-? 
 
STAR PAPERS. 
 
STAR PAPERS; 
 
 OB, 
 
 Ciwrintra of M nnit Jiatttre. 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY WARD BEECHER 
 
 g*to fbrk: 
 
 J. C. DERBY, 119 NASSAU STREET. 
 
 BOSTON :— PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. 
 Cincinnati: — n. w. derby. 
 
 i 8 57. 
 
TS/0S4 
 IS 
 
 Entered According to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, 
 
 Bv IIexky Ward Bkecher, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern DU- 
 
 trict of New York. 
 
 By Transfer 
 
 D. C. Public Library 
 
 JUN 7 1938 
 
wrra^ WN 
 
 w 
 
 PEBFACE. 
 
 he author has been saved the trouble of search- 
 
 I for a title to his book from the simple circum- 
 
 ^e that the articles of which the work is made 
 
 appeared in the columns of the New York Inde- 
 
 lent with the signature of a star, and, having 
 
 ■ familiarly called the Star Articles, by way of 
 
 designation, tney now become, in a book form, Star 
 
 Papers. 
 
 Only such papers as related to Art and to rural 
 affairs, have been published in this volume. It was 
 thought best to put air controversial articles in an- 
 other, and subsequent, volume. 
 
 The Letters from Europe were written to home- 
 friends, during a visit of only four weeks ; a period 
 too skort to allow the subsidence of that enthusiasm 
 which every person must needs experience who, for 
 the first time, stands in the historic places of the 
 Old World. An attempt to exclude from these let- 
 
Vi PREFACE. 
 
 ters any excess of personal feeling, to reduce them to 
 a more moderate tone, to correct their judgments, or 
 to extract from them the fiery particles of enthusiasm, 
 would have taken away their very life. 
 
 The other papers in this volume, for the most 
 part, were written from the solitudes of the country, 
 during the vacations of three summers. I can express 
 no kinder wish for those who may read them, than 
 that they may be one half as happy in the reading 
 as I have been in the scenes which gave them birth. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 LETTERS FROM EUROPE. 
 
 PAOB 
 
 I. Ruins of Kenilworth. — Warwick Castle 9 
 
 II. A Sabbath at Stratford-on-Avon ... . 27 
 
 III. Oxford 41 
 
 IV. The Louvre — Luxembourg Gallery 56 
 
 V. The Louvre TO 
 
 VI. London National Gallery 77 
 
 EXPERIENCES OF NATURE. 
 
 L A Discourse of Flowers 98 
 
 IL Death in the Country 106 
 
 III. Inland vs. Seashore 110 
 
 IV. New Enuland Graveyards 121 
 
 V. Towns and Trees 129 
 
 VI. The First Breath in the Country 137 
 
 VII. Trouting 144 
 
 VIII. A Ride 152 
 
 IX. The Mountain Stream 161 
 
 X A Country Ride 172 
 
 XI. Farewell to the Country 182 
 
 XII. School Reminiscence 189 
 
8 CONTENTS. 
 
 PMI 
 
 XIII. The Value of Birds 1 94 
 
 XIV. A Rough Picture from Life 1 1)7 
 
 XV. A Ride to Fokt Hamilton 201 
 
 XVI. Sights from my Window 211 
 
 XVII. The Death of our Almanac 218 
 
 XVIII. Fog in the Harbor 226 
 
 XIX. The Morals of FisniNG 'ii'.l 
 
 XX. The Wanderings of a Star 240 
 
 XX I. Book-Stores, Books 250 
 
 X XII. Gone to the Country 256 
 
 XXI II. 1 >rkam-Culturb 263 
 
 XXIV. A Walk among Trees 271 
 
 XXV. Building a House 285 
 
 XXVI. CniusTiAN Liberty in the Use of the Beautiful 293 
 
 XXVII. Nature a Minister of Happiness 303 
 
 XXVIII. Springs and Solitudes 314 
 
 XXIX Mid-October Days 324 
 
 XXX. A Moist Letter 336 
 
 XXXI. Frost in the Window 344 
 
 XXXII. Snow-Storm Traveling 848 
 
LETTERS FEOM EUEOPE. 
 
 I. 
 
 RUINS OF KENILWORTH. — WARWICK CASTLE. 
 
