nthem out for that purpose,\u201d understood their origin and use better than\nthe Royal Society, who in their Transactions, in the last century,\nspeaking of these very holes, declare that \u201cthey seem plainly to be\nartificial.\u201d Similar \u201cpot-holes\u201d may be seen at the Stone Flume on this\nriver, on the Ottaway, at Bellows\u2019 Falls on the Connecticut, and in the\nlimestone rock at Shelburne Falls on Deerfield River in Massachusetts,\nand more or less generally about all falls. Perhaps the most remarkable\ncuriosity of this kind in New England is the well-known Basin on the\nPemigewasset, one of the head-waters of this river, twenty by thirty\nfeet in extent and proportionably deep, with a smooth and rounded brim,\nand filled with a cold, pellucid, and greenish water. At Amoskeag the\nriver is divided into many separate torrents and trickling rills by the\nrocks, and its volume is so much reduced by the drain of the canals\nthat it does not fill its bed. There are many pot-holes here on a rocky\nisland which the river washes over in high freshets. As at Shelburne\nFalls, where I first observed them, they are from one foot to four or\nfive in diameter, and as many in depth, perfectly round and regular,\nwith smooth and gracefully curved brims, like goblets. Their origin is\napparent to the most careless observer. A stone which the current has\nwashed down, meeting with obstacles, revolves as on a pivot where it\nlies, gradually sinking in the course of centuries deeper and deeper\ninto the rock, and in new freshets receiving the aid of fresh stones,\nwhich are drawn into this trap and doomed to revolve there for an\nindefinite period, doing Sisyphus-like penance for stony sins, until\nthey either wear out, or wear through the bottom of their prison, or\nelse are released by some revolution of nature. There lie the stones of\nvarious sizes, from a pebble to a foot or two in diameter, some of\nwhich have rested from their labor only since the spring, and some\nhigher up which have lain still and dry for ages,\u2014we noticed some here\nat least sixteen feet above the present level of the water,\u2014while\nothers are still revolving, and enjoy no respite at any season. In one\ninstance, at Shelburne Falls, they have worn quite through the rock, so\nthat a portion of the river leaks through in anticipation of the fall.\nSome of these pot-holes at Amoskeag, in a very hard brown-stone, had an\noblong, cylindrical stone of the same material loosely fitting them.\nOne, as much as fifteen feet deep and seven or eight in diameter, which\nwas worn quite through to the water, had a huge rock of the same\nmaterial, smooth but of irregular form, lodged in it. Everywhere there\nwere the rudiments or the wrecks of a dimple in the rock; the rocky\nshells of whirlpools. As if by force of example and sympathy after so\nmany lessons, the rocks, the hardest material, had been endeavoring to\nwhirl or flow into the forms of the most fluid. The finest workers in\nstone are not copper or steel tools, but the gentle touches of air and\nwater working at their leisure with a liberal allowance of time.\n\nNot only have some of these basins been forming for countless ages, but\nothers exist which must have been completed in a former geological\nperiod. In deepening the Pawtucket Canal, in 1822, the workmen came to\nledges with pot-holes in them, where probably was once the bed of the\nriver, and there are some, we are told, in the town of Canaan in this\nState, with the stones still in them, on the height of land between the\nMerrimack and Connecticut, and nearly a thousand feet above these\nrivers, proving that the mountains and the rivers have changed places.\nThere lie the stones which completed their revolutions perhaps before\nthoughts began to revolve in the brain of man. The periods of Hindoo\nand Chinese history, though they reach back to the time when the race\nof mortals is confounded with the race of gods, are as nothing compared\nwith the periods which these stones have inscribed. That which\ncommenced a rock when time was young, shall conclude a pebble in the\nunequal contest. With such expense of time and natural forces are our\nvery paving-stones produced. They teach us lessons, these dumb workers;\nverily there are \u201csermons in stones, and books in the running streams.\u201d\nIn these very holes the Indians hid their provisions; but now there is\nno bread, but only its old neighbor stones at the bottom. Who knows how\nmany races they have served thus? By as simple a law, some accidental\nby-law, perchance, our system itself was made ready for its\ninhabitants.\n\nThese, and such as these, must be our antiquities, for lack of human\nvestiges. The monuments of heroes and the temples of the gods which may\nonce have stood on the banks of this river are now, at any rate,\nreturned to dust and primitive soil. The murmur of unchronicled nations\nhas died away along these shores, and once more Lowell and Manchester\nare on the trail of the Indian.\n\nThe fact that Romans once inhabited her reflects no little dignity on\nNature herself; that from some particular hill the Roman once looked\nout on the sea. She need not be ashamed of the vestiges of her\nchildren. How gladly the antiquary informs us that their vessels\npenetrated into this frith, or up that river of some remote isle! Their\nmilitary monuments still remain on the hills and under the sod of the\nvalleys. The oft-repeated Roman story is written in still legible\ncharacters in every quarter of the Old World, and but to-day,\nperchance, a new coin is dug up whose inscription repeats and confirms\ntheir fame. Some \u201c_Jud\u00e6a Capta_\u201d with a woman mourning under a\npalm-tree, with silent argument and demonstration confirms the pages of\nhistory.\n\n\u201cRome living was the world\u2019s sole ornament;\nAnd dead is now the world\u2019s sole monument.\n     *     *     *     *     *\nWith her own weight down pressed now she lies,\nAnd by her heaps her hugeness testifies.\u201d\n\n\nIf one doubts whether Grecian valor and patriotism are not a fiction of\nthe poets, he may go to Athens and see still upon the walls of the\ntemple of Minerva the circular marks made by the shields taken from the\nenemy in the Persian war, which were suspended there. We have not far\nto seek for living and unquestionable evidence. The very dust takes\nshape and confirms some story which we had read. As Fuller said,\ncommenting on the zeal of Camden, \u201cA broken urn is a whole evidence; or\nan old gate still surviving out of which the city is run out.\u201d When\nSolon endeavored to prove that Salamis had formerly belonged to the\nAthenians, and not to the Megareans, he caused the tombs to be opened,\nand showed that the inhabitants of Salamis turned the faces of their\ndead to the same side with the Athenians, but the Megareans to the\nopposite side. There they were to be interrogated.\n\nSome minds are as little logical or argumentative as nature; they can\noffer no reason or \u201cguess,\u201d but they exhibit the solemn and\nincontrovertible fact. If a historical question arises, they cause the\ntombs to be opened. Their silent and practical logic convinces the\nreason and the understanding at the same time. Of such sort is always\nthe only pertinent question and the only satisfactory reply.\n\nOur own country furnishes antiquities as ancient and durable, and as\nuseful, as any; rocks at least as well covered with lichens, and a soil\nwhich, if it is virgin, is but virgin mould, the very dust of nature.\nWhat if we cannot read Rome, or Greece, Etruria, or Carthage, or Egypt,\nor Babylon, on these; are our cliffs bare? The lichen on the rocks is a\nrude and simple shield which beginning and imperfect Nature suspended\nthere. Still hangs her wrinkled trophy. And here too the poet\u2019s eye may\nstill detect the brazen nails which fastened Time\u2019s inscriptions, and\nif he has the gift, decipher them by this clew. The walls that fence\nour fields, as well as modern Rome, and not less the Parthenon itself,\nare all built of _ruins_. Here may be heard the din of rivers, and\nancient winds which have long since lost their names sough through our\nwoods;\u2014the first faint sounds of spring, older than the summer of\nAthenian glory, the titmouse lisping in the wood, the jay\u2019s scream, and\nblue-bird\u2019s warble, and the hum of\n\n            \u201cbees that fly\nAbout the laughing blossoms of sallowy.\u201d\n\n\nHere is the gray dawn for antiquity, and our to-morrow\u2019s future should\nbe at least paulo-post to theirs which we have put behind us. There are\nthe red-maple and birchen leaves, old runes which are not yet\ndeciphered; catkins, pine-cones, vines, oak-leaves, and acorns; the\nvery things themselves, and not their forms in stone,\u2014so much the more\nancient and venerable. And even to the current summer there has come\ndown tradition of a hoary-headed master of all art, who once filled\nevery field and grove with statues and god-like architecture, of every\ndesign which Greece has lately copied; whose ruins are now mingled with\nthe dust, and not one block remains upon another. The century sun and\nunwearied rain have wasted them, till not one fragment from that quarry\nnow exists; and poets perchance will feign that gods sent down the\nmaterial from heaven.\n\nWhat though the traveller tell us of the ruins of Egypt, are we so sick\nor idle, that we must sacrifice our America and to-day to some man\u2019s\nill-remembered and indolent story? Carnac and Luxor are but names, or\nif their skeletons remain, still more desert sand, and at length a wave\nof the Mediterranean Sea are needed to wash away the filth that\nattaches to their grandeur. Carnac! Carnac! here is Carnac for me. I\nbehold the columns of a larger and purer temple.\n\nThis is my Carnac, whose unmeasured dome\nShelters the measuring art and measurer\u2019s home.\nBehold these flowers, let us be up with time,\nNot dreaming of three thousand years ago,\nErect ourselves and let those columns lie,\nNot stoop to raise a foil against the sky.\nWhere is the spirit of that time but in\nThis present day, perchance the present line?\nThree thousand years ago are not agone,\nThey are still lingering in this summer morn,\nAnd Memnon\u2019s Mother sprightly greets us now,\nWearing her youthful radiance on her brow.\nIf Carnac\u2019s columns still stand on the plain,\nTo enjoy our opportunities they remain.\n\n\nIn these parts dwelt the famous Sachem Pasaconaway, who was seen by\nGookin \u201cat Pawtucket, when he was about one hundred and twenty years\nold.\u201d He was reputed a wise man and a powwow, and restrained his people\nfrom going to war with the English. They believed \u201cthat he could make\nwater burn, rocks move, and trees dance, and metamorphose himself into\na flaming man; that in winter he could raise a green leaf out of the\nashes of a dry one, and produce a living snake from the skin of a dead\none, and many similar miracles.\u201d In 1660, according to Gookin, at a\ngreat feast and dance, he made his farewell speech to his people, in\nwhich he said, that as he was not likely to see them met together\nagain, he would leave them this word of advice, to take heed how they\nquarrelled with their English neighbors, for though they might do them\nmuch mischief at first, it would prove the means of their own\ndestruction. He himself, he said, had been as much an enemy to the\nEnglish at their first coming as any, and had used all his arts to\ndestroy them, or at least to prevent their settlement, but could by no\nmeans effect it. Gookin thought that he \u201cpossibly might have such a\nkind of spirit upon him as was upon Balaam, who in xxiii. Numbers, 23,\nsaid \u2018Surely, there is no enchantment against Jacob, neither is there\nany divination against Israel.\u2019\u201d His son Wannalancet carefully followed\nhis advice, and when Philip\u2019s War broke out, he withdrew his followers\nto Penacook, now Concord in New Hampshire, from the scene of the war.\nOn his return afterwards, he visited the minister of Chelmsford, and,\nas is stated in the history of that town, \u201cwished to know whether\nChelmsford had suffered much during the war; and being informed that it\nhad not, and that God should be thanked for it, Wannalancet replied,\n\u2018Me next.\u2019\u201d\n\nManchester was the residence of John Stark, a hero of two wars, and\nsurvivor of a third, and at his death the last but one of the American\ngenerals of the Revolution. He was born in the adjoining town of\nLondonderry, then Nutfield, in 1728. As early as 1752, he was taken\nprisoner by the Indians while hunting in the wilderness near Baker\u2019s\nRiver; he performed notable service as a captain of rangers in the\nFrench war; commanded a regiment of the New Hampshire militia at the\nbattle of Bunker Hill; and fought and won the battle of Bennington in\n1777. He was past service in the last war, and died here in 1822, at\nthe age of 94. His monument stands upon the second bank of the river,\nabout a mile and a half above the falls, and commands a prospect\nseveral miles up and down the Merrimack. It suggested how much more\nimpressive in the landscape is the tomb of a hero than the dwellings of\nthe inglorious living. Who is most dead,\u2014a hero by whose monument you\nstand, or his descendants of whom you have never heard?\n\nThe graves of Pasaconaway and Wannalancet are marked by no monument on\nthe bank of their native river.\n\nEvery town which we passed, if we may believe the Gazetteer, had been\nthe residence of some great man. But though we knocked at many doors,\nand even made particular inquiries, we could not find that there were\nany now living. Under the head of Litchfield we read:\u2014\n\n\u201cThe Hon. Wyseman Clagett closed his life in this town.\u201d According to\nanother, \u201cHe was a classical scholar, a good lawyer, a wit, and a\npoet.\u201d We saw his old gray house just below Great Nesenkeag\nBrook.\u2014Under the head of Merrimack: \u201cHon. Mathew Thornton, one of the\nsigners of the Declaration of American Independence, resided many years\nin this town.\u201d His house too we saw from the river.\u2014\u201cDr. Jonathan Gove,\na man distinguished for his urbanity, his talents and professional\nskill, resided in this town [Goffstown]. He was one of the oldest\npractitioners of medicine in the county. He was many years an active\nmember of the legislature.\u201d\u2014\u201cHon. Robert Means, who died Jan. 24, 1823,\nat the age of 80, was for a long period a resident in Amherst. He was a\nnative of Ireland. In 1764 he came to this country, where, by his\nindustry and application to business, he acquired a large property, and\ngreat respect.\u201d\u2014\u201cWilliam Stinson [one of the first settlers of\nDunbarton], born in Ireland, came to Londonderry with his father. He\nwas much respected and was a useful man. James Rogers was from Ireland,\nand father to Major Robert Rogers. He was shot in the woods, being\nmistaken for a bear.\u201d\u2014\u201cRev. Matthew Clark, second minister of\nLondonderry, was a native of Ireland, who had in early life been an\nofficer in the army, and distinguished himself in the defence of the\ncity of Londonderry, when besieged by the army of King James II. A. D.\n1688-9. He afterwards relinquished a military life for the clerical\nprofession. He possessed a strong mind, marked by a considerable degree\nof eccentricity. He died Jan. 25, 1735, and was borne to the grave, at\nhis particular request, by his former companions in arms, of whom there\nwere a considerable number among the early settlers of this town;\nseveral of them had been made free from taxes throughout the British\ndominions by King William, for their bravery in that memorable\nsiege.\u201d\u2014Col. George Reid and Capt. David M\u2019Clary, also citizens of\nLondonderry, were \u201cdistinguished and brave\u201d officers.\u2014\u201cMajor Andrew\nM\u2019Clary, a native of this town [Epsom], fell at the battle of Breed\u2019s\nHill.\u201d\u2014Many of these heroes, like the illustrious Roman, were ploughing\nwhen the news of the massacre at Lexington arrived, and straightway\nleft their ploughs in the furrow, and repaired to the scene of action.\nSome miles from where we now were, there once stood a guide-post on\nwhich were the words, \u201c3 miles to Squire MacGaw\u2019s.\u201d\n\nBut generally speaking, the land is now, at any rate, very barren of\nmen, and we doubt if there are as many hundreds as we read of. It may\nbe that we stood too near.\n\nUncannunuc Mountain in Goffstown was visible from Amoskeag, five or six\nmiles westward. It is the north-easternmost in the horizon, which we\nsee from our native town, but seen from there is too ethereally blue to\nbe the same which the like of us have ever climbed. Its name is said to\nmean \u201cThe Two Breasts,\u201d there being two eminences some distance apart.\nThe highest, which is about fourteen hundred feet above the sea,\nprobably affords a more extensive view of the Merrimack valley and the\nadjacent country than any other hill, though it is somewhat obstructed\nby woods. Only a few short reaches of the river are visible, but you\ncan trace its course far down stream by the sandy tracts on its banks.\n\nA little south of Uncannunuc, about sixty years ago, as the story goes,\nan old woman who went out to gather pennyroyal, tript her foot in the\nbail of a small brass kettle in the dead grass and bushes. Some say\nthat flints and charcoal and some traces of a camp were also found.\nThis kettle, holding about four quarts, is still preserved and used to\ndye thread in. It is supposed to have belonged to some old French or\nIndian hunter, who was killed in one of his hunting or scouting\nexcursions, and so never returned to look after his kettle.\n\nBut we were most interested to hear of the pennyroyal, it is soothing\nto be reminded that wild nature produces anything ready for the use of\nman. Men know that _something_ is good. One says that it is\nyellow-dock, another that it is bitter-sweet, another that it is\nslippery-elm bark, burdock, catnip, calamint, elicampane, thoroughwort,\nor pennyroyal. A man may esteem himself happy when that which is his\nfood is also his medicine. There is no kind of herb, but somebody or\nother says that it is good. I am very glad to hear it. It reminds me of\nthe first chapter of Genesis. But how should they know that it is good?\nThat is the mystery to me. I am always agreeably disappointed; it is\nincredible that they should have found it out. Since all things are\ngood, men fail at last to distinguish which is the bane, and which the\nantidote. There are sure to be two prescriptions diametrically\nopposite. Stuff a cold and starve a cold are but two ways. They are the\ntwo practices both always in full blast. Yet you must take advice of\nthe one school as if there was no other. In respect to religion and the\nhealing art, all nations are still in a state of barbarism. In the most\ncivilized countries the priest is still but a Powwow, and the physician\na Great Medicine. Consider the deference which is everywhere paid to a\ndoctor\u2019s opinion. Nothing more strikingly betrays the credulity of\nmankind than medicine. Quackery is a thing universal, and universally\nsuccessful. In this case it becomes literally true that no imposition\nis too great for the credulity of men. Priests and physicians should\nnever look one another in the face. They have no common ground, nor is\nthere any to mediate between them. When the one comes, the other goes.\nThey could not come together without laughter, or a significant\nsilence, for the one\u2019s profession is a satire on the other\u2019s, and\neither\u2019s success would be the other\u2019s failure. It is wonderful that the\nphysician should ever die, and that the priest should ever live. Why is\nit that the priest is never called to consult with the physician? Is it\nbecause men believe practically that matter is independent of spirit.\nBut what is quackery? It is commonly an attempt to cure the diseases of\na man by addressing his body alone. There is need of a physician who\nshall minister to both soul and body at once, that is, to man. Now he\nfalls between two souls.\n\nAfter passing through the locks, we had poled ourselves through the\ncanal here, about half a mile in length, to the boatable part of the\nriver. Above Amoskeag the river spreads out into a lake reaching a mile\nor two without a bend. There were many canal-boats here bound up to\nHooksett, about eight miles, and as they were going up empty with a\nfair wind, one boatman offered to take us in tow if we would wait. But\nwhen we came alongside, we found that they meant to take us on board,\nsince otherwise we should clog their motions too much; but as our boat\nwas too heavy to be lifted aboard, we pursued our way up the stream, as\nbefore, while the boatmen were at their dinner, and came to anchor at\nlength under some alders on the opposite shore, where we could take our\nlunch. Though far on one side, every sound was wafted over to us from\nthe opposite bank, and from the harbor of the canal, and we could see\neverything that passed. By and by came several canal-boats, at\nintervals of a quarter of a mile, standing up to Hooksett with a light\nbreeze, and one by one disappeared round a point above. With their\nbroad sails set, they moved slowly up the stream in the sluggish and\nfitful breeze, like one-winged antediluvian birds, and as if impelled\nby some mysterious counter-current. It was a grand motion, so slow and\nstately, this \u201cstanding out,\u201d as the phrase is, expressing the gradual\nand steady progress of a vessel, as if it were by mere rectitude and\ndisposition, without shuffling. Their sails, which stood so still, were\nlike chips cast into the current of the air to show which way it set.\nAt length the boat which we had spoken came along, keeping the middle\nof the stream, and when within speaking distance the steersman called\nout ironically to say, that if we would come alongside now he would\ntake us in tow; but not heeding his taunt, we still loitered in the\nshade till we had finished our lunch, and when the last boat had\ndisappeared round the point with flapping sail, for the breeze had now\nsunk to a zephyr, with our own sails set, and plying our oars, we shot\nrapidly up the stream in pursuit, and as we glided close alongside,\nwhile they were vainly invoking \u00c6olus to their aid, we returned their\ncompliment by proposing, if they would throw us a rope, to \u201ctake them\nin tow,\u201d to which these Merrimack sailors had no suitable answer ready.\nThus we gradually overtook and passed each boat in succession until we\nhad the river to ourselves again.\n\nOur course this afternoon was between Manchester and Goffstown.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nWhile we float here, far from that tributary stream on whose banks our\nFriends and kindred dwell, our thoughts, like the stars, come out of\ntheir horizon still; for there circulates a finer blood than Lavoisier\nhas discovered the laws of,\u2014the blood, not of kindred merely, but of\nkindness, whose pulse still beats at any distance and forever.\n\nTrue kindness is a pure divine affinity,\nNot founded upon human consanguinity.\nIt is a spirit, not a blood relation,\nSuperior to family and station.\n\n\nAfter years of vain familiarity, some distant gesture or unconscious\nbehavior, which we remember, speaks to us with more emphasis than the\nwisest or kindest words. We are sometimes made aware of a kindness long\npassed, and realize that there have been times when our Friends\u2019\nthoughts of us were of so pure and lofty a character that they passed\nover us like the winds of heaven unnoticed; when they treated us not as\nwhat we were, but as what we aspired to be. There has just reached us,\nit may be, the nobleness of some such silent behavior, not to be\nforgotten, not to be remembered, and we shudder to think how it fell on\nus cold, though in some true but tardy hour we endeavor to wipe off\nthese scores.\n\nIn my experience, persons, when they are made the subject of\nconversation, though with a Friend, are commonly the most prosaic and\ntrivial of facts. The universe seems bankrupt as soon as we begin to\ndiscuss the character of individuals. Our discourse all runs to\nslander, and our limits grow narrower as we advance. How is it that we\nare impelled to treat our old Friends so ill when we obtain new ones?\nThe housekeeper says, I never had any new crockery in my life but I\nbegan to break the old. I say, let us speak of mushrooms and forest\ntrees rather. Yet we can sometimes afford to remember them in private.\n\nLately, alas, I knew a gentle boy,\n    Whose features all were cast in Virtue\u2019s mould,\nAs one she had designed for Beauty\u2019s toy,\n    But after manned him for her own strong-hold.\n\nOn every side he open was as day,\n    That you might see no lack of strength within,\nFor walls and ports do only serve alway\n    For a pretence to feebleness and sin.\n\nSay not that C\u00e6sar was victorious,\n    With toil and strife who stormed the House of Fame,\nIn other sense this youth was glorious,\n    Himself a kingdom wheresoe\u2019er he came.\n\nNo strength went out to get him victory,\n    When all was income of its own accord;\nFor where he went none other was to see,\n    But all were parcel of their noble lord.\n\nHe forayed like the subtile haze of summer,\n    That stilly shows fresh landscapes to our eyes,\nAnd revolutions works without a murmur,\n    Or rustling of a leaf beneath the skies.\n\nSo was I taken unawares by this,\n    I quite forgot my homage to confess;\nYet now am forced to know, though hard it is,\n    I might have loved him had I loved him less.\n\nEach moment as we nearer drew to each,\n    A stern respect withheld us farther yet,\nSo that we seemed beyond each other\u2019s reach,\n    And less acquainted than when first we met.\n\nWe two were one while we did sympathize,\n    So could we not the simplest bargain drive;\nAnd what avails it now that we are wise,\n    If absence doth this doubleness contrive?\n\nEternity may not the chance repeat,\n    But I must tread my single way alone,\nIn sad remembrance that we once did meet,\n    And know that bliss irrevocably gone.\n\nThe spheres henceforth my elegy shall sing,\n    For elegy has other subject none;\nEach strain of music in my ears shall ring\n    Knell of departure from that other one.\n\nMake haste and celebrate my tragedy;\n    With fitting strain resound ye woods and fields;\nSorrow is dearer in such case to me\n    Than all the joys other occasion yields.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nIs\u2019t then too late the damage to repair?\n    Distance, forsooth, from my weak grasp hath reft\nThe empty husk, and clutched the useless tare,\n    But in my hands the wheat and kernel left.\n\nIf I but love that virtue which he is,\n    Though it be scented in the morning air,\nStill shall we be truest acquaintances,\n    Nor mortals know a sympathy more rare.\n\n\nFriendship is evanescent in every man\u2019s experience, and remembered like\nheat lightning in past summers. Fair and flitting like a summer\ncloud;\u2014there is always some vapor in the air, no matter how long the\ndrought; there are even April showers. Surely from time to time, for\nits vestiges never depart, it floats through our atmosphere. It takes\nplace, like vegetation in so many materials, because there is such a\nlaw, but always without permanent form, though ancient and familiar as\nthe sun and moon, and as sure to come again. The heart is forever\ninexperienced. They silently gather as by magic, these never failing,\nnever quite deceiving visions, like the bright and fleecy clouds in the\ncalmest and clearest days. The Friend is some fair floating isle of\npalms eluding the mariner in Pacific seas. Many are the dangers to be\nencountered, equinoctial gales and coral reefs, ere he may sail before\nthe constant trades. But who would not sail through mutiny and storm,\neven over Atlantic waves, to reach the fabulous retreating shores of\nsome continent man? The imagination still clings to the faintest\ntradition of\n\nTHE ATLANTIDES.\n\n\nThe smothered streams of love, which flow\nMore bright than Phlegethon, more low,\nIsland us ever, like the sea,\nIn an Atlantic mystery.\nOur fabled shores none ever reach,\nNo mariner has found our beach,\nScarcely our mirage now is seen,\nAnd neighboring waves with floating green,\nYet still the oldest charts contain\nSome dotted outline of our main;\nIn ancient times midsummer days\nUnto the western islands\u2019 gaze,\nTo Teneriffe and the Azores,\nHave shown our faint and cloud-like shores.\n\nBut sink not yet, ye desolate isles,\nAnon your coast with commerce smiles,\nAnd richer freights ye\u2019ll furnish far\nThan Africa or Malabar.\nBe fair, be fertile evermore,\nYe rumored but untrodden shore,\nPrinces and monarchs will contend\nWho first unto your land shall send,\nAnd pawn the jewels of the crown\nTo call your distant soil their own.\n\n\nColumbus has sailed westward of these isles by the mariner\u2019s compass,\nbut neither he nor his successors have found them. We are no nearer\nthan Plato was. The earnest seeker and hopeful discoverer of this New\nWorld always haunts the outskirts of his time, and walks through the\ndensest crowd uninterrupted, and as it were in a straight line.\n\nSea and land are but his neighbors,\nAnd companions in his labors,\nWho on the ocean\u2019s verge and firm land\u2019s end\nDoth long and truly seek his Friend.\nMany men dwell far inland,\nBut he alone sits on the strand.\nWhether he ponders men or books,\nAlways still he seaward looks,\nMarine news he ever reads,\nAnd the slightest glances heeds,\nFeels the sea breeze on his cheek,\nAt each word the landsmen speak,\nIn every companion\u2019s eye\nA sailing vessel doth descry;\nIn the ocean\u2019s sullen roar\nFrom some distant port he hears,\nOf wrecks upon a distant shore,\nAnd the ventures of past years.\n\n\nWho does not walk on the plain as amid the columns of Tadmore of the\ndesert? There is on the earth no institution which Friendship has\nestablished; it is not taught by any religion; no scripture contains\nits maxims. It has no temple, nor even a solitary column. There goes a\nrumor that the earth is inhabited, but the shipwrecked mariner has not\nseen a footprint on the shore. The hunter has found only fragments of\npottery and the monuments of inhabitants.\n\nHowever, our fates at least are social. Our courses do not diverge; but\nas the web of destiny is woven it is fulled, and we are cast more and\nmore into the centre. Men naturally, though feebly, seek this alliance,\nand their actions faintly foretell it. We are inclined to lay the chief\nstress on likeness and not on difference, and in foreign bodies we\nadmit that there are many degrees of warmth below blood heat, but none\nof cold above it.\n\nMencius says: \u201cIf one loses a fowl or a dog, he knows well how to seek\nthem again; if one loses the sentiments of his heart, he does not know\nhow to seek them again. . . . The duties of practical philosophy\nconsist only in seeking after those sentiments of the heart which we\nhave lost; that is all.