 ^T^LTE sun is sliining through haze of smoke and va 
 por: and every body says, what a splendid day! a1 
 least, everybody whose ideas of a fine day are English 
 It is a fine day in England when it does not actually 
 jain. To-day, then, blessed with a sun that shines 
 visibly, but with a tender brightness, I will go to 
 Kenil worth ; and to Warwick castle ; and to Stratford- 
 on-Avon, more interesting to me than either. "Waiter, 
 will you bring my bill? I leave in the 10£ o'clock 
 train to Coventry." "Yez-zur." Ah, very reasonable. 
 I have been here a day and a-half, and it is but five 
 dollars and a-quarter, servants' fees and all; which, by 
 the way, I will always have included in the bill. I do 
 not like to settle with four landlords at every inn ; — • 
 the chambermaid landlady, the boots landlord, the 
 waiter landlord, the porter landlord, and the landlord 
 — five instead of four. To the railway station is but 
 1* 
 
10 RIDE TO KENILWORTH. 
 
 a step ; the waiter bids me a very polite good-bye — we 
 don't shake hands — and the porter with my baggage 
 follows me to the cars. A trim little engine, with 
 a smoke-pipe not larger than our stove-pipes, is amus- 
 ing itself with every antic possible to a thing of its 
 nature. It runs out with a fierce whistle, for no 
 other reason, apparently, than to run back again 
 with another whistle. It reminds one of a rheumatic 
 old gentleman pacing about to limber his joints. After 
 a little sport he sobers down to business and falls to 
 work making up a train. I am booked for the second- 
 class cars, which are about one-third cheaper than the 
 first class, and a good deal more than that uncom- 
 fortable, as I will by and by explain. My shining 
 patent-leather valise and my rival shining carpet-bag, 
 (for one is American and the other is English, and so 
 I call them my John and Jonathan,) are put into the 
 compartment and piled up on the seat before me ; my 
 overcoat, neatly folded, is put upon the uncushioned 
 oak seat for me by the obliging porter. In spite of 
 my determination to fee none of the railway servants, 
 I did slip a sixpence into his hands, and he did shut 
 his fingers upon it without apparent pain. 
 - And now, the bustle over — for, true to American 
 habits, I became quite eager, and stepped about much 
 more lively than there was any need for — I will watch 
 other people. I am struck with the ease manifested. 
 These plump people will not sweat themselves. Nice 
 old gentlemen walk as quietly along as if passing out 
 to tea in their own houses. The railway servants in 
 
RIDE TO KENILWOKTH. 11 
 
 uniform, with their number worked in white upon 
 their coat-coiiars, are diligent, but very measured in 
 their functions. One is stowing this man's luggage on 
 the top of the car — for large baggage goes upon the 
 top, and small stuff goes into the car with you ; another 
 trundles a wheeled basket with packages, careful to 
 knock no one down; another stops respectfully to 
 answer a gentleman's questions. I hear no shouting, 
 see no racing about, hear no oaths or contentions ; there 
 is no higgling for fares, but every thing is very easy 
 and orderly. Now steps out a man with the largest of 
 1 i;md-bells, with which he gives three or four strokes, 
 saying as plainly as words could say it, " Get into the 
 cars, all who mean to." In a moment more he strikes 
 again, and chunk comes the engine into connection with 
 the train. Without further signal you move away slowly 
 out of the station-house and thread your way through a 
 perfect maze of tracks. 
 
 "We are rushing through the open fields. The lots 
 are small, seldom of more than one or two acres, divided 
 by hedges, which, for the most part, are uncombed, 
 ragged, and full of gaps ; yet, even thus, more agreeable 
 to the eye than rigid fences. Trees, in groups of two or 
 three, but more often in rows along the hedges, have 
 that unvarying dark, almost black, green, which, thus far, 
 has characterized the foliage which I have seen about 
 Liverpool, Manchester, and Birmingham. The shades 
 of green which we see in America, aud the liveliness 
 and airiness of foliage seem wanting. But the eye is 
 never weary with the landscape. As we drive through 
 