\u201d\n\nOne or two persons come to my house from time to time, there being\nproposed to them the faint possibility of intercourse. They are as full\nas they are silent, and wait for my plectrum to stir the strings of\ntheir lyre. If they could ever come to the length of a sentence, or\nhear one, on that ground they are dreaming of! They speak faintly, and\ndo not obtrude themselves. They have heard some news, which none, not\neven they themselves, can impart. It is a wealth they can bear about\nthem which can be expended in various ways. What came they out to seek?\n\nNo word is oftener on the lips of men than Friendship, and indeed no\nthought is more familiar to their aspirations. All men are dreaming of\nit, and its drama, which is always a tragedy, is enacted daily. It is\nthe secret of the universe. You may thread the town, you may wander the\ncountry, and none shall ever speak of it, yet thought is everywhere\nbusy about it, and the idea of what is possible in this respect affects\nour behavior toward all new men and women, and a great many old ones.\nNevertheless, I can remember only two or three essays on this subject\nin all literature. No wonder that the Mythology, and Arabian Nights,\nand Shakespeare, and Scott\u2019s novels entertain us,\u2014we are poets and\nfablers and dramatists and novelists ourselves. We are continually\nacting a part in a more interesting drama than any written. We are\ndreaming that our Friends are our _Friends_, and that we are our\nFriends\u2019 _Friends_. Our actual Friends are but distant relations of\nthose to whom we are pledged. We never exchange more than three words\nwith a Friend in our lives on that level to which our thoughts and\nfeelings almost habitually rise. One goes forth prepared to say, \u201cSweet\nFriends!\u201d and the salutation is, \u201cDamn your eyes!\u201d But never mind;\nfaint heart never won true Friend. O my Friend, may it come to pass\nonce, that when you are my Friend I may be yours.\n\nOf what use the friendliest dispositions even, if there are no hours\ngiven to Friendship, if it is forever postponed to unimportant duties\nand relations? Friendship is first, Friendship last. But it is equally\nimpossible to forget our Friends, and to make them answer to our ideal.\nWhen they say farewell, then indeed we begin to keep them company. How\noften we find ourselves turning our backs on our actual Friends, that\nwe may go and meet their ideal cousins. I would that I were worthy to\nbe any man\u2019s Friend.\n\nWhat is commonly honored with the name of Friendship is no very\nprofound or powerful instinct. Men do not, after all, _love_ their\nFriends greatly. I do not often see the farmers made seers and wise to\nthe verge of insanity by their Friendship for one another. They are not\noften transfigured and translated by love in each other\u2019s presence. I\ndo not observe them purified, refined, and elevated by the love of a\nman. If one abates a little the price of his wood, or gives a neighbor\nhis vote at town-meeting, or a barrel of apples, or lends him his wagon\nfrequently, it is esteemed a rare instance of Friendship. Nor do the\nfarmers\u2019 wives lead lives consecrated to Friendship. I do not see the\npair of farmer Friends of either sex prepared to stand against the\nworld. There are only two or three couples in history. To say that a\nman is your Friend, means commonly no more than this, that he is not\nyour enemy. Most contemplate only what would be the accidental and\ntrifling advantages of Friendship, as that the Friend can assist in\ntime of need, by his substance, or his influence, or his counsel; but\nhe who foresees such advantages in this relation proves himself blind\nto its real advantage, or indeed wholly inexperienced in the relation\nitself. Such services are particular and menial, compared with the\nperpetual and all-embracing service which it is. Even the utmost\ngood-will and harmony and practical kindness are not sufficient for\nFriendship, for Friends do not live in harmony merely, as some say, but\nin melody. We do not wish for Friends to feed and clothe our\nbodies,\u2014neighbors are kind enough for that,\u2014but to do the like office\nto our spirits. For this few are rich enough, however well disposed\nthey may be. For the most part we stupidly confound one man with\nanother. The dull distinguish only races or nations, or at most\nclasses, but the wise man, individuals. To his Friend a man\u2019s peculiar\ncharacter appears in every feature and in every action, and it is thus\ndrawn out and improved by him.\n\nThink of the importance of Friendship in the education of men.\n\n\u201cHe that hath love and judgment too,\nSees more than any other doe.\u201d\n\n\nIt will make a man honest; it will make him a hero; it will make him a\nsaint. It is the state of the just dealing with the just, the\nmagnanimous with the magnanimous, the sincere with the sincere, man\nwith man.\n\nAnd it is well said by another poet,\n\n\u201cWhy love among the virtues is not known,\nIs that love is them all contract in one.\u201d\n\n\nAll the abuses which are the object of reform with the philanthropist,\nthe statesman, and the housekeeper are unconsciously amended in the\nintercourse of Friends. A Friend is one who incessantly pays us the\ncompliment of expecting from us all the virtues, and who can appreciate\nthem in us. It takes two to speak the truth,\u2014one to speak, and another\nto hear. How can one treat with magnanimity mere wood and stone? If we\ndealt only with the false and dishonest, we should at last forget how\nto speak truth. Only lovers know the value and magnanimity of truth,\nwhile traders prize a cheap honesty, and neighbors and acquaintance a\ncheap civility. In our daily intercourse with men, our nobler faculties\nare dormant and suffered to rust. None will pay us the compliment to\nexpect nobleness from us. Though we have gold to give, they demand only\ncopper. We ask our neighbor to suffer himself to be dealt with truly,\nsincerely, nobly; but he answers no by his deafness. He does not even\nhear this prayer. He says practically, I will be content if you treat\nme as \u201cno better than I should be,\u201d as deceitful, mean, dishonest, and\nselfish. For the most part, we are contented so to deal and to be dealt\nwith, and we do not think that for the mass of men there is any truer\nand nobler relation possible. A man may have _good_ neighbors, so\ncalled, and acquaintances, and even companions, wife, parents,\nbrothers, sisters, children, who meet himself and one another on this\nground only. The State does not demand justice of its members, but\nthinks that it succeeds very well with the least degree of it, hardly\nmore than rogues practise; and so do the neighborhood and the family.\nWhat is commonly called Friendship even is only a little more honor\namong rogues.\n\nBut sometimes we are said to _love_ another, that is, to stand in a\ntrue relation to him, so that we give the best to, and receive the best\nfrom, him. Between whom there is hearty truth, there is love; and in\nproportion to our truthfulness and confidence in one another, our lives\nare divine and miraculous, and answer to our ideal. There are passages\nof affection in our intercourse with mortal men and women, such as no\nprophecy had taught us to expect, which transcend our earthly life, and\nanticipate Heaven for us. What is this Love that may come right into\nthe middle of a prosaic Goffstown day, equal to any of the gods? that\ndiscovers a new world, fair and fresh and eternal, occupying the place\nof the old one, when to the common eye a dust has settled on the\nuniverse? which world cannot else be reached, and does not exist. What\nother words, we may almost ask, are memorable and worthy to be repeated\nthan those which love has inspired? It is wonderful that they were ever\nuttered. They are few and rare, indeed, but, like a strain of music,\nthey are incessantly repeated and modulated by the memory. All other\nwords crumble off with the stucco which overlies the heart. We should\nnot dare to repeat these now aloud. We are not competent to hear them\nat all times.\n\nThe books for young people say a great deal about the _selection_ of\nFriends; it is because they really have nothing to say about _Friends_.\nThey mean associates and confidants merely. \u201cKnow that the contrariety\nof foe and Friend proceeds from God.\u201d Friendship takes place between\nthose who have an affinity for one another, and is a perfectly natural\nand inevitable result. No professions nor advances will avail. Even\nspeech, at first, necessarily has nothing to do with it; but it follows\nafter silence, as the buds in the graft do not put forth into leaves\ntill long after the graft has taken. It is a drama in which the parties\nhave no part to act. We are all Mussulmen and fatalists in this\nrespect. Impatient and uncertain lovers think that they must say or do\nsomething kind whenever they meet; they must never be cold. But they\nwho are Friends do not do what they _think_ they must, but what they\n_must_. Even their Friendship is to some extent but a sublime\nphenomenon to them.\n\nThe true and not despairing Friend will address his Friend in some such\nterms as these.\n\n\u201cI never asked thy leave to let me love thee,\u2014I have a right. I love\nthee not as something private and personal, which is _your own_, but as\nsomething universal and worthy of love, _which I have found_. O, how I\nthink of you! You are purely good, \u2014you are infinitely good. I can\ntrust you forever. I did not think that humanity was so rich. Give me\nan opportunity to live.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are the fact in a fiction,\u2014you are the truth more strange and\nadmirable than fiction. Consent only to be what you are. I alone will\nnever stand in your way.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis is what I would like,\u2014to be as intimate with you as our spirits\nare intimate,\u2014respecting you as I respect my ideal. Never to profane\none another by word or action, even by a thought. Between us, if\nnecessary, let there be no acquaintance.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have discovered you; how can you be concealed from me?\u201d\n\nThe Friend asks no return but that his Friend will religiously accept\nand wear and not disgrace his apotheosis of him. They cherish each\nother\u2019s hopes. They are kind to each other\u2019s dreams.\n\nThough the poet says, \u201c\u2019Tis the pre-eminence of Friendship to impute\nexcellence,\u201d yet we can never praise our Friend, nor esteem him\npraiseworthy, nor let him think that he can please us by any\n_behavior_, or ever _treat_ us well enough. That kindness which has so\ngood a reputation elsewhere can least of all consist with this\nrelation, and no such affront can be offered to a Friend, as a\nconscious good-will, a friendliness which is not a necessity of the\nFriend\u2019s nature.\n\nThe sexes are naturally most strongly attracted to one another, by\nconstant constitutional differences, and are most commonly and surely\nthe complements of each other. How natural and easy it is for man to\nsecure the attention of woman to what interests himself. Men and women\nof equal culture, thrown together, are sure to be of a certain value to\none another, more than men to men. There exists already a natural\ndisinterestedness and liberality in such society, and I think that any\nman will more confidently carry his favorite books to read to some\ncircle of intelligent women, than to one of his own sex. The visit of\nman to man is wont to be an interruption, but the sexes naturally\nexpect one another. Yet Friendship is no respecter of sex; and perhaps\nit is more rare between the sexes than between two of the same sex.\n\nFriendship is, at any rate, a relation of perfect equality. It cannot\nwell spare any outward sign of equal obligation and advantage. The\nnobleman can never have a Friend among his retainers, nor the king\namong his subjects. Not that the parties to it are in all respects\nequal, but they are equal in all that respects or affects their\nFriendship. The one\u2019s love is exactly balanced and represented by the\nother\u2019s. Persons are only the vessels which contain the nectar, and the\nhydrostatic paradox is the symbol of love\u2019s law. It finds its level and\nrises to its fountain-head in all breasts, and its slenderest column\nbalances the ocean.\n\n\u201cAnd love as well the shepherd can\nAs can the mighty nobleman.\u201d\n\n\nThe one sex is not, in this respect, more tender than the other.\nA hero\u2019s love is as delicate as a maiden\u2019s.\n\nConfucius said, \u201cNever contract Friendship with a man who is not better\nthan thyself.\u201d It is the merit and preservation of Friendship, that it\ntakes place on a level higher than the actual characters of the parties\nwould seem to warrant. The rays of light come to us in such a curve\nthat every man whom we meet appears to be taller than he actually is.\nSuch foundation has civility. My Friend is that one whom I can\nassociate with my choicest thought. I always assign to him a nobler\nemployment in my absence than I ever find him engaged in; and I imagine\nthat the hours which he devotes to me were snatched from a higher\nsociety. The sorest insult which I ever received from a Friend was,\nwhen he behaved with the license which only long and cheap acquaintance\nallows to one\u2019s faults, in my presence, without shame, and still\naddressed me in friendly accents. Beware, lest thy Friend learn at last\nto tolerate one frailty of thine, and so an obstacle be raised to the\nprogress of thy love. There are times when we have had enough even of\nour Friends, when we begin inevitably to profane one another, and must\nwithdraw religiously into solitude and silence, the better to prepare\nourselves for a loftier intimacy. Silence is the ambrosial night in the\nintercourse of Friends, in which their sincerity is recruited and takes\ndeeper root.\n\nFriendship is never established as an understood relation. Do you\ndemand that I be less your Friend that you may know it? Yet what right\nhave I to think that another cherishes so rare a sentiment for me? It\nis a miracle which requires constant proofs. It is an exercise of the\npurest imagination and the rarest faith. It says by a silent but\neloquent behavior,\u2014\u201cI will be so related to thee as thou canst imagine;\neven so thou mayest believe. I will spend truth,\u2014all my wealth on\nthee,\u201d\u2014and the Friend responds silently through his nature and life,\nand treats his Friend with the same divine courtesy. He knows us\nliterally through thick and thin. He never asks for a sign of love, but\ncan distinguish it by the features which it naturally wears. We never\nneed to stand upon ceremony with him with regard to his visits. Wait\nnot till I invite thee, but observe that I am glad to see thee when\nthou comest. It would be paying too dear for thy visit to ask for it.\nWhere my Friend lives there are all riches and every attraction, and no\nslight obstacle can keep me from him. Let me never have to tell thee\nwhat I have not to tell. Let our intercourse be wholly above ourselves,\nand draw us up to it.\n\nThe language of Friendship is not words, but meanings. It is an\nintelligence above language. One imagines endless conversations with\nhis Friend, in which the tongue shall be loosed, and thoughts be spoken\nwithout hesitancy or end; but the experience is commonly far otherwise.\nAcquaintances may come and go, and have a word ready for every\noccasion; but what puny word shall he utter whose very breath is\nthought and meaning? Suppose you go to bid farewell to your Friend who\nis setting out on a journey; what other outward sign do you know than\nto shake his hand? Have you any palaver ready for him then? any box of\nsalve to commit to his pocket? any particular message to send by him?\nany statement which you had forgotten to make?\u2014as if you could forget\nanything.\u2014No, it is much that you take his hand and say Farewell; that\nyou could easily omit; so far custom has prevailed. It is even painful,\nif he is to go, that he should linger so long. If he must go, let him\ngo quickly. Have you any _last_ words? Alas, it is only the word of\nwords, which you have so long sought and found not; _you_ have not a\n_first_ word yet. There are few even whom I should venture to call\nearnestly by their most proper names. A name pronounced is the\nrecognition of the individual to whom it belongs. He who can pronounce\nmy name aright, he can call me, and is entitled to my love and service.\nYet reserve is the freedom and abandonment of lovers. It is the reserve\nof what is hostile or indifferent in their natures, to give place to\nwhat is kindred and harmonious.\n\nThe violence of love is as much to be dreaded as that of hate. When it\nis durable it is serene and equable. Even its famous pains begin only\nwith the ebb of love, for few are indeed lovers, though all would fain\nbe. It is one proof of a man\u2019s fitness for Friendship that he is able\nto do without that which is cheap and passionate. A true Friendship is\nas wise as it is tender. The parties to it yield implicitly to the\nguidance of their love, and know no other law nor kindness. It is not\nextravagant and insane, but what it says is something established\nhenceforth, and will bear to be stereotyped. It is a truer truth, it is\nbetter and fairer news, and no time will ever shame it, or prove it\nfalse. This is a plant which thrives best in a temperate zone, where\nsummer and winter alternate with one another. The Friend is a\n_necessarius_, and meets his Friend on homely ground; not on carpets\nand cushions, but on the ground and on rocks they will sit, obeying the\nnatural and primitive laws. They will meet without any outcry, and part\nwithout loud sorrow. Their relation implies such qualities as the\nwarrior prizes; for it takes a valor to open the hearts of men as well\nas the gates of castles. It is not an idle sympathy and mutual\nconsolation merely, but a heroic sympathy of aspiration and endeavor.\n\n\u201cWhen manhood shall be matched so\n    That fear can take no place,\nThen weary _works_ make warriors\n    Each other to embrace.\u201d\n\n\nThe Friendship which Wawatam testified for Henry the fur-trader, as\ndescribed in the latter\u2019s \u201cAdventures,\u201d so almost bare and leafless,\nyet not blossomless nor fruitless, is remembered with satisfaction and\nsecurity. The stern, imperturbable warrior, after fasting, solitude,\nand mortification of body, comes to the white man\u2019s lodge, and affirms\nthat he is the white brother whom he saw in his dream, and adopts him\nhenceforth. He buries the hatchet as it regards his friend, and they\nhunt and feast and make maple-sugar together. \u201cMetals unite from\nfluxility; birds and beasts from motives of convenience; fools from\nfear and stupidity; and just men at sight.\u201d If Wawatam would taste the\n\u201cwhite man\u2019s milk\u201d with his tribe, or take his bowl of human broth made\nof the trader\u2019s fellow-countrymen, he first finds a place of safety for\nhis Friend, whom he has rescued from a similar fate. At length, after a\nlong winter of undisturbed and happy intercourse in the family of the\nchieftain in the wilderness, hunting and fishing, they return in the\nspring to Michilimackinac to dispose of their furs; and it becomes\nnecessary for Wawatam to take leave of his Friend at the Isle aux\nOutardes, when the latter, to avoid his enemies, proceeded to the Sault\nde Sainte Marie, supposing that they were to be separated for a short\ntime only. \u201cWe now exchanged farewells,\u201d says Henry, \u201cwith an emotion\nentirely reciprocal. I did not quit the lodge without the most grateful\nsense of the many acts of goodness which I had experienced in it, nor\nwithout the sincerest respect for the virtues which I had witnessed\namong its members. All the family accompanied me to the beach; and the\ncanoe had no sooner put off than Wawatam commenced an address to the\nKichi Manito, beseeching him to take care of me, his brother, till we\nshould next meet. We had proceeded to too great a distance to allow of\nour hearing his voice, before Wawatam had ceased to offer up his\nprayers.\u201d We never hear of him again.\n\nFriendship is not so kind as is imagined; it has not much human blood\nin it, but consists with a certain disregard for men and their\nerections, the Christian duties and humanities, while it purifies the\nair like electricity. There may be the sternest tragedy in the relation\nof two more than usually innocent and true to their highest instincts.\nWe may call it an essentially heathenish intercourse, free and\nirresponsible in its nature, and practising all the virtues\ngratuitously. It is not the highest sympathy merely, but a pure and\nlofty society, a fragmentary and godlike intercourse of ancient date,\nstill kept up at intervals, which, remembering itself, does not\nhesitate to disregard the humbler rights and duties of humanity. It\nrequires immaculate and godlike qualities full-grown, and exists at all\nonly by condescension and anticipation of the remotest future. We love\nnothing which is merely good and not fair, if such a thing is possible.\nNature puts some kind of blossom before every fruit, not simply a calyx\nbehind it. When the Friend comes out of his heathenism and\nsuperstition, and breaks his idols, being converted by the precepts of\na newer testament; when he forgets his mythology, and treats his Friend\nlike a Christian, or as he can afford; then Friendship ceases to be\nFriendship, and becomes charity; that principle which established the\nalmshouse is now beginning with its charity at home, and establishing\nan almshouse and pauper relations there.\n\nAs for the number which this society admits, it is at any rate to be\nbegun with one, the noblest and greatest that we know, and whether the\nworld will ever carry it further, whether, as Chaucer affirms,\n\n\u201cThere be mo sterres in the skie than a pair,\u201d\n\n\nremains to be proved;\n\n\u201cAnd certaine he is well begone\nAmong a thousand that findeth one.\u201d\n\n\nWe shall not surrender ourselves heartily to any while we are conscious\nthat another is more deserving of our love. Yet Friendship does not\nstand for numbers; the Friend does not count his Friends on his\nfingers; they are not numerable. The more there are included by this\nbond, if they are indeed included, the rarer and diviner the quality of\nthe love that binds them. I am ready to believe that as private and\nintimate a relation may exist by which three are embraced, as between\ntwo. Indeed, we cannot have too many friends; the virtue which we\nappreciate we to some extent appropriate, so that thus we are made at\nlast more fit for every relation of life. A base Friendship is of a\nnarrowing and exclusive tendency, but a noble one is not exclusive; its\nvery superfluity and dispersed love is the humanity which sweetens\nsociety, and sympathizes with foreign nations; for though its\nfoundations are private, it is, in effect, a public affair and a public\nadvantage, and the Friend, more than the father of a family, deserves\nwell of the state.\n\nThe only danger in Friendship is that it will end. It is a delicate\nplant, though a native. The least unworthiness, even if it be unknown\nto one\u2019s self, vitiates it. Let the Friend know that those faults which\nhe observes in his Friend his own faults attract. There is no rule more\ninvariable than that we are paid for our suspicions by finding what we\nsuspected. By our narrowness and prejudices we say, I will have so much\nand such of you, my Friend, no more. Perhaps there are none charitable,\nnone disinterested, none wise, noble, and heroic enough, for a true and\nlasting Friendship.\n\nI sometimes hear my Friends complain finely that I do not appreciate\ntheir fineness. I shall not tell them whether I do or not. As if they\nexpected a vote of thanks for every fine thing which they uttered or\ndid. Who knows but it was finely appreciated. It may be that your\nsilence was the finest thing of the two. There are some things which a\nman never speaks of, which are much finer kept silent about. To the\nhighest communications we only lend a silent ear. Our finest relations\nare not simply kept silent about, but buried under a positive depth of\nsilence never to be revealed. It may be that we are not even yet\nacquainted. In human intercourse the tragedy begins, not when there is\nmisunderstanding about words, but when silence is not understood. Then\nthere can never be an explanation. What avails it that another loves\nyou, if he does not understand you? Such love is a curse. What sort of\ncompanions are they who are presuming always that their silence is more\nexpressive than yours? How foolish, and inconsiderate, and unjust, to\nconduct as if you were the only party aggrieved! Has not your Friend\nalways equal ground of complaint? No doubt my Friends sometimes speak\nto me in vain, but they do not know what things I hear which they are\nnot aware that they have spoken. I know that I have frequently\ndisappointed them by not giving them words when they expected them, or\nsuch as they expected. Whenever I see my Friend I speak to him; but the\nexpecter, the man with the ears, is not he. They will complain too that\nyou are hard. O ye that would have the cocoa-nut wrong side outwards,\nwhen next I weep I will let you know. They ask for words and deeds,\nwhen a true relation is word and deed. If they know not of these\nthings, how can they be informed? We often forbear to confess our\nfeelings, not from pride, but for fear that we could not continue to\nlove the one who required us to give such proof of our affection.\n\nI know a woman who possesses a restless and intelligent mind,\ninterested in her own culture, and earnest to enjoy the highest\npossible advantages, and I meet her with pleasure as a natural person\nwho not a little provokes me, and I suppose is stimulated in turn by\nmyself. Yet our acquaintance plainly does not attain to that degree of\nconfidence and sentiment which women, which all, in fact, covet. I am\nglad to help her, as I am helped by her; I like very well to know her\nwith a sort of stranger\u2019s privilege, and hesitate to visit her often,\nlike her other Friends. My nature pauses here, I do not well know why.\nPerhaps she does not make the highest demand on me, a religious demand.\nSome, with whose prejudices or peculiar bias I have no sympathy, yet\ninspire me with confidence, and I trust that they confide in me also as\na religious heathen at least,\u2014a good Greek. I, too, have principles as\nwell founded as their own. If this person could conceive that, without\nwilfulness, I associate with her as far as our destinies are\ncoincident, as far as our Good Geniuses permit, and still value such\nintercourse, it would be a grateful assurance to me. I feel as if I\nappeared careless, indifferent, and without principle to her, not\nexpecting more, and yet not content with less. If she could know that I\nmake an infinite demand on myself, as well as on all others, she would\nsee that this true though incomplete intercourse, is infinitely better\nthan a more unreserved but falsely grounded one, without the principle\nof growth in it. For a companion, I require one who will make an equal\ndemand on me with my own genius. Such a one will always be rightly\ntolerant. It is suicide, and corrupts good manners to welcome any less\nthan this. I value and trust those who love and praise my aspiration\nrather than my performance. If you would not stop to look at me, but\nlook whither I am looking, and farther, then my education could not\ndispense with your company.\n\nMy love must be as free\n    As is the eagle\u2019s wing,\nHovering o\u2019er land and sea\n    And everything.\n\nI must not dim my eye\n    In thy saloon,\nI must not leave my sky\n    And nightly moon.\n\nBe not the fowler\u2019s net\n    Which stays my flight,\nAnd craftily is set\n    T\u2019allure the sight.\n\nBut be the favoring gale\n    That bears me on,\nAnd still doth fill my sail\n    When thou art gone.\n\nI cannot leave my sky\n    For thy caprice,\nTrue love would soar as high\n    As heaven is.\n\nThe eagle would not brook\n    Her mate thus won,\nWho trained his eye to look\n    Beneath the sun.\n\n\nFew things are more difficult than to help a Friend in matters which do\nnot require the aid of Friendship, but only a cheap and trivial\nservice, if your Friendship wants the basis of a thorough practical\nacquaintance. I stand in the friendliest relation, on social and\nspiritual grounds, to one who does not perceive what practical skill I\nhave, but when he seeks my assistance in such matters, is wholly\nignorant of that one with whom he deals; does not use my skill, which\nin such matters is much greater than his, but only my hands. I know\nanother, who, on the contrary, is remarkable for his discrimination in\nthis respect; who knows how to make use of the talents of others when\nhe does not possess the same; knows when not to look after or oversee,\nand stops short at his man. It is a rare pleasure to serve him, which\nall laborers know. I am not a little pained by the other kind of\ntreatment. It is as if, after the friendliest and most ennobling\nintercourse, your Friend should use you as a hammer, and drive a nail\nwith your head, all in good faith; notwithstanding that you are a\ntolerable carpenter, as well as his good Friend, and would use a hammer\ncheerfully in his service. This want of perception is a defect which\nall the virtues of the heart cannot supply:\u2014\n\nThe Good how can we trust?\nOnly the Wise are just.\nThe Good we use,\nThe Wise we cannot choose.\nThese there are none above;\nThe Good they know and love,\nBut are not known again\nBy those of lesser ken.\nThey do not charm us with their eyes,\nBut they transfix with their advice;\nNo partial sympathy they feel,\nWith private woe or private weal,\nBut with the universe joy and sigh,\nWhose knowledge is their sympathy.\n\n\nConfucius said: \u201cTo contract ties of Friendship with any one, is to\ncontract Friendship with his virtue. There ought not to be any other\nmotive in Friendship.\u201d But men wish us to contract Friendship with\ntheir vice also. I have a Friend who wishes me to see that to be right\nwhich I know to be wrong. But if Friendship is to rob me of my eyes, if\nit is to darken the day, I will have none of it. It should be expansive\nand inconceivably liberalizing in its effects. True Friendship can\nafford true knowledge. It does not depend on darkness and ignorance. A\nwant of discernment cannot be an ingredient in it. If I can see my\nFriend\u2019s virtues more distinctly than another\u2019s, his faults too are\nmade more conspicuous by contrast. We have not so good a right to hate\nany as our Friend. Faults are not the less faults because they are\ninvariably balanced by corresponding virtues, and for a fault there is\nno excuse, though it may appear greater than it is in many ways. I have\nnever known one who could bear criticism, who could not be flattered,\nwho would not bribe his judge, or was content that the truth should be\nloved always better than himself.