12 RIDE TO KENILWORTH. 
 
 the cuts, the bank on either hand is carved evenly with a 
 perfect slope to the top, and is there ruffled with a close- 
 cut hedge, while the sides are grassed down to the road, 
 and the edges of the grass cut as regularly along the 
 whole way as a border of turf in a gentleman's garden. 
 When the road rises above the surrounding country, the 
 sides of it are planted ; so that the eye is cheered with a 
 beautiful arboretum, in which are elms, maples, moun- 
 tain ash, poplars, and, .among others, a beautiful droop- 
 ing tamarack or larch, as it appears to my eye. The 
 stations are little gems of places. The way-stations, out 
 of towns, are frequently decorated with flowers and 
 miniature pleasure-grounds. If there be a bit of ground 
 but ten feet square, it is a turf-plat, with a raised bed 
 cut out of it, or cut into it, on which are displayed fine, 
 thrifty tufts of flowers. They are not, either, dumped 
 down just as it may happen; but are arranged with 
 uniform good taste. Thus a fuchsia, two or three feet 
 high, covered with brilliant crimson blossoms, has grow- 
 ing behind it a tuft of tall grass, upon whose vivid green 
 the plant is admirably contrasted. Neat little spots of 
 pansies, of different varieties, foxglove, marigolds, ge- 
 raniums, roses, and, always, profusely, the fragrant 
 minionette, fill up the bed. 
 
 I had read enough of English agriculture to know 
 very well that there was much waste soil — fens, sand- 
 wastes, etc. But I had read and heard also that England 
 was a garden. This expression, as more poetical, had 
 clung to my imagination ; and I found myself a little 
 disappointed when I came upon poor and neglected lands 
 
RIDE TO KENIL WORTH. 13 
 
 and waste spots, most ungardenlike. But this is only 
 one of a hundred things which teaches me how much 
 better it is to see a thing, than to read about it or imagine 
 it. The fields of grain were rapidly changing from 
 green to a golden russet. The sickle, in a few days, 
 will grow bright in its work. Fields of turnips, planted 
 in long rows, straight as a rule could draw them, are 
 being hoed and thinned out by men, women and chil- 
 dren. They do not even look up as we shoot past them. 
 
 Eide to Kenilworth Castle. 
 
 Calling for a cab, I started from Coventry upon a five- 
 miles ride to Kenilworth. The road was smooth as 
 a floor, rising and falling over gentle swells of ground, 
 bordered the whole way with oaks and elms. The 
 sky above was perfectly clear, but, all around the 
 horizon, banks of cloud were piled up in huge cliffs, 
 rounded masses, but at the edge fleecy and melting off 
 to a mist. Beautiful, most beautiful are the fields, some 
 close cut — for haying is over — some with grain, and 
 a few just plowed. The hedges are full of flowers 
 which I do not recognize. And now, I am riding to a 
 famous old castle. I shall but look on it and pass on. 
 Others would enjoy this more than I shall. It requires 
 a store of historical associations ; and much of the sen- 
 timent of veneration; or else a lively relish for anti- 
 quarian lore ; none of which have I. My thoughts were 
 broken by the driver— honest soul ! — asking to what 
 inn he should go. Yankee like, I replied by asking 
 
14 EUINS OF KENILWOETH CASTLE. 
 
 • 
 
 where it was best to go. " To King's Head, sir." " Very 
 well, King's Head let it be." "We turn the corner. 
 Here is a Lord's carriage, I suppose, just before us 
 Well, he has as much right to go to Kenil worth as 
 I. Paying the driver — not so honest a soul after all — 
 two shillings more than he should have had, because 
 he declined giving change, under a plea of begging 
 for a gratuity — I sallied forth toward the ruins. As 
 the road wound among trees, I was close upon them 
 before I saw them. When they rose up before me I 
 found myself trembling, I knew not why. I could 
 not help tears from coming. I had never in my life 
 seen an old building. I had never seen a ruin. Here, 
 for the first time in my life, I felt the presence of a 
 venerable ruined castle! At first I did not wish to 
 go within the walls which enclosed the grounds, and 
 so strolled a little way along the outside. I can not 
 tell what a strange mingling of imagination, and 
 thoughts, and emotions, took possession of me. At 
 length I entered. With a little plan of the building 
 I traced the rooms from point to point — the great 
 banqueting Hall, the scene of wondrous festivities 
 which shall never again disturb its silence, being the 
 most perfectly preserved of any apartment. I was 
 surprised to find how much I knew of Kenilworth Cas- 
 tle. Had one asked me as I rode hither, I should have 
 replied that I knew only that it was old and famous, 
 that it was by Scott wrought into one of his most suc- 
 cessful novels. But as I sat in a room, upon a fallen 
 stone, one incident after another from the novel, and 
 