\n\nIf two travellers would go their way harmoniously together, the one\nmust take as true and just a view of things as the other, else their\npath will not be strewn with roses. Yet you can travel profitably and\npleasantly even with a blind man, if he practises common courtesy, and\nwhen you converse about the scenery will remember that he is blind but\nthat you can see; and you will not forget that his sense of hearing is\nprobably quickened by his want of sight. Otherwise you will not long\nkeep company. A blind man, and a man in whose eyes there was no defect,\nwere walking together, when they came to the edge of a precipice. \u201cTake\ncare! my friend,\u201d said the latter, \u201chere is a steep precipice; go no\nfarther this way.\u201d\u2014\u201cI know better,\u201d said the other, and stepped off.\n\nIt is impossible to say all that we think, even to our truest Friend.\nWe may bid him farewell forever sooner than complain, for our complaint\nis too well grounded to be uttered. There is not so good an\nunderstanding between any two, but the exposure by the one of a serious\nfault in the other will produce a misunderstanding in proportion to its\nheinousness. The constitutional differences which always exist, and are\nobstacles to a perfect Friendship, are forever a forbidden theme to the\nlips of Friends. They advise by their whole behavior. Nothing can\nreconcile them but love. They are fatally late when they undertake to\nexplain and treat with one another like foes. Who will take an apology\nfor a Friend? They must apologize like dew and frost, which are off\nagain with the sun, and which all men know in their hearts to be\nbeneficent. The necessity itself for explanation,\u2014what explanation will\natone for that?\n\nTrue love does not quarrel for slight reasons, such mistakes as mutual\nacquaintances can explain away, but, alas, however slight the apparent\ncause, only for adequate and fatal and everlasting reasons, which can\nnever be set aside. Its quarrel, if there is any, is ever recurring,\nnotwithstanding the beams of affection which invariably come to gild\nits tears; as the rainbow, however beautiful and unerring a sign, does\nnot promise fair weather forever, but only for a season. I have known\ntwo or three persons pretty well, and yet I have never known advice to\nbe of use but in trivial and transient matters. One may know what\nanother does not, but the utmost kindness cannot impart what is\nrequisite to make the advice useful. We must accept or refuse one\nanother as we are. I could tame a hyena more easily than my Friend. He\nis a material which no tool of mine will work. A naked savage will fell\nan oak with a firebrand, and wear a hatchet out of a rock by friction,\nbut I cannot hew the smallest chip out of the character of my Friend,\neither to beautify or deform it.\n\nThe lover learns at last that there is no person quite transparent and\ntrustworthy, but every one has a devil in him that is capable of any\ncrime in the long run. Yet, as an Oriental philosopher has said,\n\u201cAlthough Friendship between good men is interrupted, their principles\nremain unaltered. The stalk of the lotus may be broken, and the fibres\nremain connected.\u201d\n\nIgnorance and bungling with love are better than wisdom and skill\nwithout. There may be courtesy, there may be even temper, and wit, and\ntalent, and sparkling conversation, there may be good-will even,\u2014and\nyet the humanest and divinest faculties pine for exercise. Our life\nwithout love is like coke and ashes. Men may be pure as alabaster and\nParian marble, elegant as a Tuscan villa, sublime as Niagara, and yet\nif there is no milk mingled with the wine at their entertainments,\nbetter is the hospitality of Goths and Vandals.\n\nMy Friend is not of some other race or family of men, but flesh of my\nflesh, bone of my bone. He is my real brother. I see his nature groping\nyonder so like mine. We do not live far apart. Have not the fates\nassociated us in many ways? It says, in the Vishnu Purana: \u201cSeven paces\ntogether is sufficient for the friendship of the virtuous, but thou and\nI have dwelt together.\u201d Is it of no significance that we have so long\npartaken of the same loaf, drank at the same fountain, breathed the\nsame air summer and winter, felt the same heat and cold; that the same\nfruits have been pleased to refresh us both, and we have never had a\nthought of different fibre the one from the other!\n\nNature doth have her dawn each day,\n    But mine are far between;\nContent, I cry, for sooth to say,\n    Mine brightest are I ween.\n\nFor when my sun doth deign to rise,\n    Though it be her noontide,\nHer fairest field in shadow lies,\n    Nor can my light abide.\n\nSometimes I bask me in her day,\n    Conversing with my mate,\nBut if we interchange one ray,\n    Forthwith her heats abate.\n\nThrough his discourse I climb and see,\n    As from some eastern hill,\nA brighter morrow rise to me\n    Than lieth in her skill.\n\nAs \u2019t were two summer days in one,\n    Two Sundays come together,\nOur rays united make one sun,\n    With fairest summer weather.\n\n\nAs surely as the sunset in my latest November shall translate me to the\nethereal world, and remind me of the ruddy morning of youth; as surely\nas the last strain of music which falls on my decaying ear shall make\nage to be forgotten, or, in short, the manifold influences of nature\nsurvive during the term of our natural life, so surely my Friend shall\nforever be my Friend, and reflect a ray of God to me, and time shall\nfoster and adorn and consecrate our Friendship, no less than the ruins\nof temples. As I love nature, as I love singing birds, and gleaming\nstubble, and flowing rivers, and morning and evening, and summer and\nwinter, I love thee, my Friend.\n\nBut all that can be said of Friendship, is like botany to flowers. How\ncan the understanding take account of its friendliness?\n\nEven the death of Friends will inspire us as much as their lives. They\nwill leave consolation to the mourners, as the rich leave money to\ndefray the expenses of their funerals, and their memories will be\nincrusted over with sublime and pleasing thoughts, as monuments of\nother men are overgrown with moss; for our Friends have no place in the\ngraveyard.\n\nThis to our cis-Alpine and cis-Atlantic Friends.\n\nAlso this other word of entreaty and advice to the large and\nrespectable nation of Acquaintances, beyond the mountains;\u2014Greeting.\n\nMy most serene and irresponsible neighbors, let us see that we have the\nwhole advantage of each other; we will be useful, at least, if not\nadmirable, to one another. I know that the mountains which separate us\nare high, and covered with perpetual snow, but despair not. Improve the\nserene winter weather to scale them. If need be, soften the rocks with\nvinegar. For here lie the verdant plains of Italy ready to receive you.\nNor shall I be slow on my side to penetrate to your Provence. Strike\nthen boldly at head or heart or any vital part. Depend upon it, the\ntimber is well seasoned and tough, and will bear rough usage; and if it\nshould crack, there is plenty more where it came from. I am no piece of\ncrockery that cannot be jostled against my neighbor without danger of\nbeing broken by the collision, and must needs ring false and jarringly\nto the end of my days, when once I am cracked; but rather one of the\nold-fashioned wooden trenchers, which one while stands at the head of\nthe table, and at another is a milking-stool, and at another a seat for\nchildren, and finally goes down to its grave not unadorned with\nhonorable scars, and does not die till it is worn out. Nothing can\nshock a brave man but dulness. Think how many rebuffs every man has\nexperienced in his day; perhaps has fallen into a horse-pond, eaten\nfresh-water clams, or worn one shirt for a week without washing.\nIndeed, you cannot receive a shock unless you have an electric affinity\nfor that which shocks you. Use me, then, for I am useful in my way, and\nstand as one of many petitioners, from toadstool and henbane up to\ndahlia and violet, supplicating to be put to my use, if by any means ye\nmay find me serviceable; whether for a medicated drink or bath, as balm\nand lavender; or for fragrance, as verbena and geranium; or for sight,\nas cactus; or for thoughts, as pansy. These humbler, at least, if not\nthose higher uses.\n\nAh, my dear Strangers and Enemies, I would not forget you. I can well\nafford to welcome you. Let me subscribe myself Yours ever and\ntruly,\u2014your much obliged servant. We have nothing to fear from our\nfoes; God keeps a standing army for that service; but we have no ally\nagainst our Friends, those ruthless Vandals.\n\nOnce more to one and all,\n\n\u201cFriends, Romans, Countrymen, and Lovers.\u201d\n\nLet such pure hate still underprop\nOur love, that we may be\nEach other\u2019s conscience.\nAnd have our sympathy\nMainly from thence.\n\nWe\u2019ll one another treat like gods,\nAnd all the faith we have\nIn virtue and in truth, bestow\nOn either, and suspicion leave\nTo gods below.\n\nTwo solitary stars,\u2014\nUnmeasured systems far\nBetween us roll,\nBut by our conscious light we are\nDetermined to one pole.\n\nWhat need confound the sphere,\u2014\nLove can afford to wait,\nFor it no hour\u2019s too late\nThat witnesseth one duty\u2019s end,\nOr to another doth beginning lend.\n\nIt will subserve no use,\nMore than the tints of flowers,\nOnly the independent guest\nFrequents its bowers,\nInherits its bequest.\n\nNo speech though kind has it,\nBut kinder silence doles\nUnto its mates,\nBy night consoles,\nBy day congratulates.\n\nWhat saith the tongue to tongue?\nWhat heareth ear of ear?\nBy the decrees of fate\nFrom year to year,\nDoes it communicate.\n\nPathless the gulf of feeling yawns,\u2014\nNo trivial bridge of words,\nOr arch of boldest span,\nCan leap the moat that girds\nThe sincere man.\n\nNo show of bolts and bars\nCan keep the foeman out,\nOr \u2019scape his secret mine\nWho entered with the doubt\nThat drew the line.\n\nNo warder at the gate\nCan let the friendly in,\nBut, like the sun, o\u2019er all\nHe will the castle win,\nAnd shine along the wall.\n\nThere\u2019s nothing in the world I know\nThat can escape from love,\nFor every depth it goes below,\nAnd every height above.\n\nIt waits as waits the sky,\nUntil the clouds go by,\nYet shines serenely on\nWith an eternal day,\nAlike when they are gone,\nAnd when they stay.\n\nImplacable is Love,\u2014\nFoes may be bought or teased\nFrom their hostile intent,\nBut he goes unappeased\nWho is on kindness bent.\n\n\nHaving rowed five or six miles above Amoskeag before sunset, and\nreached a pleasant part of the river, one of us landed to look for a\nfarm-house, where we might replenish our stores, while the other\nremained cruising about the stream, and exploring the opposite shores\nto find a suitable harbor for the night. In the mean while the\ncanal-boats began to come round a point in our rear, poling their way\nalong close to the shore, the breeze having quite died away. This time\nthere was no offer of assistance, but one of the boatmen only called\nout to say, as the truest revenge for having been the losers in the\nrace, that he had seen a wood-duck, which we had scared up, sitting on\na tall white-pine, half a mile down stream; and he repeated the\nassertion several times, and seemed really chagrined at the apparent\nsuspicion with which this information was received. But there sat the\nsummer duck still, undisturbed by us.\n\nBy and by the other voyageur returned from his inland expedition,\nbringing one of the natives with him, a little flaxen-headed boy, with\nsome tradition, or small edition, of Robinson Crusoe in his head, who\nhad been charmed by the account of our adventures, and asked his\nfather\u2019s leave to join us. He examined, at first from the top of the\nbank, our boat and furniture, with sparkling eyes, and wished himself\nalready his own man. He was a lively and interesting boy, and we should\nhave been glad to ship him; but Nathan was still his father\u2019s boy, and\nhad not come to years of discretion.\n\nWe had got a loaf of home-made bread, and musk and water melons for\ndessert. For this farmer, a clever and well-disposed man, cultivated a\nlarge patch of melons for the Hooksett and Concord markets. He\nhospitably entertained us the next day, exhibiting his hop-fields and\nkiln and melon-patch, warning us to step over the tight rope which\nsurrounded the latter at a foot from the ground, while he pointed to a\nlittle bower at one corner, where it connected with the lock of a gun\nranging with the line, and where, as he informed us, he sometimes sat\nin pleasant nights to defend his premises against thieves. We stepped\nhigh over the line, and sympathized with our host\u2019s on the whole quite\nhuman, if not humane, interest in the success of his experiment. That\nnight especially thieves were to be expected, from rumors in the\natmosphere, and the priming was not wet. He was a Methodist man, who\nhad his dwelling between the river and Uncannunuc Mountain; who there\nbelonged, and stayed at home there, and by the encouragement of distant\npolitical organizations, and by his own tenacity, held a property in\nhis melons, and continued to plant. We suggested melon-seeds of new\nvarieties and fruit of foreign flavor to be added to his stock. We had\ncome away up here among the hills to learn the impartial and unbribable\nbeneficence of Nature. Strawberries and melons grow as well in one\nman\u2019s garden as another\u2019s, and the sun lodges as kindly under his\nhillside,\u2014when we had imagined that she inclined rather to some few\nearnest and faithful souls whom we know.\n\nWe found a convenient harbor for our boat on the opposite or east\nshore, still in Hooksett, at the mouth of a small brook which emptied\ninto the Merrimack, where it would be out of the way of any passing\nboat in the night,\u2014for they commonly hug the shore if bound up stream,\neither to avoid the current, or touch the bottom with their poles,\u2014and\nwhere it would be accessible without stepping on the clayey shore. We\nset one of our largest melons to cool in the still water among the\nalders at the mouth of this creek, but when our tent was pitched and\nready, and we went to get it, it had floated out into the stream, and\nwas nowhere to be seen. So taking the boat in the twilight, we went in\npursuit of this property, and at length, after long straining of the\neyes, its green disk was discovered far down the river, gently floating\nseaward with many twigs and leaves from the mountains that evening, and\nso perfectly balanced that it had not keeled at all, and no water had\nrun in at the tap which had been taken out to hasten its cooling.\n\nAs we sat on the bank eating our supper, the clear light of the western\nsky fell on the eastern trees, and was reflected in the water, and we\nenjoyed so serene an evening as left nothing to describe. For the most\npart we think that there are few degrees of sublimity, and that the\nhighest is but little higher than that which we now behold; but we are\nalways deceived. Sublimer visions appear, and the former pale and fade\naway. We are grateful when we are reminded by interior evidence of the\npermanence of universal laws; for our faith is but faintly remembered,\nindeed, is not a remembered assurance, but a use and enjoyment of\nknowledge. It is when we do not have to believe, but come into actual\ncontact with Truth, and are related to her in the most direct and\nintimate way. Waves of serener life pass over us from time to time,\nlike flakes of sunlight over the fields in cloudy weather. In some\nhappier moment, when more sap flows in the withered stalk of our life,\nSyria and India stretch away from our present as they do in history.\nAll the events which make the annals of the nations are but the shadows\nof our private experiences. Suddenly and silently the eras which we\ncall history awake and glimmer in us, and _there_ is room for Alexander\nand Hannibal to march and conquer. In short, the history which we read\nis only a fainter memory of events which have happened in our own\nexperience. Tradition is a more interrupted and feebler memory.\n\nThis world is but canvas to our imaginations. I see men with infinite\npains endeavoring to realize to their bodies, what I, with at least\nequal pains, would realize to my imagination,\u2014its capacities; for\ncertainly there is a life of the mind above the wants of the body, and\nindependent of it. Often the body is warmed, but the imagination is\ntorpid; the body is fat, but the imagination is lean and shrunk. But\nwhat avails all other wealth if this is wanting? \u201cImagination is the\nair of mind,\u201d in which it lives and breathes. All things are as I am.\nWhere is the House of Change? The past is only so heroic as we see it.\nIt is the canvas on which our idea of heroism is painted, and so, in\none sense, the dim prospectus of our future field. Our circumstances\nanswer to our expectations and the demand of our natures. I have\nnoticed that if a man thinks that he needs a thousand dollars, and\ncannot be convinced that he does not, he will commonly be found to have\nthem; if he lives and thinks a thousand dollars will be forthcoming,\nthough it be to buy shoe-strings with. A thousand mills will be just as\nslow to come to one who finds it equally hard to convince himself that\nhe needs _them_.\n\nMen are by birth equal in this, that given\nThemselves and their condition, they are even.\n\n\nI am astonished at the singular pertinacity and endurance of our lives.\nThe miracle is, that what is _is_, when it is so difficult, if not\nimpossible, for anything else to be; that we walk on in our particular\npaths so far, before we fall on death and fate, merely because we must\nwalk in some path; that every man can get a living, and so few can do\nanything more. So much only can I accomplish ere health and strength\nare gone, and yet this suffices. The bird now sits just out of gunshot.\nI am never rich in money, and I am never meanly poor. If debts are\nincurred, why, debts are in the course of events cancelled, as it were\nby the same law by which they were incurred. I heard that an engagement\nwas entered into between a certain youth and a maiden, and then I heard\nthat it was broken off, but I did not know the reason in either case.\nWe are hedged about, we think, by accident and circumstance, now we\ncreep as in a dream, and now again we run, as if there were a fate in\nit, and all things thwarted or assisted. I cannot change my clothes but\nwhen I do, and yet I do change them, and soil the new ones. It is\nwonderful that this gets done, when some admirable deeds which I could\nmention do not get done. Our particular lives seem of such fortune and\nconfident strength and durability as piers of solid rock thrown forward\ninto the tide of circumstance. When every other path would fail, with\nsingular and unerring confidence we advance on our particular course.\nWhat risks we run! famine and fire and pestilence, and the thousand\nforms of a cruel fate,\u2014and yet every man lives till he\u2014dies. How did he\nmanage that? Is there no immediate danger? We wonder superfluously when\nwe hear of a somnambulist walking a plank securely,\u2014we have walked a\nplank all our lives up to this particular string-piece where we are. My\nlife will wait for nobody, but is being matured still without delay,\nwhile I go about the streets, and chaffer with this man and that to\nsecure it a living. It is as indifferent and easy meanwhile as a poor\nman\u2019s dog, and making acquaintance with its kind. It will cut its own\nchannel like a mountain stream, and by the longest ridge is not kept\nfrom the sea at last. I have found all things thus far, persons and\ninanimate matter, elements and seasons, strangely adapted to my\nresources. No matter what imprudent haste in my career; I am permitted\nto be rash. Gulfs are bridged in a twinkling, as if some unseen\nbaggage-train carried pontoons for my convenience, and while from the\nheights I scan the tempting but unexplored Pacific Ocean of Futurity,\nthe ship is being carried over the mountains piecemeal on the backs of\nmules and lamas, whose keel shall plough its waves, and bear me to the\nIndies. Day would not dawn if it were not for\n\nTHE INWARD MORNING\n\n\nPacked in my mind lie all the clothes\n    Which outward nature wears,\nAnd in its fashion\u2019s hourly change\n    It all things else repairs.\n\nIn vain I look for change abroad,\n    And can no difference find,\nTill some new ray of peace uncalled\n    Illumes my inmost mind.\n\nWhat is it gilds the trees and clouds,\n    And paints the heavens so gay,\nBut yonder fast-abiding light\n    With its unchanging ray?\n\nLo, when the sun streams through the wood,\n    Upon a winter\u2019s morn,\nWhere\u2019er his silent beams intrude,\n    The murky night is gone.\n\nHow could the patient pine have known\n    The morning breeze would come,\nOr humble flowers anticipate\n    The insect\u2019s noonday hum,\u2014\n\nTill the new light with morning cheer\n    From far streamed through the aisles,\nAnd nimbly told the forest trees\n    For many stretching miles?\n\nI\u2019ve heard within my inmost soul\n    Such cheerful morning news,\nIn the horizon of my mind\n    Have seen such orient hues,\n\nAs in the twilight of the dawn,\n    When the first birds awake,\nAre heard within some silent wood,\n    Where they the small twigs break,\n\nOr in the eastern skies are seen,\n    Before the sun appears,\nThe harbingers of summer heats\n    Which from afar he bears.\n\n\nWhole weeks and months of my summer life slide away in thin volumes\nlike mist and smoke, till at length, some warm morning, perchance, I\nsee a sheet of mist blown down the brook to the swamp, and I float as\nhigh above the fields with it. I can recall to mind the stillest summer\nhours, in which the grasshopper sings over the mulleins, and there is a\nvalor in that time the bare memory of which is armor that can laugh at\nany blow of fortune. For our lifetime the strains of a harp are heard\nto swell and die alternately, and death is but \u201cthe pause when the\nblast is recollecting itself.\u201d\n\nWe lay awake a long while, listening to the murmurs of the brook, in\nthe angle formed by whose bank with the river our tent was pitched, and\nthere was a sort of human interest in its story, which ceases not in\nfreshet or in drought the livelong summer, and the profounder lapse of\nthe river was quite drowned by its din. But the rill, whose\n\n\u201cSilver sands and pebbles sing\nEternal ditties with the spring,\u201d\n\n\nis silenced by the first frosts of winter, while mightier streams, on\nwhose bottom the sun never shines, clogged with sunken rocks and the\nruins of forests, from whose surface comes up no murmur, are strangers\nto the icy fetters which bind fast a thousand contributary rills.\n\nI dreamed this night of an event which had occurred long before. It was\na difference with a Friend, which had not ceased to give me pain,\nthough I had no cause to blame myself. But in my dream ideal justice\nwas at length done me for his suspicions, and I received that\ncompensation which I had never obtained in my waking hours. I was\nunspeakably soothed and rejoiced, even after I awoke, because in dreams\nwe never deceive ourselves, nor are deceived, and this seemed to have\nthe authority of a final judgment.\n\nWe bless and curse ourselves. Some dreams are divine, as well as some\nwaking thoughts. Donne sings of one\n\n\u201cWho dreamt devoutlier than most use to pray.\u201d\n\n\nDreams are the touchstones of our characters. We are scarcely less\nafflicted when we remember some unworthiness in our conduct in a dream,\nthan if it had been actual, and the intensity of our grief, which is\nour atonement, measures the degree by which this is separated from an\nactual unworthiness. For in dreams we but act a part which must have\nbeen learned and rehearsed in our waking hours, and no doubt could\ndiscover some waking consent thereto. If this meanness had not its\nfoundation in us, why are we grieved at it? In dreams we see ourselves\nnaked and acting out our real characters, even more clearly than we see\nothers awake. But an unwavering and commanding virtue would compel even\nits most fantastic and faintest dreams to respect its ever-wakeful\nauthority; as we are accustomed to say carelessly, we should never have\n_dreamed_ of such a thing. Our truest life is when we are in dreams\nawake.\n\n\u201cAnd, more to lulle him in his slumber soft,\nA trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe,\nAnd ever-drizzling raine upon the loft,\nMixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne\nOf swarming bees, did cast him in a swowne.\nNo other noyse, nor people\u2019s troublous cryes,\nAs still are wont t\u2019 annoy the walled towne,\nMight there be heard; but careless Quiet lyes\nWrapt in eternall silence farre from enemyes.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHURSDAY\n\n\n\u201cHe trode the unplanted forest floor, whereon\nThe all-seeing sun for ages hath not shone,\nWhere feeds the moose, and walks the surly bear,\nAnd up the tall mast runs the woodpecker.\n     *     *     *     *     *\nWhere darkness found him he lay glad at night;\nThere the red morning touched him with its light.\n     *     *     *     *     *\nGo where he will, the wise man is at home,\nHis hearth the earth,\u2014his hall the azure dome;\nWhere his clear spirit leads him, there\u2019s his road,\nBy God\u2019s own light illumined and foreshowed.\u201d\n\nEMERSON.\n\nWhen we awoke this morning, we heard the faint, deliberate, and ominous\nsound of rain-drops on our cotton roof. The rain had pattered all\nnight, and now the whole country wept, the drops falling in the river,\nand on the alders, and in the pastures, and instead of any bow in the\nheavens, there was the trill of the hair-bird all the morning. The\ncheery faith of this little bird atoned for the silence of the whole\nwoodland choir beside. When we first stepped abroad, a flock of sheep,\nled by their rams, came rushing down a ravine in our rear, with\nheedless haste and unreserved frisking, as if unobserved by man, from\nsome higher pasture where they had spent the night, to taste the\nherbage by the river-side; but when their leaders caught sight of our\nwhite tent through the mist, struck with sudden astonishment, with\ntheir fore-feet braced, they sustained the rushing torrent in their\nrear, and the whole flock stood stock-still, endeavoring to solve the\nmystery in their sheepish brains. At length, concluding that it boded\nno mischief to them, they spread themselves out quietly over the field.\nWe learned afterward that we had pitched our tent on the very spot\nwhich a few summers before had been occupied by a party of Penobscots.\nWe could see rising before us through the mist a dark conical eminence\ncalled Hooksett Pinnacle, a landmark to boatmen, and also Uncannunuc\nMountain, broad off on the west side of the river.\n\nThis was the limit of our voyage, for a few hours more in the rain\nwould have taken us to the last of the locks, and our boat was too\nheavy to be dragged around the long and numerous rapids which would\noccur. On foot, however, we continued up along the bank, feeling our\nway with a stick through the showery and foggy day, and climbing over\nthe slippery logs in our path with as much pleasure and buoyancy as in\nbrightest sunshine; scenting the fragrance of the pines and the wet\nclay under our feet, and cheered by the tones of invisible waterfalls;\nwith visions of toadstools, and wandering frogs, and festoons of moss\nhanging from the spruce-trees, and thrushes flitting silent under the\nleaves; our road still holding together through that wettest of\nweather, like faith, while we confidently followed its lead. We managed\nto keep our thoughts dry, however, and only our clothes were wet. It\nwas altogether a cloudy and drizzling day, with occasional brightenings\nin the mist, when the trill of the tree-sparrow seemed to be ushering\nin sunny hours.\n\n\u201cNothing that naturally happens to man can _hurt_ him, earthquakes and\nthunder-storms not excepted,\u201d said a man of genius, who at this time\nlived a few miles farther on our road. When compelled by a shower to\ntake shelter under a tree, we may improve that opportunity for a more\nminute inspection of some of Nature\u2019s works. I have stood under a tree\nin the woods half a day at a time, during a heavy rain in the summer,\nand yet employed myself happily and profitably there prying with\nmicroscopic eye into the crevices of the bark or the leaves or the\nfungi at my feet. \u201cRiches are the attendants of the miser; and the\nheavens rain plenteously upon the mountains.\u201d I can fancy that it would\nbe a luxury to stand up to one\u2019s chin in some retired swamp a whole\nsummer day, scenting the wild honeysuckle and bilberry blows, and\nlulled by the minstrelsy of gnats and mosquitoes! A day passed in the\nsociety of those Greek sages, such as described in the Banquet of\nXenophon, would not be comparable with the dry wit of decayed cranberry\nvines, and the fresh Attic salt of the moss-beds. Say twelve hours of\ngenial and familiar converse with the leopard frog; the sun to rise\nbehind alder and dogwood, and climb buoyantly to his meridian of two\nhands\u2019 breadth, and finally sink to rest behind some bold western\nhummock. To hear the evening chant of the mosquito from a thousand\ngreen chapels, and the bittern begin to boom from some concealed fort\nlike a sunset gun!\u2014Surely one may as profitably be soaked in the juices\nof a swamp for one day as pick his way dry-shod over sand. Cold and\ndamp,\u2014are they not as rich experience as warmth and dryness?\n\nAt present, the drops come trickling down the stubble while we lie\ndrenched on a bed of withered wild oats, by the side of a bushy hill,\nand the gathering in of the clouds, with the last rush and dying breath\nof the wind, and then the regular dripping of twigs and leaves the\ncountry over, enhance the sense of inward comfort and sociableness. The\nbirds draw closer and are more familiar under the thick foliage,\nseemingly composing new strains upon their roosts against the sunshine.\nWhat were the amusements of the drawing-room and the library in\ncomparison, if we had them here? We should still sing as of old,\u2014\n\nMy books I\u2019d fain cast off, I cannot read,\n\u2019Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large\nDown in the meadow, where is richer feed,\nAnd will not mind to hit their proper targe.\n\nPlutarch was good, and so was Homer too,\nOur Shakespeare\u2019s life were rich to live again,\nWhat Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,\nNor Shakespeare\u2019s books, unless his books were men.\n\nHere while I lie beneath this walnut bough,\nWhat care I for the Greeks or for Troy town,\nIf juster battles are enacted now\nBetween the ants upon this hummock\u2019s crown?\n\nBid Homer wait till I the issue learn,\nIf red or black the gods will favor most,\nOr yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn,\nStruggling to heave some rock against the host.\n\nTell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour,\nFor now I\u2019ve business with this drop of dew,\nAnd see you not, the clouds prepare a shower,\u2014\nI\u2019ll meet him shortly when the sky is blue.\n\nThis bed of herd\u2019s-grass and wild oats was spread\nLast year with nicer skill than monarchs use,\nA clover tuft is pillow for my head,\nAnd violets quite overtop my shoes.\n\nAnd now the cordial clouds have shut all in\nAnd gently swells the wind to say all\u2019s well\nThe scattered drops are falling fast and thin,\nSome in the pool, some in the flower-bell.\n\nI am well drenched upon my bed of oats;\nBut see that globe come rolling down its stem\nNow like a lonely planet there it floats,\nAnd now it sinks into my garment\u2019s hem.\n\nDrip drip the trees for all the country round,\nAnd richness rare distils from every bough,\nThe wind alone it is makes every sound,\nShaking down crystals on the leaves below.\n\nFor shame the sun will never show himself,\nWho could not with his beams e\u2019er melt me so,\nMy dripping locks,\u2014they would become an elf,\nWho in a beaded coat does gayly go.\n\n\nThe Pinnacle is a small wooded hill which rises very abruptly to the\nheight of about two hundred feet, near the shore at Hooksett Falls. As\nUncannunuc Mountain is perhaps the best point from which to view the\nvalley of the Merrimack, so this hill affords the best view of the\nriver itself. I have sat upon its summit, a precipitous rock only a few\nrods long, in fairer weather, when the sun was setting and filling the\nriver valley with a flood of light. You can see up and down the\nMerrimack several miles each way. The broad and straight river, full of\nlight and life, with its sparkling and foaming falls, the islet which\ndivides the stream, the village of Hooksett on the shore almost\ndirectly under your feet, so near that you can converse with its\ninhabitants or throw a stone into its yards, the woodland lake at its\nwestern base, and the mountains in the north and northeast, make a\nscene of rare beauty and completeness, which the traveller should take\npains to behold.\n\nWe were hospitably entertained in Concord, New Hampshire, which we\npersisted in calling _New_ Concord, as we had been wont, to distinguish\nit from our native town, from which we had been told that it was named\nand in part originally settled. This would have been the proper place\nto conclude our voyage, uniting Concord with Concord by these\nmeandering rivers, but our boat was moored some miles below its port.\n\nThe richness of the intervals at Penacook, now Concord, New Hampshire,\nhad been observed by explorers, and, according to the historian of\nHaverhill, in the\n\n\u201cyear 1726, considerable progress was made in the settlement, and a\nroad was cut through the wilderness from Haverhill to Penacook. In the\nfall of 1727, the first family, that of Captain Ebenezer Eastman, moved\ninto the place. His team was driven by Jacob Shute, who was by birth a\nFrenchman, and he is said to have been the first person who drove a\nteam through the wilderness. Soon after, says tradition, one Ayer, a\nlad of 18, drove a team consisting of ten yoke of oxen to Penacook,\nswam the river, and ploughed a portion of the interval. He is supposed\nto have been the first person who ploughed land in that place. After he\nhad completed his work, he started on his return at sunrise, drowned a\nyoke of oxen while recrossing the river, and arrived at Haverhill about\nmidnight. The crank of the first saw-mill was manufactured in\nHaverhill, and carried to Penacook on a horse.\u201d\n\nBut we found that the frontiers were not this way any longer. This\ngeneration has come into the world fatally late for some enterprises.\nGo where we will on the _surface_ of things, men have been there before\nus. We cannot now have the pleasure of erecting the _last_ house; that\nwas long ago set up in the suburbs of Astoria City, and our boundaries\nhave literally been run to the South Sea, according to the old patents.\nBut the lives of men, though more extended laterally in their range,\nare still as shallow as ever. Undoubtedly, as a Western orator said,\n\u201cMen generally live over about the same surface; some live long and\nnarrow, and others live broad and short\u201d; but it is all superficial\nliving. A worm is as good a traveller as a grasshopper or a cricket,\nand a much wiser settler. With all their activity these do not hop away\nfrom drought nor forward to summer. We do not avoid evil by fleeing\nbefore it, but by rising above or diving below its plane; as the worm\nescapes drought and frost by boring a few inches deeper. The frontiers\nare not east or west, north or south, but wherever a man _fronts_ a\nfact, though that fact be his neighbor, there is an unsettled\nwilderness between him and Canada, between him and the setting sun, or,\nfarther still, between him and _it_. Let him build himself a log-house\nwith the bark on where he is, _fronting_ IT, and wage there an Old\nFrench war for seven or seventy years, with Indians and Rangers, or\nwhatever else may come between him and the reality, and save his scalp\nif he can.\n\nWe now no longer sailed or floated on the river, but trod the\nunyielding land like pilgrims. Sadi tells who may travel; among others,\n\u201cA common mechanic, who can earn a subsistence by the industry of his\nhand, and shall not have to stake his reputation for every morsel of\nbread, as philosophers have said.\u201d He may travel who can subsist on the\nwild fruits and game of the most cultivated country. A man may travel\nfast enough and earn his living on the road. I have at times been\napplied to to do work when on a journey; to do tinkering and repair\nclocks, when I had a knapsack on my back. A man once applied to me to\ngo into a factory, stating conditions and wages, observing that I\nsucceeded in shutting the window of a railroad car in which we were\ntravelling, when the other passengers had failed. \u201cHast thou not heard\nof a Sufi, who was hammering some nails into the sole of his sandal; an\nofficer of cavalry took him by the sleeve, saying, Come along and shoe\nmy horse.\u201d Farmers have asked me to assist them in haying, when I was\npassing their fields. A man once applied to me to mend his umbrella,\ntaking me for an umbrella-mender, because, being on a journey, I\ncarried an umbrella in my hand while the sun shone. Another wished to\nbuy a tin cup of me, observing that I had one strapped to my belt, and\na sauce-pan on my back. The cheapest way to travel, and the way to\ntravel the farthest in the shortest distance, is to go afoot, carrying\na dipper, a spoon, and a fish-line, some Indian meal, some salt, and\nsome sugar. When you come to a brook or pond, you can catch fish and\ncook them; or you can boil a hasty-pudding; or you can buy a loaf of\nbread at a farmer\u2019s house for fourpence, moisten it in the next brook\nthat crosses the road, and dip into it your sugar,\u2014this alone will last\nyou a whole day;\u2014or, if you are accustomed to heartier living, you can\nbuy a quart of milk for two cents, crumb your bread or cold pudding\ninto it, and eat it with your own spoon out of your own dish. Any one\nof these things I mean, not all together. I have travelled thus some\nhundreds of miles without taking any meal in a house, sleeping on the\nground when convenient, and found it cheaper, and in many respects more\nprofitable, than staying at home. So that some have inquired why it\nwould not be best to travel always. But I never thought of travelling\nsimply as a means of getting a livelihood. A simple woman down in\nTyngsborough, at whose house I once stopped to get a draught of water,\nwhen I said, recognizing the bucket, that I had stopped there nine\nyears before for the same purpose, asked if I was not a traveller,\nsupposing that I had been travelling ever since, and had now come round\nagain; that travelling was one of the professions, more or less\nproductive, which her husband did not follow. But continued travelling\nis far from productive. It begins with wearing away the soles of the\nshoes, and making the feet sore, and erelong it will wear a man clean\nup, after making his heart sore into the bargain. I have observed that\nthe after-life of those who have travelled much is very pathetic. True\nand sincere travelling is no pastime, but it is as serious as the\ngrave, or any part of the human journey, and it requires a long\nprobation to be broken into it. I do not speak of those that travel\nsitting, the sedentary travellers whose legs hang dangling the while,\nmere idle symbols of the fact, any more than when we speak of sitting\nhens we mean those that sit standing, but I mean those to whom\ntravelling is life for the legs, and death too, at last. The traveller\nmust be born again on the road, and earn a passport from the elements,\nthe principal powers that be for him. He shall experience at last that\nold threat of his mother fulfilled, that he shall be skinned alive. His\nsores shall gradually deepen themselves that they may heal inwardly,\nwhile he gives no rest to the sole of his foot, and at night weariness\nmust be his pillow, that so he may acquire experience against his rainy\ndays.\u2014So was it with us.\n\nSometimes we lodged at an inn in the woods, where trout-fishers from\ndistant cities had arrived before us, and where, to our astonishment,\nthe settlers dropped in at nightfall to have a chat and hear the news,\nthough there was but one road, and no other house was visible,\u2014as if\nthey had come out of the earth. There we sometimes read old newspapers,\nwho never before read new ones, and in the rustle of their leaves heard\nthe dashing of the surf along the Atlantic shore, instead of the sough\nof the wind among the pines. But then walking had given us an appetite\neven for the least palatable and nutritious food.\n\nSome hard and dry book in a dead language, which you have found it\nimpossible to read at home, but for which you have still a lingering\nregard, is the best to carry with you on a journey. At a country inn,\nin the barren society of ostlers and travellers, I could undertake the\nwriters of the silver or the brazen age with confidence. Almost the\nlast regular service which I performed in the cause of literature was\nto read the works of\n\nAULUS PERSIUS FLACCUS.\n\n\nIf you have imagined what a divine work is spread out for the poet, and\napproach this author too, in the hope of finding the field at length\nfairly entered on, you will hardly dissent from the words of the\nprologue,\n\n            \u201cIpse semipaganus\nAd sacra Vatum carmen affero nostrum.\u201d\n\n            I half pagan\nBring my verses to the shrine of the poets.\n\n\nHere is none of the interior dignity of Virgil, nor the elegance and\nvivacity of Horace, nor will any sibyl be needed to remind you, that\nfrom those older Greek poets there is a sad descent to Persius. You can\nscarcely distinguish one harmonious sound amid this unmusical bickering\nwith the follies of men.\n\nOne sees that music has its place in thought, but hardly as yet in\nlanguage. When the Muse arrives, we wait for her to remould language,\nand impart to it her own rhythm. Hitherto the verse groans and labors\nwith its load, and goes not forward blithely, singing by the way. The\nbest ode may be parodied, indeed is itself a parody, and has a poor and\ntrivial sound, like a man stepping on the rounds of a ladder. Homer and\nShakespeare and Milton and Marvell and Wordsworth are but the rustling\nof leaves and crackling of twigs in the forest, and there is not yet\nthe sound of any bird. The Muse has never lifted up her voice to sing.\nMost of all, satire will not be sung. A Juvenal or Persius do not marry\nmusic to their verse, but are measured fault-finders at best; stand but\njust outside the faults they condemn, and so are concerned rather about\nthe monster which they have escaped, than the fair prospect before\nthem. Let them live on an age, and they will have travelled out of his\nshadow and reach, and found other objects to ponder.\n\nAs long as there is satire, the poet is, as it were, _particeps\ncriminis_. One sees not but he had best let bad take care of itself,\nand have to do only with what is beyond suspicion. If you light on the\nleast vestige of truth, and it is the weight of the whole body still\nwhich stamps the faintest trace, an eternity will not suffice to extol\nit, while no evil is so huge, but you grudge to bestow on it a moment\nof hate. Truth never turns to rebuke falsehood; her own\nstraightforwardness is the severest correction. Horace would not have\nwritten satire so well if he had not been inspired by it, as by a\npassion, and fondly cherished his vein. In his odes, the love always\nexceeds the hate, so that the severest satire still sings itself, and\nthe poet is satisfied, though the folly be not corrected.\n\nA sort of necessary order in the development of Genius is, first,\nComplaint; second, Plaint; third, Love. Complaint, which is the\ncondition of Persius, lies not in the province of poetry. Erelong the\nenjoyment of a superior good would have changed his disgust into\nregret. We can never have much sympathy with the complainer; for after\nsearching nature through, we conclude that he must be both plaintiff\nand defendant too, and so had best come to a settlement without a\nhearing. He who receives an injury is to some extent an accomplice of\nthe wrong-doer.\n\nPerhaps it would be truer to say, that the highest strain of the muse\nis essentially plaintive. The saint\u2019s are still _tears_ of joy. Who has\never heard the _Innocent_ sing?\n\nBut the divinest poem, or the life of a great man, is the severest\nsatire; as impersonal as Nature herself, and like the sighs of her\nwinds in the woods, which convey ever a slight reproof to the hearer.\nThe greater the genius, the keener the edge of the satire.\n\nHence we have to do only with the rare and fragmentary traits, which\nleast belong to Persius, or shall we say, are the properest utterances\nof his muse; since that which he says best at any time is what he can\nbest say at all times. The Spectators and Ramblers have not failed to\ncull some quotable sentences from this garden too, so pleasant is it to\nmeet even the most familiar truth in a new dress, when, if our neighbor\nhad said it, we should have passed it by as hackneyed. Out of these six\nsatires, you may perhaps select some twenty lines, which fit so well as\nmany thoughts, that they will recur to the scholar almost as readily as\na natural image; though when translated into familiar language, they\nlose that insular emphasis, which fitted them for quotation. Such lines\nas the following, translation cannot render commonplace. Contrasting\nthe man of true religion with those who, with jealous privacy, would\nfain carry on a secret commerce with the gods, he says:\u2014\n\n\u201cHaud cuivis promptum est, murmurque humilesque susurros\nTollere de templis; et aperto vivere voto.\u201d\n\nIt is not easy for every one to take murmurs and low\nWhispers out of the temples, and live with open vow.\n\n\nTo the virtuous man, the universe is the only _sanctum sanctorum_, and\nthe penetralia of the temple are the broad noon of his existence. Why\nshould he betake himself to a subterranean crypt, as if it were the\nonly holy ground in all the world which he had left unprofaned? The\nobedient soul would only the more discover and familiarize things, and\nescape more and more into light and air, as having henceforth done with\nsecrecy, so that the universe shall not seem open enough for it. At\nlength, it is neglectful even of that silence which is consistent with\ntrue modesty, but by its independence of all confidence in its\ndisclosures, makes that which it imparts so private to the hearer, that\nit becomes the care of the whole world that modesty be not infringed.\n\nTo the man who cherishes a secret in his breast, there is a still\ngreater secret unexplored. Our most indifferent acts may be matter for\nsecrecy, but whatever we do with the utmost truthfulness and integrity,\nby virtue of its pureness, must be transparent as light.\n\nIn the third satire, he asks:\u2014\n\n\u201cEst aliquid qu\u00f2 tendis, et in quod dirigis arcum?\nAn passim sequeris corvos, test\u00e2ve, lutove,\nSecurus qu\u00f2 pes ferat, atque ex tempore vivis?\u201d\n\nIs there anything to which thou tendest, and against which thou\ndirectest thy bow?\nOr dost thou pursue crows, at random, with pottery or clay,\nCareless whither thy feet bear thee, and live _ex tempore_?\n\n\nThe bad sense is always a secondary one. Language does not appear to\nhave justice done it, but is obviously cramped and narrowed in its\nsignificance, when any meanness is described. The truest construction\nis not put upon it. What may readily be fashioned into a rule of\nwisdom, is here thrown in the teeth of the sluggard, and constitutes\nthe front of his offence. Universally, the innocent man will come forth\nfrom the sharpest inquisition and lecturing, the combined din of\nreproof and commendation, with a faint sound of eulogy in his ears. Our\nvices always lie in the direction of our virtues, and in their best\nestate are but plausible imitations of the latter. Falsehood never\nattains to the dignity of entire falseness, but is only an inferior\nsort of truth; if it were more thoroughly false, it would incur danger\nof becoming true.\n\n\u201cSecurus quo pes ferat, atque ex tempore _vivit_,\u201d\n\n\nis then the motto of a wise man. For first, as the subtle discernment\nof the language would have taught us, with all his negligence he is\nstill secure; but the sluggard, notwithstanding his heedlessness, is\ninsecure.\n\nThe life of a wise man is most of all extemporaneous, for he lives out\nof an eternity which includes all time. The cunning mind travels\nfurther back than Zoroaster each instant, and comes quite down to the\npresent with its revelation. The utmost thrift and industry of thinking\ngive no man any stock in life; his credit with the inner world is no\nbetter, his capital no larger. He must try his fortune again to-day as\nyesterday. All questions rely on the present for their solution. Time\nmeasures nothing but itself. The word that is written may be postponed,\nbut not that on the lip. If this is what the occasion says, let the\noccasion say it. All the world is forward to prompt him who gets up to\nlive without his creed in his pocket.\n\nIn the fifth satire, which is the best, I find,\u2014\n\n\u201cStat contr\u00e0 ratio, et secretam garrit in aurem,\nNe liceat facere id, quod quis vitiabit agendo.\u201d\n\nReason opposes, and whispers in the secret ear,\nThat it is not lawful to do that which one will spoil by doing.\n\n\nOnly they who do not see how anything might be better done are forward\nto try their hand on it. Even the master workman must be encouraged by\nthe reflection, that his awkwardness will be incompetent to do that\nthing harm, to which his skill may fail to do justice. Here is no\napology for neglecting to do many things from a sense of our\nincapacity,\u2014for what deed does not fall maimed and imperfect from our\nhands?\u2014but only a warning to bungle less.\n\nThe satires of Persius are the furthest possible from inspired;\nevidently a chosen, not imposed subject. Perhaps I have given him\ncredit for more earnestness than is apparent; but it is certain, that\nthat which alone we can call Persius, which is forever independent and\nconsistent, _was_ in earnest, and so sanctions the sober consideration\nof all. The artist and his work are not to be separated. The most\nwilfully foolish man cannot stand aloof from his folly, but the deed\nand the doer together make ever one sober fact. There is but one stage\nfor the peasant and the actor. The buffoon cannot bribe you to laugh\nalways at his grimaces; they shall sculpture themselves in Egyptian\ngranite, to stand heavy as the pyramids on the ground of his character.\n\nSuns rose and set and found us still on the dank forest path which\nmeanders up the Pemigewasset, now more like an otter\u2019s or a marten\u2019s\ntrail, or where a beaver had dragged his trap, than where the wheels of\ntravel raise a dust; where towns begin to serve as gores, only to hold\nthe earth together. The wild pigeon sat secure above our heads, high on\nthe dead limbs of naval pines, reduced to a robin\u2019s size. The very\nyards of our hostelries inclined upon the skirts of mountains, and, as\nwe passed, we looked up at a steep angle at the stems of maples waving\nin the clouds.\n\nFar up in the country,\u2014for we would be faithful to our experience,\u2014in\nThornton, perhaps, we met a soldier lad in the woods, going to muster\nin full regimentals, and holding the middle of the road; deep in the\nforest, with shouldered musket and military step, and thoughts of war\nand glory all to himself. It was a sore trial to the youth, tougher\nthan many a battle, to get by us creditably and with soldierlike\nbearing. Poor man! He actually shivered like a reed in his thin\nmilitary pants, and by the time we had got up with him, all the\nsternness that becomes the soldier had forsaken his face, and he\nskulked past as if he were driving his father\u2019s sheep under a\nsword-proof helmet. It was too much for him to carry any extra armor\nthen, who could not easily dispose of his natural arms. And for his\nlegs, they were like heavy artillery in boggy places; better to cut the\ntraces and forsake them. His greaves chafed and wrestled one with\nanother for want of other foes. But he did get by and get off with all\nhis munitions, and lived to fight another day; and I do not record this\nas casting any suspicion on his honor and real bravery in the field.\n\nWandering on through notches which the streams had made, by the side\nand over the brows of hoar hills and mountains, across the stumpy,\nrocky, forested, and bepastured country, we at length crossed on\nprostrate trees over the Amonoosuck, and breathed the free air of\nUnappropriated Land. Thus, in fair days as well as foul, we had traced\nup the river to which our native stream is a tributary, until from\nMerrimack it became the Pemigewasset that leaped by our side, and when\nwe had passed its fountain-head, the Wild Amonoosuck, whose puny\nchannel was crossed at a stride, guiding us toward its distant source\namong the mountains, and at length, without its guidance, we were\nenabled to reach the summit of AGIOCOCHOOK.\n\n\u201cSweet days, so cool, so calm, so bright,\nThe bridal of the earth and sky,\nSweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night,\n            For thou must die.\u201d\n\n\nHERBERT.\n\n\nWhen we returned to Hooksett, a week afterward, the melon man, in whose\ncorn-barn we had hung our tent and buffaloes and other things to dry,\nwas already picking his hops, with many women and children to help him.\nWe bought one watermelon, the largest in his patch, to carry with us\nfor ballast. It was Nathan\u2019s, which he might sell if he wished, having\nbeen conveyed to him in the green state, and owned daily by his eyes.\nAfter due consultation with \u201cFather,\u201d the bargain was concluded,\u2014we to\nbuy it at a venture on the vine, green or ripe, our risk, and pay \u201cwhat\nthe gentlemen pleased.\u201d It proved to be ripe; for we had had honest\nexperience in selecting this fruit.\n\nFinding our boat safe in its harbor, under Uncannunuc Mountain, with a\nfair wind and the current in our favor, we commenced our return voyage\nat noon, sitting at our ease and conversing, or in silence watching for\nthe last trace of each reach in the river as a bend concealed it from\nour view. As the season was further advanced, the wind now blew\nsteadily from the north, and with our sail set we could occasionally\nlie on our oars without loss of time. The lumbermen throwing down wood\nfrom the top of the high bank, thirty or forty feet above the water,\nthat it might be sent down stream, paused in their work to watch our\nretreating sail. By this time, indeed, we were well known to the\nboatmen, and were hailed as the Revenue Cutter of the stream. As we\nsailed rapidly down the river, shut in between two mounds of earth, the\nsounds of this timber rolled down the bank enhanced the silence and\nvastness of the noon, and we fancied that only the primeval echoes were\nawakened. The vision of a distant scow just heaving in sight round a\nheadland also increased by contrast the solitude.\n\nThrough the din and desultoriness of noon, even in the most Oriental\ncity, is seen the fresh and primitive and savage nature, in which\nScythians and Ethiopians and Indians dwell. What is echo, what are\nlight and shade, day and night, ocean and stars, earthquake and\neclipse, there? The works of man are everywhere swallowed up in the\nimmensity of Nature. The \u00c6gean Sea is but Lake Huron still to the\nIndian. Also there is all the refinement of civilized life in the woods\nunder a sylvan garb. The wildest scenes have an air of domesticity and\nhomeliness even to the citizen, and when the flicker\u2019s cackle is heard\nin the clearing, he is reminded that civilization has wrought but\nlittle change there. Science is welcome to the deepest recesses of the\nforest, for there too nature obeys the same old civil laws. The little\nred bug on the stump of a pine,\u2014for it the wind shifts and the sun\nbreaks through the clouds. In the wildest nature, there is not only the\nmaterial of the most cultivated life, and a sort of anticipation of the\nlast result, but a greater refinement already than is ever attained by\nman. There is papyrus by the river-side, and rushes for light, and the\ngoose only flies overhead, ages before the studious are born or letters\ninvented, and that literature which the former suggest, and even from\nthe first have rudely served, it may be man does not yet use them to\nexpress. Nature is prepared to welcome into her scenery the finest work\nof human art, for she is herself an art so cunning that the artist\nnever appears in his work.\n\nArt is not tame, and Nature is not wild, in the ordinary sense. A\nperfect work of man\u2019s art would also be wild or natural in a good\nsense. Man tames Nature only that he may at last make her more free\neven than he found her, though he may never yet have succeeded.\n\nWith this propitious breeze, and the help of our oars, we soon reached\nthe Falls of Amoskeag, and the mouth of the Piscataquoag, and\nrecognized, as we swept rapidly by, many a fair bank and islet on which\nour eyes had rested in the upward passage. Our boat was like that which\nChaucer describes in his Dream, in which the knight took his departure\nfrom the island,\n\n\u201cTo journey for his marriage,\nAnd return with such an host,\nThat wedded might be least and most. . . . .\nWhich barge was as a man\u2019s thought,\nAfter his pleasure to him brought,\nThe queene herself accustomed aye\nIn the same barge to play,\nIt needed neither mast ne rother,\nI have not heard of such another,\nNo master for the governance,\nHie sayled by thought and pleasaunce,\nWithout labor east and west,\nAll was one, calme or tempest.\u201d\n\n\nSo we sailed this afternoon, thinking of the saying of Pythagoras,\nthough we had no peculiar right to remember it, \u201cIt is beautiful when\nprosperity is present with intellect, and when sailing as it were with\na prosperous wind, actions are performed looking to virtue; just as a\npilot looks to the motions of the stars.\u201d All the world reposes in\nbeauty to him who preserves equipoise in his life, and moves serenely\non his path without secret violence; as he who sails down a stream, he\nhas only to steer, keeping his bark in the middle, and carry it round\nthe falls. The ripples curled away in our wake, like ringlets from the\nhead of a child, while we steadily held on our course, and under the\nbows we watched\n\n            \u201cThe swaying soft,\nMade by the delicate wave parted in front,\nAs through the gentle element we move\nLike shadows gliding through untroubled dreams.\u201d\n\n\nThe forms of beauty fall naturally around the path of him who is in the\nperformance of his proper work; as the curled shavings drop from the\nplane, and borings cluster round the auger. Undulation is the gentlest\nand most ideal of motions, produced by one fluid falling on another.\nRippling is a more graceful flight. From a hill-top you may detect in\nit the wings of birds endlessly repeated. The two _waving_ lines which\nrepresent the flight of birds appear to have been copied from the\nripple.\n\nThe trees made an admirable fence to the landscape, skirting the\nhorizon on every side. The single trees and the groves left standing on\nthe interval appeared naturally disposed, though the farmer had\nconsulted only his convenience, for he too falls into the scheme of\nNature. Art can never match the luxury and superfluity of Nature. In\nthe former all is seen; it cannot afford concealed wealth, and is\nniggardly in comparison; but Nature, even when she is scant and thin\noutwardly, satisfies us still by the assurance of a certain generosity\nat the roots. In swamps, where there is only here and there an\never-green tree amid the quaking moss and cranberry beds, the bareness\ndoes not suggest poverty. The single-spruce, which I had hardly noticed\nin gardens, attracts me in such places, and now first I understand why\nmen try to make them grow about their houses. But though there may be\nvery perfect specimens in front-yard plots, their beauty is for the\nmost part ineffectual there, for there is no such assurance of kindred\nwealth beneath and around them, to make them show to advantage. As we\nhave said, Nature is a greater and more perfect art, the art of God;\nthough, referred to herself, she is genius; and there is a similarity\nbetween her operations and man\u2019s art even in the details and trifles.\nWhen the overhanging pine drops into the water, by the sun and water,\nand the wind rubbing it against the shore, its boughs are worn into\nfantastic shapes, and white and smooth, as if turned in a lathe. Man\u2019s\nart has wisely imitated those forms into which all matter is most\ninclined to run, as foliage and fruit. A hammock swung in a grove\nassumes the exact form of a canoe, broader or narrower, and higher or\nlower at the ends, as more or fewer persons are in it, and it rolls in\nthe air with the motion of the body, like a canoe in the water. Our art\nleaves its shavings and its dust about; her art exhibits itself even in\nthe shavings and the dust which we make. She has perfected herself by\nan eternity of practice. The world is well kept; no rubbish\naccumulates; the morning air is clear even at this day, and no dust has\nsettled on the grass. Behold how the evening now steals over the\nfields, the shadows of the trees creeping farther and farther into the\nmeadow, and erelong the stars will come to bathe in these retired\nwaters. Her undertakings are secure and never fail. If I were awakened\nfrom a deep sleep, I should know which side of the meridian the sun\nmight be by the aspect of nature, and by the chirp of the crickets, and\nyet no painter can paint this difference. The landscape contains a\nthousand dials which indicate the natural divisions of time, the\nshadows of a thousand styles point to the hour.\n\n\u201cNot only o\u2019er the dial\u2019s face,\n    This silent phantom day by day,\nWith slow, unseen, unceasing pace\n    Steals moments, months, and years away;\nFrom hoary rock and aged tree,\n    From proud Palmyra\u2019s mouldering walls,\nFrom Teneriffe, towering o\u2019er the sea,\n    From every blade of grass it falls.