RUINS OF KENILWORTH CASTLE. 15 
 
 from history, came to me, one name after another, until 
 I seemed to be visiting an old and familiar place. And 
 now I am sitting in what was, in its days of glory, the 
 Inner Court, and leaning against Leicester's, buildings. 
 Before me is Cesar's Tower — the oldest, the most mass- 
 ive, and the best preserved of any part. It was old a 
 thousand years ago. Masses of ivy cover its recessed 
 angles and its corners. Through its arched windows, 
 where the walls are more than ten feet thick, — yea, 
 sixteen feet, as my book says, — I see trees and a tangled 
 mass of growing vines, rooted upon the ruins that have 
 fallen and enclosed by the walls of its former halls. 
 Through the square windows above I see fleecy clouds 
 sailing lazily in the air. In what was the " three 
 Kitchens " are growing old butternut trees and haws. 
 The banqueting hall, whose side presented four beau- 
 tiful windows, has but two of them in a tolerable 
 state of preservation ; and projecting fragments show 
 in outline where the others were. I stood in the windows 
 opposite these, where Elizabeth, and hundreds of fairer 
 and better women than she, looked out upon the lake 
 and orchard. But how different were my thoughts and 
 theirs ; the scene which they admired and that which I 
 beheld ! From beneath these crumbled ruins too, utterly 
 forgotten now, except of God, shall arise many forms 
 to stand with me in judgment. Those who reveled 
 here, squire, knight, and lady, those who rebelled and 
 plotted, they who built and those who destroyed, how 
 do they seem to me now, as I bring them back in im- 
 agination ! — and how strangely contemptible seems, for 
 
16 WARWICK CASTLE. 
 
 the most part, that greatness which was then so great ! 
 I have never felt such solemnity in the presence of 
 physical creations. But these stones, these old gate- 
 ways, these mounds, what power have they to send the 
 soul back through ages of time, and stir it up from its 
 very bottom ! I could not bear the approach of men. 
 The children of a party, visiting like myself, came frol- 
 icking round the place where I sat ; but, for the first 
 time, children and their sports pained me. I would, if 
 I could, come and sit in this court at evening — after 
 sunset, or by moonlight. Then should I not see flitting 
 shadows and forms, and hear low airy voices ? As it 
 was, a spirit almost spoke to me ; for, going into one of 
 the tower halls of Leicester's building, I heard a clear 
 ringing sound, and a tiny echo like a bird, in the de- 
 serted room. Sure enough it was a bird, sitting far up 
 upon a window-sill, and trying his voice in the solitude. 
 Fly away, little friend, this is no place for you ; the 
 trees and hedges are yours, but not this old solitude! 
 At last I awoke. Three hours had passed like a dream. 
 I hastened back to my inn, with a strange sadness of 
 spirit, which I did not shake off all day. Perhaps 
 I have some veneration after all, if it were rightly 
 come at. 
 
 Warwick Castle. 
 
 Taking a cab, I started for "Warwick. The same 
 smooth road, the same trees, the same beautifully diver- 
 sified fields, and the same blue sky over them, only the 
 clouds are all islands now, floating about just above the 
 
WAEWICK CASTLE. IT 
 
 horizon; but I have not the same light-hearted, sing- 
 ing spirit which I had in the morning ; there is a deep, 
 yet a pleasant sadness, which I do not wish to shake 
 off. I was glad that I had visited the place alone ; no 
 one should go except alone. While at Kenilworth, 
 had those I love most been with me, we would have 
 separated, and each should have wandered alone up 
 and down and around the solemn old place. The 
 landscape is full of soft beauty, yet my thoughts are 
 running back to the olden time. But here we come 
 to "Warwick ! What bands of steel-clad knights have 
 tramped these streets before us! Here is, doubtless, 
 the old gate of the town renewed with modern stone. 
 Ordering dinner at six o'clock, I start for the castle, 
 without the remotest idea of what I shall see. Walk 
 ing along a high park wall which forms one part of 
 the town, or rather which stops the town from extend- 
 ing further in that direction — the top covered with ivy, 
 that garment of English walls and buildings — I come 
 to the gateway of the ajiproach. A porter opens its 
 huge leaf. Cut through a solid rock, the road, some 
 twenty feet wide, winds for a long way in the most 
 solemn beauty. The sides, in solid rock, vary from 
 five to twenty feet in height — at least so it seemed to 
 my imagination — the only faculty that I allowed to 
 conduct me. It was covered on both hands with ivy, 
 growing down from above, and hanging in beautiful 
 reaches. Solemn trees on the bank, on either side, 
 met overhead, and cast a delicious twilight down upon 
 my way, and made it yet softer by a murmuring of 
 