\u201d\n\n\nIt is almost the only game which the trees play at, this tit-for-tat,\nnow this side in the sun, now that, the drama of the day. In deep\nravines under the eastern sides of cliffs, Night forwardly plants her\nfoot even at noonday, and as Day retreats she steps into his trenches,\nskulking from tree to tree, from fence to fence, until at last she sits\nin his citadel and draws out her forces into the plain. It may be that\nthe forenoon is brighter than the afternoon, not only because of the\ngreater transparency of its atmosphere, but because we naturally look\nmost into the west, as forward into the day, and so in the forenoon see\nthe sunny side of things, but in the afternoon the shadow of every\ntree.\n\nThe afternoon is now far advanced, and a fresh and leisurely wind is\nblowing over the river, making long reaches of bright ripples. The\nriver has done its stint, and appears not to flow, but lie at its\nlength reflecting the light, and the haze over the woods is like the\ninaudible panting, or rather the gentle perspiration of resting nature,\nrising from a myriad of pores into the attenuated atmosphere.\n\nOn the thirty-first day of March, one hundred and forty-two years\nbefore this, probably about this time in the afternoon, there were\nhurriedly paddling down this part of the river, between the pine woods\nwhich then fringed these banks, two white women and a boy, who had left\nan island at the mouth of the Contoocook before daybreak. They were\nslightly clad for the season, in the English fashion, and handled their\npaddles unskilfully, but with nervous energy and determination, and at\nthe bottom of their canoe lay the still bleeding scalps of ten of the\naborigines. They were Hannah Dustan, and her nurse, Mary Neff, both of\nHaverhill, eighteen miles from the mouth of this river, and an English\nboy, named Samuel Lennardson, escaping from captivity among the\nIndians. On the 15th of March previous, Hannah Dustan had been\ncompelled to rise from child-bed, and half dressed, with one foot bare,\naccompanied by her nurse, commence an uncertain march, in still\ninclement weather, through the snow and the wilderness. She had seen\nher seven elder children flee with their father, but knew not of their\nfate. She had seen her infant\u2019s brains dashed out against an\napple-tree, and had left her own and her neighbors\u2019 dwellings in ashes.\nWhen she reached the wigwam of her captor, situated on an island in the\nMerrimack, more than twenty miles above where we now are, she had been\ntold that she and her nurse were soon to be taken to a distant Indian\nsettlement, and there made to run the gauntlet naked. The family of\nthis Indian consisted of two men, three women, and seven children,\nbeside an English boy, whom she found a prisoner among them. Having\ndetermined to attempt her escape, she instructed the boy to inquire of\none of the men, how he should despatch an enemy in the quickest manner,\nand take his scalp. \u201cStrike \u2019em there,\u201d said he, placing his finger on\nhis temple, and he also showed him how to take off the scalp. On the\nmorning of the 31st she arose before daybreak, and awoke her nurse and\nthe boy, and taking the Indians\u2019 tomahawks, they killed them all in\ntheir sleep, excepting one favorite boy, and one squaw who fled wounded\nwith him to the woods. The English boy struck the Indian who had given\nhim the information, on the temple, as he had been directed. They then\ncollected all the provision they could find, and took their master\u2019s\ntomahawk and gun, and scuttling all the canoes but one, commenced their\nflight to Haverhill, distant about sixty miles by the river. But after\nhaving proceeded a short distance, fearing that her story would not be\nbelieved if she should escape to tell it, they returned to the silent\nwigwam, and taking off the scalps of the dead, put them into a bag as\nproofs of what they had done, and then retracing their steps to the\nshore in the twilight, recommenced their voyage.\n\nEarly this morning this deed was performed, and now, perchance, these\ntired women and this boy, their clothes stained with blood, and their\nminds racked with alternate resolution and fear, are making a hasty\nmeal of parched corn and moose-meat, while their canoe glides under\nthese pine roots whose stumps are still standing on the bank. They are\nthinking of the dead whom they have left behind on that solitary isle\nfar up the stream, and of the relentless living warriors who are in\npursuit. Every withered leaf which the winter has left seems to know\ntheir story, and in its rustling to repeat it and betray them. An\nIndian lurks behind every rock and pine, and their nerves cannot bear\nthe tapping of a woodpecker. Or they forget their own dangers and their\ndeeds in conjecturing the fate of their kindred, and whether, if they\nescape the Indians, they shall find the former still alive. They do not\nstop to cook their meals upon the bank, nor land, except to carry their\ncanoe about the falls. The stolen birch forgets its master and does\nthem good service, and the swollen current bears them swiftly along\nwith little need of the paddle, except to steer and keep them warm by\nexercise. For ice is floating in the river; the spring is opening; the\nmuskrat and the beaver are driven out of their holes by the flood; deer\ngaze at them from the bank; a few faint-singing forest birds,\nperchance, fly across the river to the northernmost shore; the\nfish-hawk sails and screams overhead, and geese fly over with a\nstartling clangor; but they do not observe these things, or they\nspeedily forget them. They do not smile or chat all day. Sometimes they\npass an Indian grave surrounded by its paling on the bank, or the frame\nof a wigwam, with a few coals left behind, or the withered stalks still\nrustling in the Indian\u2019s solitary cornfield on the interval. The birch\nstripped of its bark, or the charred stump where a tree has been burned\ndown to be made into a canoe, these are the only traces of man,\u2014a\nfabulous wild man to us. On either side, the primeval forest stretches\naway uninterrupted to Canada, or to the \u201cSouth Sea\u201d; to the white man a\ndrear and howling wilderness, but to the Indian a home, adapted to his\nnature, and cheerful as the smile of the Great Spirit.\n\nWhile we loiter here this autumn evening, looking for a spot retired\nenough, where we shall quietly rest to-night, they thus, in that chilly\nMarch evening, one hundred and forty-two years before us, with wind and\ncurrent favoring, have already glided out of sight, not to camp, as we\nshall, at night, but while two sleep one will manage the canoe, and the\nswift stream bear them onward to the settlements, it may be, even to\nold John Lovewell\u2019s house on Salmon Brook to-night.\n\nAccording to the historian, they escaped as by a miracle all roving\nbands of Indians, and reached their homes in safety, with their\ntrophies, for which the General Court paid them fifty pounds. The\nfamily of Hannah Dustan all assembled alive once more, except the\ninfant whose brains were dashed out against the apple-tree, and there\nhave been many who in later times have lived to say that they had eaten\nof the fruit of that apple-tree.\n\nThis seems a long while ago, and yet it happened since Milton wrote his\nParadise Lost. But its antiquity is not the less great for that, for we\ndo not regulate our historical time by the English standard, nor did\nthe English by the Roman, nor the Roman by the Greek. \u201cWe must look a\nlong way back,\u201d says Raleigh, \u201cto find the Romans giving laws to\nnations, and their consuls bringing kings and princes bound in chains\nto Rome in triumph; to see men go to Greece for wisdom, or Ophir for\ngold; when now nothing remains but a poor paper remembrance of their\nformer condition.\u201d And yet, in one sense, not so far back as to find\nthe Penacooks and Pawtuckets using bows and arrows and hatchets of\nstone, on the banks of the Merrimack. From this September afternoon,\nand from between these now cultivated shores, those times seemed more\nremote than the dark ages. On beholding an old picture of Concord, as\nit appeared but seventy-five years ago, with a fair open prospect and a\nlight on trees and river, as if it were broad noon, I find that I had\nnot thought the sun shone in those days, or that men lived in broad\ndaylight then. Still less do we imagine the sun shining on hill and\nvalley during Philip\u2019s war, on the war-path of Church or Philip, or\nlater of Lovewell or Paugus, with serene summer weather, but they must\nhave lived and fought in a dim twilight or night.\n\nThe age of the world is great enough for our imaginations, even\naccording to the Mosaic account, without borrowing any years from the\ngeologist. From Adam and Eve at one leap sheer down to the deluge, and\nthen through the ancient monarchies, through Babylon and Thebes, Brahma\nand Abraham, to Greece and the Argonauts; whence we might start again\nwith Orpheus and the Trojan war, the Pyramids and the Olympic games,\nand Homer and Athens, for our stages; and after a breathing space at\nthe building of Rome, continue our journey down through Odin and Christ\nto\u2014America. It is a wearisome while. And yet the lives of but sixty old\nwomen, such as live under the hill, say of a century each, strung\ntogether, are sufficient to reach over the whole ground. Taking hold of\nhands they would span the interval from Eve to my own mother. A\nrespectable tea-party merely,\u2014whose gossip would be Universal History.\nThe fourth old woman from myself suckled Columbus,\u2014the ninth was nurse\nto the Norman Conqueror,\u2014the nineteenth was the Virgin Mary,\u2014the\ntwenty-fourth the Cum\u00e6an Sibyl,\u2014the thirtieth was at the Trojan war and\nHelen her name,\u2014the thirty-eighth was Queen Semiramis,\u2014the sixtieth was\nEve the mother of mankind. So much for the\n\n\u201cOld woman that lives under the hill,\nAnd if she\u2019s not gone she lives there still.\u201d\n\n\nIt will not take a very great-granddaughter of hers to be in at the\ndeath of Time.\n\nWe can never safely exceed the actual facts in our narratives. Of pure\ninvention, such as some suppose, there is no instance. To write a true\nwork of fiction even, is only to take leisure and liberty to describe\nsome things more exactly as they are. A true account of the actual is\nthe rarest poetry, for common sense always takes a hasty and\nsuperficial view. Though I am not much acquainted with the works of\nGoethe, I should say that it was one of his chief excellences as a\nwriter, that he was satisfied with giving an exact description of\nthings as they appeared to him, and their effect upon him. Most\ntravellers have not self-respect enough to do this simply, and make\nobjects and events stand around them as the centre, but still imagine\nmore favorable positions and relations than the actual ones, and so we\nget no valuable report from them at all. In his Italian Travels Goethe\njogs along at a snail\u2019s pace, but always mindful that the earth is\nbeneath and the heavens are above him. His Italy is not merely the\nfatherland of lazzaroni and virtuosi, and scene of splendid ruins, but\na solid turf-clad soil, daily shined on by the sun, and nightly by the\nmoon. Even the few showers are faithfully recorded. He speaks as an\nunconcerned spectator, whose object is faithfully to describe what he\nsees, and that, for the most part, in the order in which he sees it.\nEven his reflections do not interfere with his descriptions. In one\nplace he speaks of himself as giving so glowing and truthful a\ndescription of an old tower to the peasants who had gathered around\nhim, that they who had been born and brought up in the neighborhood\nmust needs look over their shoulders, \u201cthat,\u201d to use his own words,\n\u201cthey might behold with their eyes, what I had praised to their\nears,\u201d\u2014\u201cand I added nothing, not even the ivy which for centuries had\ndecorated the walls.\u201d It would thus be possible for inferior minds to\nproduce invaluable books, if this very moderation were not the evidence\nof superiority; for the wise are not so much wiser than others as\nrespecters of their own wisdom. Some, poor in spirit, record\nplaintively only what has happened to them; but others how they have\nhappened to the universe, and the judgment which they have awarded to\ncircumstances. Above all, he possessed a hearty good-will to all men,\nand never wrote a cross or even careless word. On one occasion the\npost-boy snivelling, \u201cSignor perdonate, qu\u00e9sta \u00e8 la mia patria,\u201d he\nconfesses that \u201cto me poor northerner came something tear-like into the\neyes.\u201d\n\nGoethe\u2019s whole education and life were those of the artist. He lacks\nthe unconsciousness of the poet. In his autobiography he describes\naccurately the life of the author of Wilhelm Meister. For as there is\nin that book, mingled with a rare and serene wisdom, a certain\npettiness or exaggeration of trifles, wisdom applied to produce a\nconstrained and partial and merely well-bred man,\u2014a magnifying of the\ntheatre till life itself is turned into a stage, for which it is our\nduty to study our parts well, and conduct with propriety and\nprecision,\u2014so in the autobiography, the fault of his education is, so\nto speak, its merely artistic completeness. Nature is hindered, though\nshe prevails at last in making an unusually catholic impression on the\nboy. It is the life of a city boy, whose toys are pictures and works of\nart, whose wonders are the theatre and kingly processions and\ncrownings. As the youth studied minutely the order and the degrees in\nthe imperial procession, and suffered none of its effect to be lost on\nhim, so the man aimed to secure a rank in society which would satisfy\nhis notion of fitness and respectability. He was defrauded of much\nwhich the savage boy enjoys. Indeed, he himself has occasion to say in\nthis very autobiography, when at last he escapes into the woods without\nthe gates: \u201cThus much is certain, that only the undefinable,\nwide-expanding feelings of youth and of uncultivated nations are\nadapted to the sublime, which, whenever it may be excited in us through\nexternal objects, since it is either formless, or else moulded into\nforms which are incomprehensible, must surround us with a grandeur\nwhich we find above our reach.\u201d He further says of himself: \u201cI had\nlived among painters from my childhood, and had accustomed myself to\nlook at objects, as they did, with reference to art.\u201d And this was his\npractice to the last. He was even too _well-bred_ to be thoroughly\nbred. He says that he had had no intercourse with the lowest class of\nhis towns-boys. The child should have the advantage of ignorance as\nwell as of knowledge, and is fortunate if he gets his share of neglect\nand exposure.\n\n\u201cThe laws of Nature break the rules of Art.\u201d\n\n\nThe Man of Genius may at the same time be, indeed is commonly, an\nArtist, but the two are not to be confounded. The Man of Genius,\nreferred to mankind, is an originator, an inspired or demonic man, who\nproduces a perfect work in obedience to laws yet unexplored. The Artist\nis he who detects and applies the law from observation of the works of\nGenius, whether of man or nature. The Artisan is he who merely applies\nthe rules which others have detected. There has been no man of pure\nGenius; as there has been none wholly destitute of Genius.\n\nPoetry is the mysticism of mankind.\n\nThe expressions of the poet cannot be analyzed; his sentence is one\nword, whose syllables are words. There are indeed no _words_ quite\nworthy to be set to his music. But what matter if we do not hear the\nwords always, if we hear the music?\n\nMuch verse fails of being poetry because it was not written exactly at\nthe right crisis, though it may have been inconceivably near to it. It\nis only by a miracle that poetry is written at all. It is not\nrecoverable thought, but a hue caught from a vaster receding thought.\n\nA poem is one undivided unimpeded expression fallen ripe into\nliterature, and it is undividedly and unimpededly received by those for\nwhom it was matured.\n\nIf you can speak what you will never hear, if you can write what you\nwill never read, you have done rare things.\n\nThe work we choose should be our own,\n            God lets alone.\n\n\nThe unconsciousness of man is the consciousness of God.\n\nDeep are the foundations of sincerity. Even stone walls have their\nfoundation below the frost.\n\nWhat is produced by a free stroke charms us, like the forms of lichens\nand leaves. There is a certain perfection in accident which we never\nconsciously attain. Draw a blunt quill filled with ink over a sheet of\npaper, and fold the paper before the ink is dry, transversely to this\nline, and a delicately shaded and regular figure will be produced, in\nsome respects more pleasing than an elaborate drawing.\n\nThe talent of composition is very dangerous,\u2014the striking out the heart\nof life at a blow, as the Indian takes off a scalp. I feel as if my\nlife had grown more outward when I can express it.\n\nOn his journey from Brenner to Verona, Goethe writes:\n\n\u201cThe Tees flows now more gently, and makes in many places broad sands.\nOn the land, near to the water, upon the hillsides, everything is so\nclosely planted one to another, that you think they must choke one\nanother,\u2014vineyards, maize, mulberry-trees, apples, pears, quinces, and\nnuts. The dwarf elder throws itself vigorously over the walls. Ivy\ngrows with strong stems up the rocks, and spreads itself wide over\nthem, the lizard glides through the intervals, and everything that\nwanders to and fro reminds one of the loveliest pictures of art. The\nwomen\u2019s tufts of hair bound up, the men\u2019s bare breasts and light\njackets, the excellent oxen which they drive home from market, the\nlittle asses with their loads,\u2014everything forms a living, animated\nHeinrich Roos. And now that it is evening, in the mild air a few clouds\nrest upon the mountains, in the heavens more stand still than move, and\nimmediately after sunset the chirping of crickets begins to grow more\nloud; then one feels for once at home in the world, and not as\nconcealed or in exile. I am contented as though I had been born and\nbrought up here, and were now returning from a Greenland or whaling\nvoyage. Even the dust of my Fatherland, which is often whirled about\nthe wagon, and which for so long a time I had not seen, is greeted. The\nclock-and-bell jingling of the crickets is altogether lovely,\npenetrating, and agreeable. It sounds bravely when roguish boys whistle\nin emulation of a field of such songstresses. One fancies that they\nreally enhance one another. Also the evening is perfectly mild as the\nday.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf one who dwelt in the south, and came hither from the south, should\nhear of my rapture hereupon, he would deem me very childish. Alas! what\nI here express I have long known while I suffered under an unpropitious\nheaven, and now may I joyful feel this joy as an exception, which we\nshould enjoy everforth as an eternal necessity of our nature.\u201d\n\nThus we \u201csayled by thought and pleasaunce,\u201d as Chaucer says, and all\nthings seemed with us to flow; the shore itself, and the distant\ncliffs, were dissolved by the undiluted air. The hardest material\nseemed to obey the same law with the most fluid, and so indeed in the\nlong run it does. Trees were but rivers of sap and woody fibre, flowing\nfrom the atmosphere, and emptying into the earth by their trunks, as\ntheir roots flowed upward to the surface. And in the heavens there were\nrivers of stars, and milky-ways, already beginning to gleam and ripple\nover our heads. There were rivers of rock on the surface of the earth,\nand rivers of ore in its bowels, and our thoughts flowed and\ncirculated, and this portion of time was but the current hour. Let us\nwander where we will, the universe is built round about us, and we are\ncentral still. If we look into the heavens they are concave, and if we\nwere to look into a gulf as bottomless, it would be concave also. The\nsky is curved downward to the earth in the horizon, because we stand on\nthe plain. I draw down its skirts. The stars so low there seem loath to\ndepart, but by a circuitous path to be remembering me, and returning on\ntheir steps.\n\nWe had already passed by broad daylight the scene of our encampment at\nCoos Falls, and at length we pitched our camp on the west bank, in the\nnorthern part of Merrimack, nearly opposite to the large island on\nwhich we had spent the noon in our way up the river.\n\nThere we went to bed that summer evening, on a sloping shelf in the\nbank, a couple of rods from our boat, which was drawn up on the sand,\nand just behind a thin fringe of oaks which bordered the river; without\nhaving disturbed any inhabitants but the spiders in the grass, which\ncame out by the light of our lamp, and crawled over our buffaloes. When\nwe looked out from under the tent, the trees were seen dimly through\nthe mist, and a cool dew hung upon the grass, which seemed to rejoice\nin the night, and with the damp air we inhaled a solid fragrance.\nHaving eaten our supper of hot cocoa and bread and watermelon, we soon\ngrew weary of conversing, and writing in our journals, and, putting out\nthe lantern which hung from the tent-pole, fell asleep.\n\nUnfortunately, many things have been omitted which should have been\nrecorded in our journal; for though we made it a rule to set down all\nour experiences therein, yet such a resolution is very hard to keep,\nfor the important experience rarely allows us to remember such\nobligations, and so indifferent things get recorded, while that is\nfrequently neglected. It is not easy to write in a journal what\ninterests us at any time, because to write it is not what interests us.\n\nWhenever we awoke in the night, still eking out our dreams with\nhalf-awakened thoughts, it was not till after an interval, when the\nwind breathed harder than usual, flapping the curtains of the tent, and\ncausing its cords to vibrate, that we remembered that we lay on the\nbank of the Merrimack, and not in our chamber at home. With our heads\nso low in the grass, we heard the river whirling and sucking, and\nlapsing downward, kissing the shore as it went, sometimes rippling\nlouder than usual, and again its mighty current making only a slight\nlimpid, trickling sound, as if our water-pail had sprung a leak, and\nthe water were flowing into the grass by our side. The wind, rustling\nthe oaks and hazels, impressed us like a wakeful and inconsiderate\nperson up at midnight, moving about, and putting things to rights,\noccasionally stirring up whole drawers full of leaves at a puff. There\nseemed to be a great haste and preparation throughout Nature, as for a\ndistinguished visitor; all her aisles had to be swept in the night, by\na thousand hand-maidens, and a thousand pots to be boiled for the next\nday\u2019s feasting;\u2014such a whispering bustle, as if ten thousand fairies\nmade their fingers fly, silently sewing at the new carpet with which\nthe earth was to be clothed, and the new drapery which was to adorn the\ntrees. And then the wind would lull and die away, and we like it fell\nasleep again.\n\n\n\n\nFRIDAY\n\n\n            \u201cThe Boteman strayt\nHeld on his course with stayed stedfastnesse,\nNe ever shroncke, ne ever sought to bayt\nHis tryed armes for toylesome wearinesse;\nBut with his oares did sweepe the watry wildernesse.\u201d\n\nSPENSER.\n\n\n            \u201cSummer\u2019s robe grows\nDusky, and like an oft-dyed garment shows.\u201d\n\nDONNE.\n\nAs we lay awake long before daybreak, listening to the rippling of the\nriver, and the rustling of the leaves, in suspense whether the wind\nblew up or down the stream, was favorable or unfavorable to our voyage,\nwe already suspected that there was a change in the weather, from a\nfreshness as of autumn in these sounds. The wind in the woods sounded\nlike an incessant waterfall dashing and roaring amid rocks, and we even\nfelt encouraged by the unusual activity of the elements. He who hears\nthe rippling of rivers in these degenerate days will not utterly\ndespair. That night was the turning-point in the season. We had gone to\nbed in summer, and we awoke in autumn; for summer passes into autumn in\nsome unimaginable point of time, like the turning of a leaf.\n\nWe found our boat in the dawn just as we had left it, and as if waiting\nfor us, there on the shore, in autumn, all cool and dripping with dew,\nand our tracks still fresh in the wet sand around it, the fairies all\ngone or concealed. Before five o\u2019clock we pushed it into the fog, and,\nleaping in, at one shove were out of sight of the shores, and began to\nsweep downward with the rushing river, keeping a sharp lookout for\nrocks. We could see only the yellow gurgling water, and a solid bank of\nfog on every side, forming a small yard around us. We soon passed the\nmouth of the Souhegan, and the village of Merrimack, and as the mist\ngradually rolled away, and we were relieved from the trouble of\nwatching for rocks, we saw by the flitting clouds, by the first russet\ntinge on the hills, by the rushing river, the cottages on shore, and\nthe shore itself, so coolly fresh and shining with dew, and later in\nthe day, by the hue of the grape-vine, the goldfinch on the willow, the\nflickers flying in flocks, and when we passed near enough to the shore,\nas we fancied, by the faces of men, that the Fall had commenced. The\ncottages looked more snug and comfortable, and their inhabitants were\nseen only for a moment, and then went quietly in and shut the door,\nretreating inward to the haunts of summer.\n\n\u201cAnd now the cold autumnal dews are seen\n    To cobweb ev\u2019ry green;\nAnd by the low-shorn rowens doth appear\n    The fast-declining year.\u201d\n\n\nWe heard the sigh of the first autumnal wind, and even the water had\nacquired a grayer hue. The sumach, grape, and maple were already\nchanged, and the milkweed had turned to a deep rich yellow. In all\nwoods the leaves were fast ripening for their fall; for their full\nveins and lively gloss mark the ripe leaf, and not the sered one of the\npoets; and we knew that the maples, stripped of their leaves among the\nearliest, would soon stand like a wreath of smoke along the edge of the\nmeadow. Already the cattle were heard to low wildly in the pastures and\nalong the highways, restlessly running to and fro, as if in\napprehension of the withering of the grass and of the approach of\nwinter. Our thoughts, too, began to rustle.\n\nAs I pass along the streets of our village of Concord on the day of our\nannual Cattle-Show, when it usually happens that the leaves of the elms\nand buttonwoods begin first to strew the ground under the breath of the\nOctober wind, the lively spirits in their sap seem to mount as high as\nany plough-boy\u2019s let loose that day; and they lead my thoughts away to\nthe rustling woods, where the trees are preparing for their winter\ncampaign. This autumnal festival, when men are gathered in crowds in\nthe streets as regularly and by as natural a law as the leaves cluster\nand rustle by the wayside, is naturally associated in my mind with the\nfall of the year. The low of cattle in the streets sounds like a hoarse\nsymphony or running bass to the rustling of the leaves. The wind goes\nhurrying down the country, gleaning every loose straw that is left in\nthe fields, while every farmer lad too appears to scud before\nit,\u2014having donned his best pea-jacket and pepper-and-salt waistcoat,\nhis unbent trousers, outstanding rigging of duck or kerseymere or\ncorduroy, and his furry hat withal,\u2014to country fairs and cattle-shows,\nto that Rome among the villages where the treasures of the year are\ngathered. All the land over they go leaping the fences with their\ntough, idle palms, which have never learned to hang by their sides,\namid the low of calves and the bleating of sheep,\u2014Amos, Abner,\nElnathan, Elbridge,\u2014\n\n\u201cFrom steep pine-bearing mountains to the plain.\u201d\n\n\nI love these sons of earth every mother\u2019s son of them, with their great\nhearty hearts rushing tumultuously in herds from spectacle to\nspectacle, as if fearful lest there should not be time between sun and\nsun to see them all, and the sun does not wait more than in\nhaying-time.\n\n\u201cWise Nature\u2019s darlings, they live in the world\nPerplexing not themselves how it is hurled.\u201d\n\n\nRunning hither and thither with appetite for the coarse pastimes of the\nday, now with boisterous speed at the heels of the inspired negro from\nwhose larynx the melodies of all Congo and Guinea Coast have broke\nloose into our streets; now to see the procession of a hundred yoke of\noxen, all as august and grave as Osiris, or the droves of neat cattle\nand milch cows as unspotted as Isis or Io. Such as had no love for\nNature\n\n                \u201cat all,\nCame lovers home from this great festival.\u201d\n\n\nThey may bring their fattest cattle and richest fruits to the fair, but\nthey are all eclipsed by the show of men. These are stirring autumn\ndays, when men sweep by in crowds, amid the rustle of leaves, like\nmigrating finches; this is the true harvest of the year, when the air\nis but the breath of men, and the rustling of leaves is as the\ntrampling of the crowd. We read now-a-days of the ancient festivals,\ngames, and processions of the Greeks and Etruscans, with a little\nincredulity, or at least with little sympathy; but how natural and\nirrepressible in every people is some hearty and palpable greeting of\nNature. The Corybantes, the Bacchantes, the rude primitive tragedians\nwith their procession and goat-song, and the whole paraphernalia of the\nPanathen\u00e6a, which appear so antiquated and peculiar, have their\nparallel now. The husbandman is always a better Greek than the scholar\nis prepared to appreciate, and the old custom still survives, while\nantiquarians and scholars grow gray in commemorating it. The farmers\ncrowd to the fair to-day in obedience to the same ancient law, which\nSolon or Lycurgus did not enact, as naturally as bees swarm and follow\ntheir queen.\n\nIt is worth the while to see the country\u2019s people, how they pour into\nthe town, the sober farmer folk, now all agog, their very shirt and\ncoat-collars pointing forward,\u2014collars so broad as if they had put\ntheir shirts on wrong end upward, for the fashions always tend to\nsuperfluity,\u2014and with an unusual springiness in their gait, jabbering\nearnestly to one another. The more supple vagabond, too, is sure to\nappear on the least rumor of such a gathering, and the next day to\ndisappear, and go into his hole like the seventeen-year locust, in an\never-shabby coat, though finer than the farmer\u2019s best, yet never\ndressed; come to see the sport, and have a hand in what is going,\u2014to\nknow \u201cwhat\u2019s the row,\u201d if there is any; to be where some men are drunk,\nsome horses race, some cockerels fight; anxious to be shaking props\nunder a table, and above all to see the \u201cstriped pig.\u201d He especially is\nthe creature of the occasion. He empties both his pockets and his\ncharacter into the stream, and swims in such a day. He dearly loves the\nsocial slush. There is no reserve of soberness in him.\n\nI love to see the herd of men feeding heartily on coarse and succulent\npleasures, as cattle on the husks and stalks of vegetables. Though\nthere are many crooked and crabbled specimens of humanity among them,\nrun all to thorn and rind, and crowded out of shape by adverse\ncircumstances, like the third chestnut in the burr, so that you wonder\nto see some heads wear a whole hat, yet fear not that the race will\nfail or waver in them; like the crabs which grow in hedges, they\nfurnish the stocks of sweet and thrifty fruits still. Thus is nature\nrecruited from age to age, while the fair and palatable varieties die\nout, and have their period. This is that mankind. How cheap must be the\nmaterial of which so many men are made.\n\nThe wind blew steadily down the stream, so that we kept our sails set,\nand lost not a moment of the forenoon by delays, but from early morning\nuntil noon were continually dropping downward. With our hands on the\nsteering-paddle, which was thrust deep into the river, or bending to\nthe oar, which indeed we rarely relinquished, we felt each palpitation\nin the veins of our steed, and each impulse of the wings which drew us\nabove. The current of our thoughts made as sudden bends as the river,\nwhich was continually opening new prospects to the east or south, but\nwe are aware that rivers flow most rapidly and shallowest at these\npoints. The steadfast shores never once turned aside for us, but still\ntrended as they were made; why then should we always turn aside for\nthem?\n\nA man cannot wheedle nor overawe his Genius. It requires to be\nconciliated by nobler conduct than the world demands or can appreciate.\nThese winged thoughts are like birds, and will not be handled; even\nhens will not let you touch them like quadrupeds. Nothing was ever so\nunfamiliar and startling to a man as his own thoughts.\n\nTo the rarest genius it is the most expensive to succumb and conform to\nthe ways of the world. Genius is the worst of lumber, if the poet would\nfloat upon the breeze of popularity. The bird of paradise is obliged\nconstantly to fly against the wind, lest its gay trappings, pressing\nclose to its body, impede its free movements.\n\nHe is the best sailor who can steer within the fewest points of the\nwind, and extract a motive power out of the greatest obstacles. Most\nbegin to veer and tack as soon as the wind changes from aft, and as\nwithin the tropics it does not blow from all points of the compass,\nthere are some harbors which they can never reach.\n\nThe poet is no tender slip of fairy stock, who requires peculiar\ninstitutions and edicts for his defence, but the toughest son of earth\nand of Heaven, and by his greater strength and endurance his fainting\ncompanions will recognize the God in him. It is the worshippers of\nbeauty, after all, who have done the real pioneer work of the world.\n\nThe poet will prevail to be popular in spite of his faults, and in\nspite of his beauties too. He will hit the nail on the head, and we\nshall not know the shape of his hammer. He makes us free of his hearth\nand heart, which is greater than to offer one the freedom of a city.\n\nGreat men, unknown to their generation, have their fame among the great\nwho have preceded them, and all true worldly fame subsides from their\nhigh estimate beyond the stars.\n\nOrpheus does not hear the strains which issue from his lyre, but only\nthose which are breathed into it; for the original strain precedes the\nsound, by as much as the echo follows after. The rest is the perquisite\nof the rocks and trees and beasts.\n\nWhen I stand in a library where is all the recorded wit of the world,\nbut none of the recording, a mere accumulated, and not truly cumulative\ntreasure, where immortal works stand side by side with anthologies\nwhich did not survive their month, and cobweb and mildew have already\nspread from these to the binding of those; and happily I am reminded of\nwhat poetry is,\u2014I perceive that Shakespeare and Milton did not foresee\ninto what company they were to fall. Alas! that so soon the work of a\ntrue poet should be swept into such a dust-hole!\n\nThe poet will write for his peers alone. He will remember only that he\nsaw truth and beauty from his position, and expect the time when a\nvision as broad shall overlook the same field as freely.\n\nWe are often prompted to speak our thoughts to our neighbors, or the\nsingle travellers whom we meet on the road, but poetry is a\ncommunication from our home and solitude addressed to all Intelligence.\nIt never whispers in a private ear. Knowing this, we may understand\nthose sonnets said to be addressed to particular persons, or \u201cTo a\nMistress\u2019s Eyebrow.\u201d Let none feel flattered by them. For poetry write\nlove, and it will be equally true.\n\nNo doubt it is an important difference between men of genius or poets,\nand men not of genius, that the latter are unable to grasp and confront\nthe thought which visits them. But it is because it is too faint for\nexpression, or even conscious impression. What merely quickens or\nretards the blood in their veins and fills their afternoons with\npleasure they know not whence, conveys a distinct assurance to the\nfiner organization of the poet.\n\nWe talk of genius as if it were a mere knack, and the poet could only\nexpress what other men conceived. But in comparison with his task, the\npoet is the least talented of any; the writer of prose has more skill.\nSee what talent the smith has. His material is pliant in his hands.\nWhen the poet is most inspired, is stimulated by an _aura_ which never\neven colors the afternoons of common men, then his talent is all gone,\nand he is no longer a poet. The gods do not grant him any skill more\nthan another. They never put their gifts into his hands, but they\nencompass and sustain him with their breath.\n\nTo say that God has given a man many and great talents, frequently\nmeans that he has brought his heavens down within reach of his hands.\n\nWhen the poetic frenzy seizes us, we run and scratch with our pen,\nintent only on worms, calling our mates around us, like the cock, and\ndelighting in the dust we make, but do not detect where the jewel lies,\nwhich, perhaps, we have in the mean time cast to a distance, or quite\ncovered up again.\n\nThe poet\u2019s body even is not fed like other men\u2019s, but he sometimes\ntastes the genuine nectar and ambrosia of the gods, and lives a divine\nlife. By the healthful and invigorating thrills of inspiration his life\nis preserved to a serene old age.\n\nSome poems are for holidays only. They are polished and sweet, but it\nis the sweetness of sugar, and not such as toil gives to sour bread.\nThe breath with which the poet utters his verse must be that by which\nhe lives.\n\nGreat prose, of equal elevation, commands our respect more than great\nverse, since it implies a more permanent and level height, a life more\npervaded with the grandeur of the thought. The poet often only makes an\nirruption, like a Parthian, and is off again, shooting while he\nretreats; but the prose writer has conquered like a Roman, and settled\ncolonies.\n\nThe true poem is not that which the public read. There is always a poem\nnot printed on paper, coincident with the production of this,\nstereotyped in the poet\u2019s life. It is _what he has become through his\nwork_. Not how is the idea expressed in stone, or on canvas or paper,\nis the question, but how far it has obtained form and expression in the\nlife of the artist. His true work will not stand in any prince\u2019s\ngallery.\n\nMy life has been the poem I would have writ,\nBut I could not both live and utter it.\n\nTHE POET\u2019S DELAY.\n\n\nIn vain I see the morning rise,\n    In vain observe the western blaze,\nWho idly look to other skies,\n    Expecting life by other ways.\n\nAmidst such boundless wealth without,\n    I only still am poor within,\nThe birds have sung their summer out,\n    But still my spring does not begin.\n\nShall I then wait the autumn wind,\n    Compelled to seek a milder day,\nAnd leave no curious nest behind,\n    No woods still echoing to my lay?\n\n\nThis raw and gusty day, and the creaking of the oaks and pines on\nshore, reminded us of more northern climes than Greece, and more wintry\nseas than the \u00c6gean.\n\nThe genuine remains of Ossian, or those ancient poems which bear his\nname, though of less fame and extent, are, in many respects, of the\nsame stamp with the Iliad itself. He asserts the dignity of the bard no\nless than Homer, and in his era we hear of no other priest than he. It\nwill not avail to call him a heathen, because he personifies the sun\nand addresses it; and what if his heroes did \u201cworship the ghosts of\ntheir fathers,\u201d their thin, airy, and unsubstantial forms? we worship\nbut the ghosts of our fathers in more substantial forms. We cannot but\nrespect the vigorous faith of those heathen, who sternly believed\nsomewhat, and are inclined to say to the critics, who are offended by\ntheir superstitious rites,\u2014Don\u2019t interrupt these men\u2019s prayers. As if\nwe knew more about human life and a God, than the heathen and ancients.\nDoes English theology contain the recent discoveries!\n\nOssian reminds us of the most refined and rudest eras, of Homer,\nPindar, Isaiah, and the American Indian. In his poetry, as in Homer\u2019s,\nonly the simplest and most enduring features of humanity are seen, such\nessential parts of a man as Stonehenge exhibits of a temple; we see the\ncircles of stone, and the upright shaft alone. The phenomena of life\nacquire almost an unreal and gigantic size seen through his mists. Like\nall older and grander poetry, it is distinguished by the few elements\nin the lives of its heroes. They stand on the heath, between the stars\nand the earth, shrunk to the bones and sinews. The earth is a boundless\nplain for their deeds. They lead such a simple, dry, and everlasting\nlife, as hardly needs depart with the flesh, but is transmitted entire\nfrom age to age. There are but few objects to distract their sight, and\ntheir life is as unencumbered as the course of the stars they gaze at.\n\n\u201cThe wrathful kings, on cairns apart,\nLook forward from behind their shields,\nAnd mark the wandering stars,\nThat brilliant westward move.\u201d\n\n\nIt does not cost much for these heroes to live; they do not want much\nfurniture. They are such forms of men only as can be seen afar through\nthe mist, and have no costume nor dialect, but for language there is\nthe tongue itself, and for costume there are always the skins of beasts\nand the bark of trees to be had. They live out their years by the vigor\nof their constitutions. They survive storms and the spears of their\nfoes, and perform a few heroic deeds, and then\n\n\u201cMounds will answer questions of them,\nFor many future years.\u201d\n\n\nBlind and infirm, they spend the remnant of their days listening to the\nlays of the bards, and feeling the weapons which laid their enemies\nlow, and when at length they die, by a convulsion of nature, the bard\nallows us a short and misty glance into futurity, yet as clear,\nperchance, as their lives had been. When Mac-Roine was slain,\n\n\u201cHis soul departed to his warlike sires,\nTo follow misty forms of boars,\nIn tempestuous islands bleak.\u201d\n\n\nThe hero\u2019s cairn is erected, and the bard sings a brief significant\nstrain, which will suffice for epitaph and biography.\n\n\u201cThe weak will find his bow in the dwelling,\nThe feeble will attempt to bend it.\u201d\n\n\nCompared with this simple, fibrous life, our civilized history appears\nthe chronicle of debility, of fashion, and the arts of luxury. But the\ncivilized man misses no real refinement in the poetry of the rudest\nera. It reminds him that civilization does but dress men. It makes\nshoes, but it does not toughen the soles of the feet. It makes cloth of\nfiner texture, but it does not touch the skin. Inside the civilized man\nstand the savage still in the place of honor. We are those blue-eyed,\nyellow-haired Saxons, those slender, dark-haired Normans.\n\nThe profession of the bard attracted more respect in those days from\nthe importance attached to fame. It was his province to record the\ndeeds of heroes. When Ossian hears the traditions of inferior bards, he\nexclaims,\u2014\n\n\u201cI straightway seize the unfutile tales,\nAnd send them down in faithful verse.\u201d\n\n\nHis philosophy of life is expressed in the opening of the third Duan of\nCa-Lodin.\n\n\u201cWhence have sprung the things that are?\nAnd whither roll the passing years?\nWhere does Time conceal its two heads,\nIn dense impenetrable gloom,\nIts surface marked with heroes\u2019 deeds alone?\nI view the generations gone;\nThe past appears but dim;\nAs objects by the moon\u2019s faint beams,\nReflected from a distant lake.\nI see, indeed, the thunderbolts of war,\nBut there the unmighty joyless dwell,\nAll those who send not down their deeds\nTo far, succeeding times.\u201d\n\n\nThe ignoble warriors die and are forgotten;\n\n\u201cStrangers come to build a tower,\nAnd throw their ashes overhand;\nSome rusted swords appear in dust;\nOne, bending forward, says,\n\u2018The arms belonged to heroes gone;\nWe never heard their praise in song.\u2019\u201d\n\n\nThe grandeur of the similes is another feature which characterizes\ngreat poetry. Ossian seems to speak a gigantic and universal language.\nThe images and pictures occupy even much space in the landscape, as if\nthey could be seen only from the sides of mountains, and plains with a\nwide horizon, or across arms of the sea. The machinery is so massive\nthat it cannot be less than natural. Oivana says to the spirit of her\nfather, \u201cGray-haired Torkil of Torne,\u201d seen in the skies,\n\n\u201cThou glidest away like receding ships.\u201d\n\n\nSo when the hosts of Fingal and Starne approach to battle,\n\n\u201cWith murmurs loud, like rivers far,\nThe race of Torne hither moved.\u201d\n\n\nAnd when compelled to retire,\n\n\u201cdragging his spear behind,\nCudulin sank in the distant wood,\nLike a fire upblazing ere it dies.\u201d\n\n\nNor did Fingal want a proper audience when he spoke;\n\n\u201cA thousand orators inclined\nTo hear the lay of Fingal.\u201d\n\n\nThe threats too would have deterred a man. Vengeance and terror were\nreal. Trenmore threatens the young warrior whom he meets on a foreign\nstrand,\n\n\u201cThy mother shall find thee pale on the shore,\nWhile lessening on the waves she spies\nThe sails of him who slew her son.\u201d\n\n\nIf Ossian\u2019s heroes weep, it is from excess of strength, and not from\nweakness, a sacrifice or libation of fertile natures, like the\nperspiration of stone in summer\u2019s heat. We hardly know that tears have\nbeen shed, and it seems as if weeping were proper only for babes and\nheroes. Their joy and their sorrow are made of one stuff, like rain and\nsnow, the rainbow and the mist. When Fillan was worsted in fight, and\nashamed in the presence of Fingal,\n\n\u201cHe strode away forthwith,\nAnd bent in grief above a stream,\nHis cheeks bedewed with tears.\nFrom time to time the thistles gray\nHe lopped with his inverted lance.\u201d\n\n\nCrodar, blind and old, receives Ossian, son of Fingal, who comes to aid\nhim in war;\u2014\n\n\u201c\u2018My eyes have failed,\u2019 says he, \u2018Crodar is blind,\nIs thy strength like that of thy fathers?\nStretch, Ossian, thine arm to the hoary-haired.\u2019\n        I gave my arm to the king.\nThe aged hero seized my hand;\nHe heaved a heavy sigh;\nTears flowed incessant down his cheek.\n\u2019Strong art thou, son of the mighty,\nThough not so dreadful as Morven\u2019s prince.\n\nLet my feast be spread in the hall,\nLet every sweet-voiced minstrel sing;\nGreat is he who is within my walls,\nSons of wave-echoing Croma.\u2019\u201d\n\n\nEven Ossian himself, the hero-bard, pays tribute to the superior\nstrength of his father Fingal.\n\n\u201cHow beauteous, mighty man, was thy mind,\nWhy succeeded Ossian without its strength?\u201d\n\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nWhile we sailed fleetly before the wind, with the river gurgling under\nour stern, the thoughts of autumn coursed as steadily through our\nminds, and we observed less what was passing on the shore, than the\ndateless associations and impressions which the season awakened,\nanticipating in some measure the progress of the year.\n\nI hearing get, who had but ears,\n    And sight, who had but eyes before,\nI moments live, who lived but years,\n    And truth discern, who knew but learning\u2019s lore.\n\n\nSitting with our faces now up stream, we studied the landscape by\ndegrees, as one unrolls a map, rock, tree, house, hill, and meadow,\nassuming new and varying positions as wind and water shifted the scene,\nand there was variety enough for our entertainment in the metamorphoses\nof the simplest objects. Viewed from this side the scenery appeared new\nto us.\n\nThe most familiar sheet of water viewed from a new hill-top, yields a\nnovel and unexpected pleasure. When we have travelled a few miles, we\ndo not recognize the profiles even of the hills which overlook our\nnative village, and perhaps no man is quite familiar with the horizon\nas seen from the hill nearest to his house, and can recall its outline\ndistinctly when in the valley. We do not commonly know, beyond a short\ndistance, which way the hills range which take in our houses and farms\nin their sweep. As if our birth had at first sundered things, and we\nhad been thrust up through into nature like a wedge, and not till the\nwound heals and the scar disappears, do we begin to discover where we\nare, and that nature is one and continuous everywhere. It is an\nimportant epoch when a man who has always lived on the east side of a\nmountain, and seen it in the west, travels round and sees it in the\neast. Yet the universe is a sphere whose centre is wherever there is\nintelligence. The sun is not so central as a man. Upon an isolated\nhill-top, in an open country, we seem to ourselves to be standing on\nthe boss of an immense shield, the immediate landscape being apparently\ndepressed below the more remote, and rising gradually to the horizon,\nwhich is the rim of the shield, villas, steeples, forests, mountains,\none above another, till they are swallowed up in the heavens. The most\ndistant mountains in the horizon appear to rise directly from the shore\nof that lake in the woods by which we chance to be standing, while from\nthe mountain-top, not only this, but a thousand nearer and larger\nlakes, are equally unobserved.\n\nSeen through this clear atmosphere, the works of the farmer, his\nploughing and reaping, had a beauty to our eyes which he never saw. How\nfortunate were we who did not own an acre of these shores, who had not\nrenounced our title to the whole. One who knew how to appropriate the\ntrue value of this world would be the poorest man in it. The poor rich\nman! all he has is what he has bought. What I see is mine. I am a large\nowner in the Merrimack intervals.\n\nMen dig and dive but cannot my wealth spend,\n    Who yet no partial store appropriate,\nWho no armed ship into the Indies send,\n    To rob me of my orient estate.\n\n\nHe is the rich man, and enjoys the fruits of riches, who summer and\nwinter forever can find delight in his own thoughts. Buy a farm! What\nhave I to pay for a farm which a farmer will take?\n\nWhen I visit again some haunt of my youth, I am glad to find that\nnature wears so well. The landscape is indeed something real, and\nsolid, and sincere, and I have not put my foot through it yet. There is\na pleasant tract on the bank of the Concord, called Conantum, which I\nhave in my mind;\u2014the old deserted farm-house, the desolate pasture with\nits bleak cliff, the open wood, the river-reach, the green meadow in\nthe midst, and the moss-grown wild-apple orchard,\u2014places where one may\nhave many thoughts and not decide anything. It is a scene which I can\nnot only remember, as I might a vision, but when I will can bodily\nrevisit, and find it even so, unaccountable, yet unpretending in its\npleasant dreariness. When my thoughts are sensible of change, I love to\nsee and sit on rocks which I _have_ known, and pry into their moss, and\nsee unchangeableness so established. I not yet gray on rocks forever\ngray, I no longer green under the evergreens. There is something even\nin the lapse of time by which time recovers itself.\n\nAs we have said, it proved a cool as well as breezy day, and by the\ntime we reached Penichook Brook we were obliged to sit muffled in our\ncloaks, while the wind and current carried us along. We bounded swiftly\nover the rippling surface, far by many cultivated lands and the ends of\nfences which divided innumerable farms, with hardly a thought for the\nvarious lives which they separated; now by long rows of alders or\ngroves of pines or oaks, and now by some homestead where the women and\nchildren stood outside to gaze at us, till we had swept out of their\nsight, and beyond the limit of their longest Saturday ramble. We glided\npast the mouth of the Nashua, and not long after, of Salmon Brook,\nwithout more pause than the wind.\n\n        Salmon Brook,\n        Penichook,\nYe sweet waters of my brain,\n        When shall I look,\n        Or cast the hook,\n    In your waves again?\n\n        Silver eels,\n        Wooden creels,\nThese the baits that still allure,\n        And dragon-fly\n        That floated by,\n    May they still endure?\n\n\nThe shadows chased one another swiftly over wood and meadow, and their\nalternation harmonized with our mood. We could distinguish the clouds\nwhich cast each one, though never so high in the heavens. When a shadow\nflits across the landscape of the soul, where is the substance?\nProbably, if we were wise enough, we should see to what virtue we are\nindebted for any happier moment we enjoy. No doubt we have earned it at\nsome time; for the gifts of Heaven are never quite gratuitous. The\nconstant abrasion and decay of our lives makes the soil of our future\ngrowth. The wood which we now mature, when it becomes virgin mould,\ndetermines the character of our second growth, whether that be oaks or\npines. Every man casts a shadow; not his body only, but his imperfectly\nmingled spirit. This is his grief. Let him turn which way he will, it\nfalls opposite to the sun; short at noon, long at eve. Did you never\nsee it?\u2014But, referred to the sun, it is widest at its base, which is no\ngreater than his own opacity. The divine light is diffused almost\nentirely around us, and by means of the refraction of light, or else by\na certain self-luminousness, or, as some will have it, transparency, if\nwe preserve ourselves untarnished, we are able to enlighten our shaded\nside. At any rate, our darkest grief has that bronze color of the moon\neclipsed. There is no ill which may not be dissipated, like the dark,\nif you let in a stronger light upon it. Shadows, referred to the source\nof light, are pyramids whose bases are never greater than those of the\nsubstances which cast them, but light is a spherical congeries of\npyramids, whose very apexes are the sun itself, and hence the system\nshines with uninterrupted light. But if the light we use is but a\npaltry and narrow taper, most objects will cast a shadow wider than\nthemselves.\n\nThe places where we had stopped or spent the night in our way up the\nriver, had already acquired a slight historical interest for us; for\nmany upward day\u2019s voyaging were unravelled in this rapid downward\npassage. When one landed to stretch his limbs by walking, he soon found\nhimself falling behind his companion, and was obliged to take advantage\nof the curves, and ford the brooks and ravines in haste, to recover his\nground. Already the banks and the distant meadows wore a sober and\ndeepened tinge, for the September air had shorn them of their summer\u2019s\npride.\n\n\u201cAnd what\u2019s a life? The flourishing array\nOf the proud summer meadow, which to-day\nWears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay.\u201d\n\n\nThe air was really the \u201cfine element\u201d which the poets describe. It had\na finer and sharper grain, seen against the russet pastures and\nmeadows, than before, as if cleansed of the summer\u2019s impurities.\n\nHaving passed the New Hampshire line and reached the Horseshoe Interval\nin Tyngsborough, where there is a high and regular second bank, we\nclimbed up this in haste to get a nearer sight of the autumnal flowers,\nasters, golden-rod, and yarrow, and blue-curls (_Trichostema\ndichotoma_), humble roadside blossoms, and, lingering still, the\nharebell and the _Rhexia Virginica_. The last, growing in patches of\nlively pink flowers on the edge of the meadows, had almost too gay an\nappearance for the rest of the landscape, like a pink ribbon on the\nbonnet of a Puritan woman. Asters and golden-rods were the livery which\nnature wore at present. The latter alone expressed all the ripeness of\nthe season, and shed their mellow lustre over the fields, as if the now\ndeclining summer\u2019s sun had bequeathed its hues to them. It is the\nfloral solstice a little after midsummer, when the particles of golden\nlight, the sun-dust, have, as it were, fallen like seeds on the earth,\nand produced these blossoms. On every hillside, and in every valley,\nstood countless asters, coreopses, tansies, golden-rods, and the whole\nrace of yellow flowers, like Brahminical devotees, turning steadily\nwith their luminary from morning till night.\n\n\u201cI see the golden-rod shine bright,\n    As sun-showers at the birth of day,\nA golden plume of yellow light,\n    That robs the Day-god\u2019s splendid ray.\n\n\u201cThe aster\u2019s violet rays divide\n    The bank with many stars for me,\nAnd yarrow in blanch tints is dyed,\n    As moonlight floats across the sea.\n\n\u201cI see the emerald woods prepare\n    To shed their vestiture once more,\nAnd distant elm-trees spot the air\n    With yellow pictures softly o\u2019er.\n     *     *     *     *     *\n\u201cNo more the water-lily\u2019s pride\n    In milk-white circles swims content,\nNo more the blue-weed\u2019s clusters ride\n    And mock the heavens\u2019 element.\n     *     *     *     *     *\n\u201cAutumn, thy wreath and mine are blent\n    With the same colors, for to me\nA richer sky than all is lent,\n    While fades my dream-like company.\n\n\u201cOur skies glow purple, but the wind\n    Sobs chill through green trees and bright grass,\nTo-day shines fair, and lurk behind\n    The times that into winter pass.\n\n\u201cSo fair we seem, so cold we are,\n    So fast we hasten to decay,\nYet through our night glows many a star,\n    That still shall claim its sunny day.\u201d\n\n\nSo sang a Concord poet once.\n\nThere is a peculiar interest belonging to the still later flowers,\nwhich abide with us the approach of winter. There is something\nwitch-like in the appearance of the witch-hazel, which blossoms late in\nOctober and in November, with its irregular and angular spray and\npetals like furies\u2019 hair, or small ribbon streamers. Its blossoming,\ntoo, at this irregular period, when other shrubs have lost their\nleaves, as well as blossoms, looks like witches\u2019 craft. Certainly it\nblooms in no garden of man\u2019s. There is a whole fairy-land on the\nhillside where it grows.\n\nSome have thought that the gales do not at present waft to the voyager\nthe natural and original fragrance of the land, such as the early\nnavigators described, and that the loss of many odoriferous native\nplants, sweet-scented grasses and medicinal herbs, which formerly\nsweetened the atmosphere, and rendered it salubrious,\u2014by the grazing of\ncattle and the rooting of swine, is the source of many diseases which\nnow prevail; the earth, say they, having been long subjected to\nextremely artificial and luxurious modes of cultivation, to gratify the\nappetite, converted into a stye and hot-bed, where men for profit\nincrease the ordinary decay of nature.\n\nAccording to the record of an old inhabitant of Tyngsborough, now dead,\nwhose farm we were now gliding past, one of the greatest freshets on\nthis river took place in October, 1785, and its height was marked by a\nnail driven into an apple-tree behind his house. One of his descendants\nhas shown this to me, and I judged it to be at least seventeen or\neighteen feet above the level of the river at the time. According to\nBarber, the river rose twenty-one feet above the common high-water\nmark, at Bradford in the year 1818. Before the Lowell and Nashua\nrailroad was built, the engineer made inquiries of the inhabitants\nalong the banks as to how high they had known the river to rise. When\nhe came to this house he was conducted to the apple-tree, and as the\nnail was not then visible, the lady of the house placed her hand on the\ntrunk where she said that she remembered the nail to have been from her\nchildhood. In the mean while the old man put his arm inside the tree,\nwhich was hollow, and felt the point of the nail sticking through, and\nit was exactly opposite to her hand. The spot is now plainly marked by\na notch in the bark. But as no one else remembered the river to have\nrisen so high as this, the engineer disregarded this statement, and I\nlearn that there has since been a freshet which rose within nine inches\nof the rails at Biscuit Brook, and such a freshet as that of 1785 would\nhave covered the railroad two feet deep.\n\nThe revolutions of nature tell as fine tales, and make as interesting\nrevelations, on this river\u2019s banks, as on the Euphrates or the Nile.\nThis apple-tree, which stands within a few rods of the river, is called\n\u201cElisha\u2019s apple-tree,\u201d from a friendly Indian, who was anciently in the\nservice of Jonathan Tyng, and, with one other man, was killed here by\nhis own race in one of the Indian wars,\u2014the particulars of which affair\nwere told us on the spot. He was buried close by, no one knew exactly\nwhere, but in the flood of 1785, so great a weight of water standing\nover the grave, caused the earth to settle where it had once been\ndisturbed, and when the flood went down, a sunken spot, exactly of the\nform and size of the grave, revealed its locality; but this was now\nlost again, and no future flood can detect it; yet, no doubt, Nature\nwill know how to point it out in due time, if it be necessary, by\nmethods yet more searching and unexpected. Thus there is not only the\ncrisis when the spirit ceases to inspire and expand the body, marked by\na fresh mound in the churchyard, but there is also a crisis when the\nbody ceases to take up room as such in nature, marked by a fainter\ndepression in the earth.\n\nWe sat awhile to rest us here upon the brink of the western bank,\nsurrounded by the glossy leaves of the red variety of the mountain\nlaurel, just above the head of Wicasuck Island, where we could observe\nsome scows which were loading with clay from the opposite shore, and\nalso overlook the grounds of the farmer, of whom I have spoken, who\nonce hospitably entertained us for a night. He had on his pleasant\nfarm, besides an abundance of the beach-plum, or _Prunus littoralis_,\nwhich grew wild, the Canada plum under cultivation, fine Porter apples,\nsome peaches, and large patches of musk and water melons, which he\ncultivated for the Lowell market. Elisha\u2019s apple-tree, too, bore a\nnative fruit, which was prized by the family. He raised the blood\npeach, which, as he showed us with satisfaction, was more like the oak\nin the color of its bark and in the setting of its branches, and was\nless liable to break down under the weight of the fruit, or the snow,\nthan other varieties. It was of slower growth, and its branches strong\nand tough. There, also, was his nursery of native apple-trees, thickly\nset upon the bank, which cost but little care, and which he sold to the\nneighboring farmers when they were five or six years old. To see a\nsingle peach upon its stem makes an impression of paradisaical\nfertility and luxury. This reminded us even of an old Roman farm, as\ndescribed by Varro:\u2014C\u00e6sar Vopiscus \u00c6dilicius, when he pleaded before\nthe Censors, said that the grounds of Rosea were the garden (_sumen_\nthe tid-bit) of Italy, in which a pole being left would not be visible\nthe day after, on account of the growth of the herbage. This soil may\nnot have been remarkably fertile, yet at this distance we thought that\nthis anecdote might be told of the Tyngsborough farm.\n\nWhen we passed Wicasuck Island, there was a pleasure-boat containing a\nyouth and a maiden on the island brook, which we were pleased to see,\nsince it proved that there were some hereabouts to whom our excursion\nwould not be wholly strange. Before this, a canal-boatman, of whom we\nmade some inquiries respecting Wicasuck Island, and who told us that it\nwas disputed property, suspected that we had a claim upon it, and\nthough we assured him that all this was news to us, and explained, as\nwell as we could, why we had come to see it, he believed not a word of\nit, and seriously offered us one hundred dollars for our title. The\nonly other small boats which we met with were used to pick up\ndriftwood. Some of the poorer class along the stream collect, in this\nway, all the fuel which they require. While one of us landed not far\nfrom this island to forage for provisions among the farm-houses whose\nroofs we saw, for our supply was now exhausted, the other, sitting in\nthe boat, which was moored to the shore, was left alone to his\nreflections.\n\nIf there is nothing new on the earth, still the traveller always has a\nresource in the skies. They are constantly turning a new page to view.\nThe wind sets the types on this blue ground, and the inquiring may\nalways read a new truth there. There are things there written with such\nfine and subtile tinctures, paler than the juice of limes, that to the\ndiurnal eye they leave no trace, and only the chemistry of night\nreveals them. Every man\u2019s daylight firmament answers in his mind to the\nbrightness of the vision in his starriest hour.\n\nThese continents and hemispheres are soon run over, but an always\nunexplored and infinite region makes off on every side from the mind,\nfurther than to sunset, and we can make no highway or beaten track into\nit, but the grass immediately springs up in the path, for we travel\nthere chiefly with our wings.\n\nSometimes we see objects as through a thin haze, in their eternal\nrelations, and they stand like Palenque and the Pyramids, and we wonder\nwho set them up, and for what purpose. If we see the reality in things,\nof what moment is the superficial and apparent longer? What are the\nearth and all its interests beside the deep surmise which pierces and\nscatters them? While I sit here listening to the waves which ripple and\nbreak on this shore, I am absolved from all obligation to the past, and\nthe council of nations may reconsider its votes. The grating of a\npebble annuls them. Still occasionally in my dreams I remember that\nrippling water.\n\nOft, as I turn me on my pillow o\u2019er,\nI hear the lapse of waves upon the shore,\nDistinct as if it were at broad noonday,\nAnd I were drifting down from Nashua.\n\n\nWith a bending sail we glided rapidly by Tyngsborough and Chelmsford,\neach holding in one hand half of a tart country apple-pie which we had\npurchased to celebrate our return, and in the other a fragment of the\nnewspaper in which it was wrapped, devouring these with divided relish,\nand learning the news which had transpired since we sailed. The river\nhere opened into a broad and straight reach of great length, which we\nbounded merrily over before a smacking breeze, with a devil-may-care\nlook in our faces, and our boat a white bone in its mouth, and a speed\nwhich greatly astonished some scow boatmen whom we met. The wind in the\nhorizon rolled like a flood over valley and plain, and every tree bent\nto the blast, and the mountains like school-boys turned their cheeks to\nit. They were great and current motions, the flowing sail, the running\nstream, the waving tree, the roving wind. The north-wind stepped\nreadily into the harness which we had provided, and pulled us along\nwith good will. Sometimes we sailed as gently and steadily as the\nclouds overhead, watching the receding shores and the motions of our\nsail; the play of its pulse so like our own lives, so thin and yet so\nfull of life, so noiseless when it labored hardest, so noisy and\nimpatient when least effective; now bending to some generous impulse of\nthe breeze, and then fluttering and flapping with a kind of human\nsuspense. It was the scale on which the varying temperature of distant\natmospheres was graduated, and it was some attraction for us that the\nbreeze it played with had been out of doors so long. Thus we sailed,\nnot being able to fly, but as next best, making a long furrow in the\nfields of the Merrimack toward our home, with our wings spread, but\nnever lifting our heel from the watery trench; gracefully ploughing\nhomeward with our brisk and willing team, wind and stream, pulling\ntogether, the former yet a wild steer, yoked to his more sedate fellow.\nIt was very near flying, as when the duck rushes through the water with\nan impulse of her wings, throwing the spray about her, before she can\nrise. How we had stuck fast if drawn up but a few feet on the shore!\n\nWhen we reached the great bend just above Middlesex, where the river\nruns east thirty-five miles to the sea, we at length lost the aid of\nthis propitious wind, though we contrived to make one long and\njudicious tack carry us nearly to the locks of the canal. We were here\nlocked through at noon by our old friend, the lover of the higher\nmathematics, who seemed glad to see us safe back again through so many\nlocks; but we did not stop to consider any of his problems, though we\ncould cheerfully have spent a whole autumn in this way another time,\nand never have asked what his religion was. It is so rare to meet with\na man out-doors who cherishes a worthy thought in his mind, which is\nindependent of the labor of his hands. Behind every man\u2019s busy-ness\nthere should be a level of undisturbed serenity and industry, as within\nthe reef encircling a coral isle there is always an expanse of still\nwater, where the depositions are going on which will finally raise it\nabove the surface.\n\nThe eye which can appreciate the naked and absolute beauty of a\nscientific truth is far more rare than that which is attracted by a\nmoral one. Few detect the morality in the former, or the science in the\nlatter. Aristotle defined art to be \u039b\u03cc\u03b3\u03bf\u03c2 \u03c4\u03bf\u1fe6 \u1f14\u03c1\u03b3\u03bf\u03c5 \u1f04\u03bd\u03b5\u03c5 \u1f55\u03bb\u03b7\u03c2, _The\nprinciple of the work without the wood_; but most men prefer to have\nsome of the wood along with the principle; they demand that the truth\nbe clothed in flesh and blood and the warm colors of life. They prefer\nthe partial statement because it fits and measures them and their\ncommodities best. But science still exists everywhere as the sealer of\nweights and measures at least.\n\nWe have heard much about the poetry of mathematics, but very little of\nit has yet been sung. The ancients had a juster notion of their poetic\nvalue than we. The most distinct and beautiful statement of any truth\nmust take at last the mathematical form. We might so simplify the rules\nof moral philosophy, as well as of arithmetic, that one formula would\nexpress them both. All the moral laws are readily translated into\nnatural philosophy, for often we have only to restore the primitive\nmeaning of the words by which they are expressed, or to attend to their\nliteral instead of their metaphorical sense. They are already\n_supernatural_ philosophy. The whole body of what is now called moral\nor ethical truth existed in the golden age as abstract science. Or, if\nwe prefer, we may say that the laws of Nature are the purest morality.\nThe Tree of Knowledge is a Tree of Knowledge of good and evil. He is\nnot a true man of science who does not bring some sympathy to his\nstudies, and expect to learn something by behavior as well as by\napplication. It is childish to rest in the discovery of mere\ncoincidences, or of partial and extraneous laws. The study of geometry\nis a petty and idle exercise of the mind, if it is applied to no larger\nsystem than the starry one. Mathematics should be mixed not only with\nphysics but with ethics, _that_ is _mixed_ mathematics. The fact which\ninterests us most is the life of the naturalist. The purest science is\nstill biographical. Nothing will dignify and elevate science while it\nis sundered so wholly from the moral life of its devotee, and he\nprofesses another religion than it teaches, and worships at a foreign\nshrine. Anciently the faith of a philosopher was identical with his\nsystem, or, in other words, his view of the universe.\n\nMy friends mistake when they communicate facts to me with so much\npains. Their presence, even their exaggerations and loose statements,\nare equally good facts for me. I have no respect for facts even except\nwhen I would use them, and for the most part I am independent of those\nwhich I hear, and can afford to be inaccurate, or, in other words, to\nsubstitute more present and pressing facts in their place.\n\nThe poet uses the results of science and philosophy, and generalizes\ntheir widest deductions.\n\nThe process of discovery is very simple. An unwearied and systematic\napplication of known laws to nature, causes the unknown to reveal\nthemselves. Almost any _mode_ of observation will be successful at\nlast, for what is most wanted is method. Only let something be\ndetermined and fixed around which observation may rally. How many new\nrelations a foot-rule alone will reveal, and to how many things still\nthis has not been applied! What wonderful discoveries have been, and\nmay still be, made, with a plumb-line, a level, a surveyor\u2019s compass, a\nthermometer, or a barometer! Where there is an observatory and a\ntelescope, we expect that any eyes will see new worlds at once. I\nshould say that the most prominent scientific men of our country, and\nperhaps of this age, are either serving the arts and not pure science,\nor are performing faithful but quite subordinate labors in particular\ndepartments. They make no steady and systematic approaches to the\ncentral fact. A discovery is made, and at once the attention of all\nobservers is distracted to that, and it draws many analogous\ndiscoveries in its train; as if their work were not already laid out\nfor them, but they had been lying on their oars. There is wanting\nconstant and accurate observation with enough of theory to direct and\ndiscipline it.\n\nBut, above all, there is wanting genius. Our books of science, as they\nimprove in accuracy, are in danger of losing the freshness and vigor\nand readiness to appreciate the real laws of Nature, which is a marked\nmerit in the ofttimes false theories of the ancients. I am attracted by\nthe slight pride and satisfaction, the emphatic and even exaggerated\nstyle in which some of the older naturalists speak of the operations of\nNature, though they are better qualified to appreciate than to\ndiscriminate the facts. Their assertions are not without value when\ndisproved. If they are not facts, they are suggestions for Nature\nherself to act upon. \u201cThe Greeks,\u201d says Gesner, \u201chad a common proverb\n(\u039b\u03b1\u03b3\u03bf\u03c2 \u03ba\u03b1\u03b8\u03b5\u03c5\u03b4\u03bf\u03bd) a sleeping hare, for a dissembler or counterfeit;\nbecause the hare sees when she sleeps; for this is an admirable and\nrare work of Nature, that all the residue of her bodily parts take\ntheir rest, but the eye standeth continually sentinel.\u201d\n\nObservation is so wide awake, and facts are being so rapidly added to\nthe sum of human experience, that it appears as if the theorizer would\nalways be in arrears, and were doomed forever to arrive at imperfect\nconclusions; but the power to perceive a law is equally rare in all\nages of the world, and depends but little on the number of facts\nobserved. The senses of the savage will furnish him with facts enough\nto set him up as a philosopher. The ancients can still speak to us with\nauthority, even on the themes of geology and chemistry, though these\nstudies are thought to have had their birth in modern times. Much is\nsaid about the progress of science in these centuries. I should say\nthat the useful results of science had accumulated, but that there had\nbeen no accumulation of knowledge, strictly speaking, for posterity;\nfor knowledge is to be acquired only by a corresponding experience. How\ncan we _know_ what we are _told_ merely? Each man can interpret\nanother\u2019s experience only by his own. We read that Newton discovered\nthe law of gravitation, but how many who have heard of his famous\ndiscovery have recognized the same truth that he did? It may be not\none. The revelation which was then made to him has not been superseded\nby the revelation made to any successor.\n\nWe see the _planet_ fall,\nAnd that is all.\n\n\nIn a review of Sir James Clark Ross\u2019s Antarctic Voyage of Discovery,\nthere is a passage which shows how far a body of men are commonly\nimpressed by an object of sublimity, and which is also a good instance\nof the step from the sublime to the ridiculous. After describing the\ndiscovery of the Antarctic Continent, at first seen a hundred miles\ndistant over fields of ice,\u2014stupendous ranges of mountains from seven\nand eight to twelve and fourteen thousand feet high, covered with\neternal snow and ice, in solitary and inaccessible grandeur, at one\ntime the weather being beautifully clear, and the sun shining on the\nicy landscape; a continent whose islands only are accessible, and these\nexhibited \u201cnot the smallest trace of vegetation,\u201d only in a few places\nthe rocks protruding through their icy covering, to convince the\nbeholder that land formed the nucleus, and that it was not an\niceberg;\u2014the practical British reviewer proceeds thus, sticking to his\nlast, \u201cOn the 22d of January, afternoon, the Expedition made the\nlatitude of 74\u00b0 20\u2019 and by 7h P.M., having ground (ground! where did\nthey get ground?) to believe that they were then in a higher southern\nlatitude than had been attained by that enterprising seaman, the late\nCaptain James Weddel, and therefore higher than all their predecessors,\nan extra allowance of grog was issued to the crews as a reward for\ntheir perseverance.\u201d\n\nLet not us sailors of late centuries take upon ourselves any airs on\naccount of our Newtons and our Cuviers; we deserve an extra allowance\nof grog only.\n\nWe endeavored in vain to persuade the wind to blow through the long\ncorridor of the canal, which is here cut straight through the woods,\nand were obliged to resort to our old expedient of drawing by a cord.\nWhen we reached the Concord, we were forced to row once more in good\nearnest, with neither wind nor current in our favor, but by this time\nthe rawness of the day had disappeared, and we experienced the warmth\nof a summer afternoon. This change in the weather was favorable to our\ncontemplative mood, and disposed us to dream yet deeper at our oars,\nwhile we floated in imagination farther down the stream of time, as we\nhad floated down the stream of the Merrimack, to poets of a milder\nperiod than had engaged us in the morning. Chelmsford and Billerica\nappeared like old English towns, compared with Merrimack and Nashua,\nand many generations of civil poets might have lived and sung here.\n\nWhat a contrast between the stern and desolate poetry of Ossian, and\nthat of Chaucer, and even of Shakespeare and Milton, much more of\nDryden, and Pope, and Gray. Our summer of English poetry like the Greek\nand Latin before it, seems well advanced toward its fall, and laden\nwith the fruit and foliage of the season, with bright autumnal tints,\nbut soon the winter will scatter its myriad clustering and shading\nleaves, and leave only a few desolate and fibrous boughs to sustain the\nsnow and rime, and creak in the blasts of ages. We cannot escape the\nimpression that the Muse has stooped a little in her flight, when we\ncome to the literature of civilized eras. Now first we hear of various\nages and styles of poetry; it is pastoral, and lyric, and narrative,\nand didactic; but the poetry of runic monuments is of one style, and\nfor every age. The bard has in a great measure lost the dignity and\nsacredness of his office. Formerly he was called a _seer_, but now it\nis thought that one man sees as much as another. He has no longer the\nbardic rage, and only conceives the deed, which he formerly stood ready\nto perform. Hosts of warriors earnest for battle could not mistake nor\ndispense with the ancient bard. His lays were heard in the pauses of\nthe fight. There was no danger of his being overlooked by his\ncontemporaries. But now the hero and the bard are of different\nprofessions. When we come to the pleasant English verse, the storms\nhave all cleared away and it will never thunder and lighten more. The\npoet has come within doors, and exchanged the forest and crag for the\nfireside, the hut of the Gael, and Stonehenge with its circles of\nstones, for the house of the Englishman. No hero stands at the door\nprepared to break forth into song or heroic action, but a homely\nEnglishman, who cultivates the art of poetry. We see the comfortable\nfireside, and hear the crackling fagots in all the verse.\n\nNotwithstanding the broad humanity of Chaucer, and the many social and\ndomestic comforts which we meet with in his verse, we have to narrow\nour vision somewhat to consider him, as if he occupied less space in\nthe landscape, and did not stretch over hill and valley as Ossian does.\nYet, seen from the side of posterity, as the father of English poetry,\npreceded by a long silence or confusion in history, unenlivened by any\nstrain of pure melody, we easily come to reverence him. Passing over\nthe earlier continental poets, since we are bound to the pleasant\narchipelago of English poetry, Chaucer\u2019s is the first name after that\nmisty weather in which Ossian lived, which can detain us long. Indeed,\nthough he represents so different a culture and society, he may be\nregarded as in many respects the Homer of the English poets. Perhaps he\nis the youthfullest of them all. We return to him as to the purest\nwell, the fountain farthest removed from the highway of desultory life.\nHe is so natural and cheerful, compared with later poets, that we might\nalmost regard him as a personification of spring. To the faithful\nreader his muse has even given an aspect to his times, and when he is\nfresh from perusing him, they seem related to the golden age. It is\nstill the poetry of youth and life, rather than of thought; and though\nthe moral vein is obvious and constant, it has not yet banished the sun\nand daylight from his verse. The loftiest strains of the muse are, for\nthe most part, sublimely plaintive, and not a carol as free as\nnature\u2019s. The content which the sun shines to celebrate from morning to\nevening, is unsung. The muse solaces herself, and is not ravished but\nconsoled. There is a catastrophe implied, and a tragic element in all\nour verse, and less of the lark and morning dews, than of the\nnightingale and evening shades. But in Homer and Chaucer there is more\nof the innocence and serenity of youth than in the more modern and\nmoral poets. The Iliad is not Sabbath but morning reading, and men\ncling to this old song, because they still have moments of unbaptized\nand uncommitted life, which give them an appetite for more. To the\ninnocent there are neither cherubim nor angels. At rare intervals we\nrise above the necessity of virtue into an unchangeable morning light,\nin which we have only to live right on and breathe the ambrosial air.\nThe Iliad represents no creed nor opinion, and we read it with a rare\nsense of freedom and irresponsibility, as if we trod on native ground,\nand were autochthones of the soil.\n\nChaucer had eminently the habits of a literary man and a scholar. There\nwere never any times so stirring that there were not to be found some\nsedentary still. He was surrounded by the din of arms. The battles of\nHallidon Hill and Neville\u2019s Cross, and the still more memorable battles\nof Cressy and Poictiers, were fought in his youth; but these did not\nconcern our poet much, Wickliffe and his reform much more. He regarded\nhimself always as one privileged to sit and converse with books. He\nhelped to establish the literary class. His character as one of the\nfathers of the English language would alone make his works important,\neven those which have little poetical merit. He was as simple as\nWordsworth in preferring his homely but vigorous Saxon tongue, when it\nwas neglected by the court, and had not yet attained to the dignity of\na literature, and rendered a similar service to his country to that\nwhich Dante rendered to Italy. If Greek sufficeth for Greek, and Arabic\nfor Arabian, and Hebrew for Jew, and Latin for Latin, then English\nshall suffice for him, for any of these will serve to teach truth\n\u201cright as divers pathes leaden divers folke the right waye to Rome.\u201d In\nthe Testament of Love he writes, \u201cLet then clerkes enditen in Latin,\nfor they have the propertie of science, and the knowinge in that\nfacultie, and lette Frenchmen in their Frenche also enditen their\nqueinte termes, for it is kyndely to their mouthes, and let us shewe\nour fantasies in soche wordes as we lerneden of our dames tonge.\u201d\n\nHe will know how to appreciate Chaucer best, who has come down to him\nthe natural way, through the meagre pastures of Saxon and\nante-Chaucerian poetry; and yet, so human and wise he appears after\nsuch diet, that we are liable to misjudge him still. In the Saxon\npoetry extant, in the earliest English, and the contemporary Scottish\npoetry, there is less to remind the reader of the rudeness and vigor of\nyouth, than of the feebleness of a declining age. It is for the most\npart translation of imitation merely, with only an occasional and\nslight tinge of poetry, oftentimes the falsehood and exaggeration of\nfable, without its imagination to redeem it, and we look in vain to\nfind antiquity restored, humanized, and made blithe again by some\nnatural sympathy between it and the present. But Chaucer is fresh and\nmodern still, and no dust settles on his true passages. It lightens\nalong the line, and we are reminded that flowers have bloomed, and\nbirds sung, and hearts beaten in England. Before the earnest gaze of\nthe reader, the rust and moss of time gradually drop off, and the\noriginal green life is revealed. He was a homely and domestic man, and\ndid breathe quite as modern men do.\n\nThere is no wisdom that can take place of humanity, and we find _that_\nin Chaucer. We can expand at last in his breadth, and we think that we\ncould have been that man\u2019s acquaintance. He was worthy to be a citizen\nof England, while Petrarch and Boccacio lived in Italy, and Tell and\nTamerlane in Switzerland and in Asia, and Bruce in Scotland, and\nWickliffe, and Gower, and Edward the Third, and John of Gaunt, and the\nBlack Prince, were his own countrymen as well as contemporaries; all\nstout and stirring names. The fame of Roger Bacon came down from the\npreceding century, and the name of Dante still possessed the influence\nof a living presence. On the whole, Chaucer impresses us as greater\nthan his reputation, and not a little like Homer and Shakespeare, for\nhe would have held up his head in their company. Among early English\npoets he is the landlord and host, and has the authority of such. The\naffectionate mention which succeeding early poets make of him, coupling\nhim with Homer and Virgil, is to be taken into the account in\nestimating his character and influence. King James and Dunbar of\nScotland speak of him with more love and reverence than any modern\nauthor of his predecessors of the last century. The same childlike\nrelation is without a parallel now. For the most part we read him\nwithout criticism, for he does not plead his own cause, but speaks for\nhis readers, and has that greatness of trust and reliance which compels\npopularity. He confides in the reader, and speaks privily with him,\nkeeping nothing back. And in return the reader has great confidence in\nhim, that he tells no lies, and reads his story with indulgence, as if\nit were the circumlocution of a child, but often discovers afterwards\nthat he has spoken with more directness and economy of words than a\nsage. He is never heartless,\n\n\u201cFor first the thing is thought within the hart,\nEr any word out from the mouth astart.\u201d\n\n\nAnd so new was all his theme in those days, that he did not have to\ninvent, but only to tell.\n\nWe admire Chaucer for his sturdy English wit. The easy height he speaks\nfrom in his Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, as if he were equal to\nany of the company there assembled, is as good as any particular\nexcellence in it. But though it is full of good sense and humanity, it\nis not transcendent poetry. For picturesque description of persons it\nis, perhaps, without a parallel in English poetry; yet it is\nessentially humorous, as the loftiest genius never is. Humor, however\nbroad and genial, takes a narrower view than enthusiasm. To his own\nfiner vein he added all the common wit and wisdom of his time, and\neverywhere in his works his remarkable knowledge of the world, and nice\nperception of character, his rare common sense and proverbial wisdom,\nare apparent. His genius does not soar like Milton\u2019s, but is genial and\nfamiliar. It shows great tenderness and delicacy, but not the heroic\nsentiment. It is only a greater portion of humanity with all its\nweakness. He is not heroic, as Raleigh, nor pious, as Herbert, nor\nphilosophical, as Shakespeare, but he is the child of the English muse,\nthat child which is the father of the man. The charm of his poetry\nconsists often only in an exceeding naturalness, perfect sincerity,\nwith the behavior of a child rather than of a man.\n\nGentleness and delicacy of character are everywhere apparent in his\nverse. The simplest and humblest words come readily to his lips. No one\ncan read the Prioress\u2019s tale, understanding the spirit in which it was\nwritten, and in which the child sings _O alma redemptoris mater_, or\nthe account of the departure of Constance with her child upon the sea,\nin the Man of Lawe\u2019s tale, without feeling the native innocence and\nrefinement of the author. Nor can we be mistaken respecting the\nessential purity of his character, disregarding the apology of the\nmanners of the age. A simple pathos and feminine gentleness, which\nWordsworth only occasionally approaches, but does not equal, are\npeculiar to him. We are tempted to say that his genius was feminine,\nnot masculine. It was such a feminineness, however, as is rarest to\nfind in woman, though not the appreciation of it; perhaps it is not to\nbe found at all in woman, but is only the feminine in man.\n\nSuch pure and genuine and childlike love of Nature is hardly to be\nfound in any poet.\n\nChaucer\u2019s remarkably trustful and affectionate character appears in his\nfamiliar, yet innocent and reverent, manner of speaking of his God. He\ncomes into his thought without any false reverence, and with no more\nparade than the zephyr to his ear. If Nature is our mother, then God is\nour father. There is less love and simple, practical trust in\nShakespeare and Milton. How rarely in our English tongue do we find\nexpressed any affection for God. Certainly, there is no sentiment so\nrare as the love of God. Herbert almost alone expresses it, \u201cAh, my\ndear God!\u201d Our poet uses similar words with propriety; and whenever he\nsees a beautiful person, or other object, prides himself on the\n\u201cmaistry\u201d of his God. He even recommends Dido to be his bride,\u2014\n\n\u201cif that God that heaven and yearth made,\nWould have a love for beauty and goodnesse,\nAnd womanhede, trouth, and semeliness.\u201d\n\n\nBut in justification of our praise, we must refer to his works\nthemselves; to the Prologue to the Canterbury Tales, the account of\nGentilesse, the Flower and the Leaf, the stories of Griselda, Virginia,\nAriadne, and Blanche the Dutchesse, and much more of less distinguished\nmerit. There are many poets of more taste, and better manners, who knew\nhow to leave out their dulness; but such negative genius cannot detain\nus long; we shall return to Chaucer still with love. Some natures,\nwhich are really rude and ill-developed, have yet a higher standard of\nperfection than others which are refined and well balanced. Even the\nclown has taste, whose dictates, though he disregards them, are higher\nand purer than those which the artist obeys. If we have to wander\nthrough many dull and prosaic passages in Chaucer, we have at least the\nsatisfaction of knowing that it is not an artificial dulness, but too\neasily matched by many passages in life. We confess that we feel a\ndisposition commonly to concentrate sweets, and accumulate pleasures;\nbut the poet may be presumed always to speak as a traveller, who leads\nus through a varied scenery, from one eminence to another, and it is,\nperhaps, more pleasing, after all, to meet with a fine thought in its\nnatural setting. Surely fate has enshrined it in these circumstances\nfor some end. Nature strews her nuts and flowers broadcast, and never\ncollects them into heaps. This was the soil it grew in, and this the\nhour it bloomed in; if sun, wind, and rain came here to cherish and\nexpand the flower, shall not we come here to pluck it?\n\nA true poem is distinguished not so much by a felicitous expression, or\nany thought it suggests, as by the atmosphere which surrounds it. Most\nhave beauty of outline merely, and are striking as the form and bearing\nof a stranger; but true verses come toward us indistinctly, as the very\nbreath of all friendliness, and envelop us in their spirit and\nfragrance. Much of our poetry has the very best manners, but no\ncharacter. It is only an unusual precision and elasticity of speech, as\nif its author had taken, not an intoxicating draught, but an electuary.\nIt has the distinct outline of sculpture, and chronicles an early hour.\nUnder the influence of passion all men speak thus distinctly, but wrath\nis not always divine.\n\nThere are two classes of men called poets. The one cultivates life, the\nother art,\u2014one seeks food for nutriment, the other for flavor; one\nsatisfies hunger, the other gratifies the palate. There are two kinds\nof writing, both great and rare; one that of genius, or the inspired,\nthe other of intellect and taste, in the intervals of inspiration. The\nformer is above criticism, always correct, giving the law to criticism.\nIt vibrates and pulsates with life forever. It is sacred, and to be\nread with reverence, as the works of nature are studied. There are few\ninstances of a sustained style of this kind; perhaps every man has\nspoken words, but the speaker is then careless of the record. Such a\nstyle removes us out of personal relations with its author; we do not\ntake his words on our lips, but his sense into our hearts. It is the\nstream of inspiration, which bubbles out, now here, now there, now in\nthis man, now in that. It matters not through what ice-crystals it is\nseen, now a fountain, now the ocean stream running under ground. It is\nin Shakespeare, Alpheus, in Burns, Arethuse; but ever the same. The\nother is self-possessed and wise. It is reverent of genius, and greedy\nof inspiration. It is conscious in the highest and the least degree. It\nconsists with the most perfect command of the faculties. It dwells in a\nrepose as of the desert, and objects are as distinct in it as oases or\npalms in the horizon of sand. The train of thought moves with subdued\nand measured step, like a caravan. But the pen is only an instrument in\nits hand, and not instinct with life, like a longer arm. It leaves a\nthin varnish or glaze over all its work. The works of Goethe furnish\nremarkable instances of the latter.\n\nThere is no just and serene criticism as yet. Nothing is considered\nsimply as it lies in the lap of eternal beauty, but our thoughts, as\nwell as our bodies, must be dressed after the latest fashions. Our\ntaste is too delicate and particular. It says nay to the poet\u2019s work,\nbut never yea to his hope. It invites him to adorn his deformities, and\nnot to cast them off by expansion, as the tree its bark. We are a\npeople who live in a bright light, in houses of pearl and porcelain,\nand drink only light wines, whose teeth are easily set on edge by the\nleast natural sour. If we had been consulted, the backbone of the earth\nwould have been made, not of granite, but of Bristol spar. A modern\nauthor would have died in infancy in a ruder age. But the poet is\nsomething more than a scald, \u201ca smoother and polisher of language\u201d; he\nis a Cincinnatus in literature, and occupies no west end of the world.\nLike the sun, he will indifferently select his rhymes, and with a\nliberal taste weave into his verse the planet and the stubble.\n\nIn these old books the stucco has long since crumbled away, and we read\nwhat was sculptured in the granite. They are rude and massive in their\nproportions, rather than smooth and delicate in their finish. The\nworkers in stone polish only their chimney ornaments, but their\npyramids are roughly done. There is a soberness in a rough aspect, as\nof unhewn granite, which addresses a depth in us, but a polished\nsurface hits only the ball of the eye. The true finish is the work of\ntime, and the use to which a thing is put. The elements are still\npolishing the pyramids. Art may varnish and gild, but it can do no\nmore. A work of genius is rough-hewn from the first, because it\nanticipates the lapse of time, and has an ingrained polish, which still\nappears when fragments are broken off, an essential quality of its\nsubstance. Its beauty is at the same time its strength, and it breaks\nwith a lustre.\n\nThe great poem must have the stamp of greatness as well as its essence.\nThe reader easily goes within the shallowest contemporary poetry, and\ninforms it with all the life and promise of the day, as the pilgrim\ngoes within the temple, and hears the faintest strains of the\nworshippers; but it will have to speak to posterity, traversing these\ndeserts, through the ruins of its outmost walls, by the grandeur and\nbeauty of its proportions.\n\n\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\n\nBut here on the stream of the Concord, where we have all the while been\nbodily, Nature, who is superior to all styles and ages, is now, with\npensive face, composing her poem Autumn, with which no work of man will\nbear to be compared.\n\nIn summer we live out of doors, and have only impulses and feelings,\nwhich are all for action, and must wait commonly for the stillness and\nlonger nights of autumn and winter before any thought will subside; we\nare sensible that behind the rustling leaves, and the stacks of grain,\nand the bare clusters of the grape, there is the field of a wholly new\nlife, which no man has lived; that even this earth was made for more\nmysterious and nobler inhabitants than men and women. In the hues of\nOctober sunsets, we see the portals to other mansions than those which\nwe occupy, not far off geographically,\u2014\n\n\u201cThere is a place beyond that flaming hill,\n    From whence the stars their thin appearance shed,\nA place beyond all place, where never ill,\n    Nor impure thought was ever harbored.\u201d\n\n\nSometimes a mortal feels in himself Nature, not his Father but his\nMother stirs within him, and he becomes immortal with her immortality.\nFrom time to time she claims kindredship with us, and some globule from\nher veins steals up into our own.\n\nI am the autumnal sun,\nWith autumn gales my race is run;\nWhen will the hazel put forth its flowers,\nOr the grape ripen under my bowers?\nWhen will the harvest or the hunter\u2019s moon,\nTurn my midnight into mid-noon?\n        I am all sere and yellow,\n        And to my core mellow.\nThe mast is dropping within my woods,\nThe winter is lurking within my moods,\nAnd the rustling of the withered leaf\nIs the constant music of my grief.\n\n\nTo an unskilful rhymer the Muse thus spoke in prose:\n\nThe moon no longer reflects the day, but rises to her absolute rule,\nand the husbandman and hunter acknowledge her for their mistress.\nAsters and golden-rods reign along the way, and the life-everlasting\nwithers not. The fields are reaped and shorn of their pride, but an\ninward verdure still crowns them. The thistle scatters its down on the\npool, and yellow leaves clothe the vine, and naught disturbs the\nserious life of men. But behind the sheaves, and under the sod, there\nlurks a ripe fruit, which the reapers have not gathered, the true\nharvest of the year, which it bears forever, annually watering and\nmaturing it, and man never severs the stalk which bears this palatable\nfruit.\n\nMen nowhere, east or west, live yet a _natural_ life, round which the\nvine clings, and which the elm willingly shadows. Man would desecrate\nit by his touch, and so the beauty of the world remains veiled to him.\nHe needs not only to be spiritualized, but _naturalized_, on the soil\nof earth. Who shall conceive what kind of roof the heavens might extend\nover him, what seasons minister to him, and what employment dignify his\nlife! Only the convalescent raise the veil of nature. An immortality in\nhis life would confer immortality on his abode. The winds should be his\nbreath, the seasons his moods, and he should impart of his serenity to\nNature herself. But such as we know him he is ephemeral like the\nscenery which surrounds him, and does not aspire to an enduring\nexistence. When we come down into the distant village, visible from the\nmountain-top, the nobler inhabitants with whom we peopled it have\ndeparted, and left only vermin in its desolate streets. It is the\nimagination of poets which puts those brave speeches into the mouths of\ntheir heroes. They may feign that Cato\u2019s last words were\n\n\u201cThe earth, the air, and seas I know, and all\nThe joys and horrors of their peace and wars;\nAnd now will view the Gods\u2019 state and the stars,\u201d\n\n\nbut such are not the thoughts nor the destiny of common men. What is\nthis heaven which they expect, if it is no better than they expect? Are\nthey prepared for a better than they can now imagine? Where is the\nheaven of him who dies on a stage, in a theatre? Here or nowhere is our\nheaven.\n\n\u201cAlthough we see celestial bodies move\nAbove the earth, the earth we till and love.\u201d\n\n\nWe can conceive of nothing more fair than something which we have\nexperienced. \u201cThe remembrance of youth is a sigh.\u201d We linger in manhood\nto tell the dreams of our childhood, and they are half forgotten ere we\nhave learned the language. We have need to be earth-born as well as\nheaven-born, \u03b3\u03b7\u03b3\u03b5\u03bd\u03b5\u1fd6\u03c2, as was said of the Titans of old, or in a better\nsense than they. There have been heroes for whom this world seemed\nexpressly prepared, as if creation had at last succeeded; whose daily\nlife was the stuff of which our dreams are made, and whose presence\nenhanced the beauty and ampleness of Nature herself. Where they walked,\n\n\u201cLargior hic campos \u00e6ther et lumine vestit\nPurpureo: Solemque suum, sua sidera n\u00f4runt.\u201d\n\n\n\u201cHere a more copious air invests the fields, and clothes with purple\nlight; and they know their own sun and their own stars.\u201d We love to\nhear some men speak, though we hear not what they say; the very air\nthey breathe is rich and perfumed, and the sound of their voices falls\non the ear like the rustling of leaves or the crackling of the fire.\nThey stand many deep. They have the heavens for their abettors, as\nthose who have never stood from under them, and they look at the stars\nwith an answering ray. Their eyes are like glow-worms, and their\nmotions graceful and flowing, as if a place were already found for\nthem, like rivers flowing through valleys. The distinctions of\nmorality, of right and wrong, sense and nonsense, are petty, and have\nlost their significance, beside these pure primeval natures. When I\nconsider the clouds stretched in stupendous masses across the sky,\nfrowning with darkness or glowing with downy light, or gilded with the\nrays of the setting sun, like the battlements of a city in the heavens,\ntheir grandeur appears thrown away on the meanness of my employment;\nthe drapery is altogether too rich for such poor acting. I am hardly\nworthy to be a suburban dweller outside those walls\n\n        \u201cUnless above himself he can\nErect himself, how poor a thing is man!\u201d\n\n\nWith our music we would fain challenge transiently another and finer\nsort of intercourse than our daily toil permits. The strains come back\nto us amended in the echo, as when a friend reads our verse. Why have\nthey so painted the fruits, and freighted them with such fragrance as\nto satisfy a more than animal appetite?\n\n\u201cI asked the schoolman, his advice was free,\nBut scored me out too intricate a way.\u201d\n\n\nThese things imply, perchance, that we live on the verge of another and\npurer realm, from which these odors and sounds are wafted over to us.\nThe borders of our plot are set with flowers, whose seeds were blown\nfrom more Elysian fields adjacent. They are the pot-herbs of the gods.\nSome fairer fruits and sweeter fragrances wafted over to us, betray\nanother realm\u2019s vicinity. There, too, does Echo dwell, and there is the\nabutment of the rainbow\u2019s arch.\n\nA finer race and finer fed\nFeast and revel o\u2019er our head,\nAnd we titmen are only able\nTo catch the fragments from their table.\nTheirs is the fragrance of the fruits,\nWhile we consume the pulp and roots.\nWhat are the moments that we stand\nAstonished on the Olympian land!\n\n\nWe need pray for no higher heaven than the pure senses can furnish, a\n_purely_ sensuous life. Our present senses are but the rudiments of\nwhat they are destined to become. We are comparatively deaf and dumb\nand blind, and without smell or taste or feeling. Every generation\nmakes the discovery, that its divine vigor has been dissipated, and\neach sense and faculty misapplied and debauched. The ears were made,\nnot for such trivial uses as men are wont to suppose, but to hear\ncelestial sounds. The eyes were not made for such grovelling uses as\nthey are now put to and worn out by, but to behold beauty now\ninvisible. May we not _see_ God? Are we to be put off and amused in\nthis life, as it were with a mere allegory? Is not Nature, rightly\nread, that of which she is commonly taken to be the symbol merely? When\nthe common man looks into the sky, which he has not so much profaned,\nhe thinks it less gross than the earth, and with reverence speaks of\n\u201cthe Heavens,\u201d but the seer will in the same sense speak of \u201cthe\nEarths,\u201d and his Father who is in them. \u201cDid not he that made that\nwhich is _within_, make that which is _without_ also?\u201d What is it,\nthen, to educate but to develop these divine germs called the senses?\nfor individuals and states to deal magnanimously with the rising\ngeneration, leading it not into temptation,\u2014not teach the eye to\nsquint, nor attune the ear to profanity. But where is the instructed\nteacher? Where are the _normal_ schools?\n\nA Hindoo sage said, \u201cAs a dancer, having exhibited herself to the\nspectator, desists from the dance, so does Nature desist, having\nmanifested herself to soul\u2014. Nothing, in my opinion, is more gentle\nthan Nature; once aware of having been seen, she does not again expose\nherself to the gaze of soul.\u201d\n\nIt is easier to discover another such a new world as Columbus did, than\nto go within one fold of this which we appear to know so well; the land\nis lost sight of, the compass varies, and mankind mutiny; and still\nhistory accumulates like rubbish before the portals of nature. But\nthere is only necessary a moment\u2019s sanity and sound senses, to teach us\nthat there is a nature behind the ordinary, in which we have only some\nvague pre-emption right and western reserve as yet. We live on the\noutskirts of that region. Carved wood, and floating boughs, and sunset\nskies, are all that we know of it. We are not to be imposed on by the\nlongest spell of weather. Let us not, my friends, be wheedled and\ncheated into good behavior to earn the salt of our eternal porridge,\nwhoever they are that attempt it. Let us wait a little, and not\npurchase any clearing here, trusting that richer bottoms will soon be\nput up. It is but thin soil where we stand; I have felt my roots in a\nricher ere this. I have seen a bunch of violets in a glass vase, tied\nloosely with a straw, which reminded me of myself.\n\nI am a parcel of vain strivings tied\n        By a chance bond together,\n    Dangling this way and that, their links\n        Were made so loose and wide,\n                Methinks,\n            For milder weather.\n\nA bunch of violets without their roots,\n        And sorrel intermixed,\n    Encircled by a wisp of straw\n        Once coiled about their shoots,\nThe law\nBy which I\u2019m fixed.\n\nA nosegay which Time clutched from out\n        Those fair Elysian fields,\n    With weeds and broken stems, in haste,\n        Doth make the rabble rout\n                That waste\n            The day he yields.\n\nAnd here I bloom for a short hour unseen,\n        Drinking my juices up,\n    With no root in the land\n        To keep my branches green,\n                But stand\n            In a bare cup.\n\nSome tender buds were left upon my stem\n        In mimicry of life,\n    But ah! the children will not know,\n        Till time has withered them,\n                The woe\n            With which they\u2019re rife.\n\nBut now I see I was not plucked for naught,\n        And after in life\u2019s vase\n    Of glass set while I might survive,\n        But by a kind hand brought\n                Alive\n            To a strange place.\n\nThat stock thus thinned will soon redeem its hours,\n        And by another year,\n    Such as God knows, with freer air,\n        More fruits and fairer flowers\n                Will bear,\n            While I droop here.\n\n\nThis world has many rings, like Saturn, and we live now on the outmost\nof them all. None can say deliberately that he inhabits the same\nsphere, or is contemporary with, the flower which his hands have\nplucked, and though his feet may seem to crush it, inconceivable spaces\nand ages separate them, and perchance there is no danger that he will\nhurt it. What do the botanists know? Our lives should go between the\nlichen and the bark. The eye may see for the hand, but not for the\nmind. We are still being born, and have as yet but a dim vision of sea\nand land, sun, moon and stars, and shall not see clearly till after\nnine days at least. That is a pathetic inquiry among travellers and\ngeographers after the site of ancient Troy. It is not near where they\nthink it is. When a thing is decayed and gone, how indistinct must be\nthe place it occupied!\n\nThe anecdotes of modern astronomy affect me in the same way as do those\nfaint revelations of the Real which are vouchsafed to men from time to\ntime, or rather from eternity to eternity. When I remember the history\nof that faint light in our firmament, which we call Venus, which\nancient men regarded, and which most modern men still regard, as a\nbright spark attached to a hollow sphere revolving about our earth, but\nwhich we have discovered to be _another world_, in itself,\u2014how\nCopernicus, reasoning long and patiently about the matter, predicted\nconfidently concerning it, before yet the telescope had been invented,\nthat if ever men came to see it more clearly than they did then, they\nwould discover that it had phases like our moon, and that within a\ncentury after his death the telescope was invented, and that prediction\nverified, by Galileo,\u2014I am not without hope that we may, even here and\nnow obtain some accurate information concerning that OTHER WORLD which\nthe instinct of mankind has so long predicted. Indeed, all that we call\nscience, as well as all that we call poetry, is a particle of such\ninformation, accurate as far as it goes, though it be but to the\nconfines of the truth. If we can reason so accurately, and with such\nwonderful confirmation of our reasoning, respecting so-called material\nobjects and events infinitely removed beyond the range of our natural\nvision, so that the mind hesitates to trust its calculations even when\nthey are confirmed by observation, why may not our speculations\npenetrate as far into the immaterial starry system, of which the former\nis but the outward and visible type? Surely, we are provided with\nsenses as well fitted to penetrate the spaces of the real, the\nsubstantial, the eternal, as these outward are to penetrate the\nmaterial universe. Veias, Menu, Zoroaster, Socrates, Christ,\nShakespeare, Swedenborg,\u2014these are some of our astronomers.\n\nThere are perturbations in our orbits produced by the influence of\noutlying spheres, and no astronomer has ever yet calculated the\nelements of that undiscovered world which produces them. I perceive in\nthe common train of my thoughts a natural and uninterrupted sequence,\neach implying the next, or, if interruption occurs, it is occasioned by\na new object being presented to my _senses_. But a steep, and sudden,\nand by these means unaccountable transition, is that from a\ncomparatively narrow and partial, what is called common sense view of\nthings, to an infinitely expanded and liberating one, from seeing\nthings as men describe them, to seeing them as men cannot describe\nthem. This implies a sense which is not common, but rare in the wisest\nman\u2019s experience; which is sensible or sentient of more than common.\n\nIn what enclosures does the astronomer loiter! His skies are shoal, and\nimagination, like a thirsty traveller, pants to be through their\ndesert. The roving mind impatiently bursts the fetters of astronomical\norbits, like cobwebs in a corner of its universe, and launches itself\nto where distance fails to follow, and law, such as science has\ndiscovered, grows weak and weary. The mind knows a distance and a space\nof which all those sums combined do not make a unit of measure,\u2014the\ninterval between that which _appears_, and that which _is_. I know that\nthere are many stars, I know that they are far enough off, bright\nenough, steady enough in their orbits,\u2014but what are they all worth?\nThey are more waste land in the West,\u2014star territory,\u2014to be made slave\nStates, perchance, if we colonize them. I have interest but for six\nfeet of star, and that interest is transient. Then farewell to all ye\nbodies, such as I have known ye.\n\nEvery man, if he is wise, will stand on such bottom as will sustain\nhim, and if one gravitates downward more strongly than another, he will\nnot venture on those meads where the latter walks securely, but rather\nleave the cranberries which grow there unraked by himself. Perchance,\nsome spring a higher freshet will float them within his reach, though\nthey may be watery and frost-bitten by that time. Such shrivelled\nberries I have seen in many a poor man\u2019s garret, ay, in many a\nchurch-bin and state-coffer, and with a little water and heat they\nswell again to their original size and fairness, and added sugar\nenough, stead mankind for sauce to this world\u2019s dish.\n\nWhat is called common sense is excellent in its department, and as\ninvaluable as the virtue of conformity in the army and navy,\u2014for there\nmust be subordination,\u2014but uncommon sense, that sense which is common\nonly to the wisest, is as much more excellent as it is more rare. Some\naspire to excellence in the subordinate department, and may God speed\nthem. What Fuller says of masters of colleges is universally\napplicable, that \u201ca little alloy of dulness in a master of a college\nmakes him fitter to manage secular affairs.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe that wants faith, and apprehends a grief\nBecause he wants it, hath a true belief;\nAnd he that grieves because his grief\u2019s so small,\nHas a true grief, and the best Faith of all.\u201d\n\n\nOr be encouraged by this other poet\u2019s strain,\u2014\n\n\u201cBy them went Fido marshal of the field:\n    Weak was his mother when she gave him day;\nAnd he at first a sick and weakly child,\n    As e\u2019er with tears welcomed the sunny ray;\n        Yet when more years afford more growth and might,\n        A champion stout he was, and puissant knight,\n    As ever came in field, or shone in armor bright.\n\n\u201cMountains he flings in seas with mighty hand;\n    Stops and turns back the sun\u2019s impetuous course;\nNature breaks Nature\u2019s laws at his command;\n    No force of Hell or Heaven withstands his force;\n        Events to come yet many ages hence,\n        He present makes, by wondrous prescience;\n    Proving the senses blind by being blind to sense.\u201d\n\n\n\u201cYesterday, at dawn,\u201d says Hafiz, \u201cGod delivered me from all worldly\naffliction; and amidst the gloom of night presented me with the water\nof immortality.\u201d\n\nIn the life of Sadi by Dowlat Shah occurs this sentence: \u201cThe eagle of\nthe immaterial soul of Shaikh Sadi shook from his plumage the dust of\nhis body.\u201d\n\nThus thoughtfully we were rowing homeward to find some autumnal work to\ndo, and help on the revolution of the seasons. Perhaps Nature would\ncondescend to make use of us even without our knowledge, as when we\nhelp to scatter her seeds in our walks, and carry burrs and cockles on\nour clothes from field to field.\n\nAll things are current found\nOn earthly ground,\nSpirits and elements\nHave their descents.\n\nNight and day, year on year,\nHigh and low, far and near,\nThese are our own aspects,\nThese are our own regrets.\n\nYe gods of the shore,\nWho abide evermore,\nI see your far headland,\nStretching on either hand;\n\nI hear the sweet evening sounds\nFrom your undecaying grounds;\nCheat me no more with time,\nTake me to your clime.\n\n\nAs it grew later in the afternoon, and we rowed leisurely up the gentle\nstream, shut in between fragrant and blooming banks, where we had first\npitched our tent, and drew nearer to the fields where our lives had\npassed, we seemed to detect the hues of our native sky in the southwest\nhorizon. The sun was just setting behind the edge of a wooded hill, so\nrich a sunset as would never have ended but for some reason unknown to\nmen, and to be marked with brighter colors than ordinary in the scroll\nof time. Though the shadows of the hills were beginning to steal over\nthe stream, the whole river valley undulated with mild light, purer and\nmore memorable than the noon. For so day bids farewell even to solitary\nvales uninhabited by man. Two herons, _Ardea herodias_, with their long\nand slender limbs relieved against the sky, were seen travelling high\nover our heads,\u2014their lofty and silent flight, as they were wending\ntheir way at evening, surely not to alight in any marsh on the earth\u2019s\nsurface, but, perchance, on the other side of our atmosphere, a symbol\nfor the ages to study, whether impressed upon the sky, or sculptured\namid the hieroglyphics of Egypt. Bound to some northern meadow, they\nheld on their stately, stationary flight, like the storks in the\npicture, and disappeared at length behind the clouds. Dense flocks of\nblackbirds were winging their way along the river\u2019s course, as if on a\nshort evening pilgrimage to some shrine of theirs, or to celebrate so\nfair a sunset.\n\n\u201cTherefore, as doth the pilgrim, whom the night\n    Hastes darkly to imprison on his way,\nThink on thy home, my soul, and think aright\n    Of what\u2019s yet left thee of life\u2019s wasting day:\n        Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn,\n        And twice it is not given thee to be born.\u201d\n\n\nThe sun-setting presumed all men at leisure, and in a contemplative\nmood; but the farmer\u2019s boy only whistled the more thoughtfully as he\ndrove his cows home from pasture, and the teamster refrained from\ncracking his whip, and guided his team with a subdued voice. The last\nvestiges of daylight at length disappeared, and as we rowed silently\nalong with our backs toward home through the darkness, only a few stars\nbeing visible, we had little to say, but sat absorbed in thought, or in\nsilence listened to the monotonous sound of our oars, a sort of\nrudimental music, suitable for the ear of Night and the acoustics of\nher dimly lighted halls;\n\n\u201cPuls\u00e6 referunt ad sidera valles,\u201d\n\n\nand the valleys echoed the sound to the stars.\n\nAs we looked up in silence to those distant lights, we were reminded\nthat it was a rare imagination which first taught that the stars are\nworlds, and had conferred a great benefit on mankind. It is recorded in\nthe Chronicle of Bernaldez, that in Columbus\u2019s first voyage the natives\n\u201cpointed towards the heavens, making signs that they believed that\nthere was all power and holiness.\u201d We have reason to be grateful for\ncelestial phenomena, for they chiefly answer to the ideal in man. The\nstars are distant and unobtrusive, but bright and enduring as our\nfairest and most memorable experiences. \u201cLet the immortal depth of your\nsoul lead you, but earnestly extend your eyes upwards.\u201d\n\nAs the truest society approaches always nearer to solitude, so the most\nexcellent speech finally falls into Silence. Silence is audible to all\nmen, at all times, and in all places. She is when we hear inwardly,\nsound when we hear outwardly. Creation has not displaced her, but is\nher visible framework and foil. All sounds are her servants, and\npurveyors, proclaiming not only that their mistress is, but is a rare\nmistress, and earnestly to be sought after. They are so far akin to\nSilence, that they are but bubbles on her surface, which straightway\nburst, an evidence of the strength and prolificness of the\nunder-current; a faint utterance of Silence, and then only agreeable to\nour auditory nerves when they contrast themselves with and relieve the\nformer. In proportion as they do this, and are heighteners and\nintensifiers of the Silence, they are harmony and purest melody.\n\nSilence is the universal refuge, the sequel to all dull discourses and\nall foolish acts, a balm to our every chagrin, as welcome after satiety\nas after disappointment; that background which the painter may not\ndaub, be he master or bungler, and which, however awkward a figure we\nmay have made in the foreground, remains ever our inviolable asylum,\nwhere no indignity can assail, no personality disturb us.\n\nThe orator puts off his individuality, and is then most eloquent when\nmost silent. He listens while he speaks, and is a hearer along with his\naudience. Who has not hearkened to Her infinite din? She is Truth\u2019s\nspeaking-trumpet, the sole oracle, the true Delphi and Dodona, which\nkings and courtiers would do well to consult, nor will they be balked\nby an ambiguous answer. For through Her all revelations have been made,\nand just in proportion as men have consulted her oracle within, they\nhave obtained a clear insight, and their age has been marked as an\nenlightened one. But as often as they have gone gadding abroad to a\nstrange Delphi and her mad priestess, their age has been dark and\nleaden. Such were garrulous and noisy eras, which no longer yield any\nsound, but the Grecian or silent and melodious era is ever sounding and\nresounding in the ears of men.\n\nA good book is the plectrum with which our else silent lyres are\nstruck. We not unfrequently refer the interest which belongs to our own\nunwritten sequel, to the written and comparatively lifeless body of the\nwork. Of all books this sequel is the most indispensable part. It\nshould be the author\u2019s aim to say once and emphatically, \u201cHe said,\u201d\n\u1f14\u03c6\u03b7, \u1f14. This is the most the book-maker can attain to. If he make his\nvolume a mole whereon the waves of Silence may break, it is well.\n\nIt were vain for me to endeavor to interrupt the Silence. She cannot be\ndone into English. For six thousand years men have translated her with\nwhat fidelity belonged to each, and still she is little better than a\nsealed book. A man may run on confidently for a time, thinking he has\nher under his thumb, and shall one day exhaust her, but he too must at\nlast be silent, and men remark only how brave a beginning he made; for\nwhen he at length dives into her, so vast is the disproportion of the\ntold to the untold, that the former will seem but the bubble on the\nsurface where he disappeared. Nevertheless, we will go on, like those\nChinese cliff swallows, feathering our nests with the froth, which may\none day be bread of life to such as dwell by the sea-shore.\n\nWe had made about fifty miles this day with sail and oar, and now, far\nin the evening, our boat was grating against the bulrushes of its\nnative port, and its keel recognized the Concord mud, where some\nsemblance of its outline was still preserved in the flattened flags\nwhich had scarce yet erected themselves since our departure; and we\nleaped gladly on shore, drawing it up, and fastening it to the wild\napple-tree, whose stem still bore the mark which its chain had worn in\nthe chafing of the spring freshets.\n\nTHE END.","title":"A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":115340}