18 WARWICK CASTLE, 
 
 their leaves; while multitudes of little birds flew about 
 and sang merrily. Winding in graceful curves, it at 
 last brings you to the first view of the Castle, -at a 
 distance of some hundred rods before you. It opens on 
 the sight with grandeur ! On either corner is a huge 
 tower, apparently one hundred and fifty feet high; ir 
 the center is a square tower, called properly a gateway; 
 and a huge wall connects this central access with tlie 
 two corner towers. I stood for a little, and let the 
 vision pierce me through. Who can tell what he feels 
 ha such a place ! How, especially, can I tell you — 
 who have never seen, or felt, such a view any more 
 than I had before this time! Primeval forests, the 
 ocean, prairies, Niagara, I had seen and felt. But 
 never had I seen any pile around which were historic 
 associations, blended not only with heroic men and 
 deeds, but savoring of my own childhood. And now, 
 too, am I to see, and understand by inspection, the 
 things which Scott has made so familiar to all as 
 mere words — moats, portcullises, battlements, keeps or 
 mounds, arrow-slit windows, watch-towers. They had 
 a strange effect upon me ; they were perfectly new, and 
 yet familiar old friends. I had never seen them, yet 
 the moment I did behold, all was instantly plain ; I 
 knew name and use, and seemed in a moment to have 
 known them always. My mind was so highly excited 
 as to be perfectly calm, and apparently it perceived by 
 an intuition. I seemed to spread myself over all that 
 was around or before me, while in the court and on 
 the walls, or rather to draw every thing within me. I 
 
WARWICK cas:le. 19 
 
 fear that I seem crazy to you. It was, however, the 
 calmness of intense excitement. 
 
 I came up to the moat, now dry, and lined with beau- 
 tiful shrubs and trees, crossed the bridge, and entered 
 the outer gateway or arched door, through a solid square 
 tower. The portcullis was drawn up, but I could see 
 the projecting end. Another similar gateway, a few 
 steps further on, showed the care with, which the de- 
 fense was managed. This passed, a large court opened, 
 surrounded on" every side with towers, walls, and vast 
 ranges of buildings. Here I beheld the pictures which 
 I had seen on paper, magnified into gigantic realities. 
 Drawings of many-faced, irregular, Gothic mansions, 
 measuring an inch or two, with which my childhood 
 was familiar, here stood before me measuring hundreds 
 and hundreds of feet. It was the first sight of a real 
 baronial castle ! It was a historic dream breaking forth, 
 into a waking reality. 
 
 It is of very little use to tell you how large the court 
 is, by feet and rods ; or that Guy's Tower is 128 feet 
 high, and Cesar's Tower 147. But it may touch your 
 imagination, and wheel it suddenly backward with long 
 flight and wide vision, to say that Cesar's Tower has 
 stood for 800 years, being coeval with the Norman Con- 
 quest ! I stood upon its mute stones and imagined 
 the ring of the hammer upon them when the mason 
 was laying them to their bed of ages. What were the 
 thoughts, the fancies, the conversations of these rude 
 fellows, at that age of the world ! I was wafted back- 
 ward, and backward, until I stood on the foundations 
 
20 WARWICK CASTLE. 
 
 upon which old England herself was builded, when as 
 jet there was none of her. There, far back of all liter 
 ature, before the English tongue itself was formed, 
 earlier than her jurisprudence, and than all modern 
 civilization, I stood, in imagination, and, reversing my 
 vision, looked down into a far future to search for the 
 men and deeds which had been, as if they were yet to 
 be ; thus making a prophesy of history ; and changing 
 memory into a dreamy foresight. 
 
 When these stones were placed, it was yet to be two 
 hundred years before Gower and Chaucer should be 
 born. Indeed, since this mortar was wetted and ce- 
 mented these stones, the original people, the Normans, 
 the Danes, the Saxons, have been mixed together into 
 one people. When this stone, on which I lean, took 
 its place, there was not then a printed book in England. 
 Printing was invented hundreds of years after these 
 foundations went down. When the rude workmen put 
 their shoulders to these stones, the very English lan- 
 guage lay unborn in the loins of its parent tongues. The 
 men that laughed and jested as they wrought, and had 
 their pride of skill ; the architect, and the lord for whose 
 praise he fashioned these stones ; the villagers that won- 
 dered as they looked upon the growing pile; why, they 
 are now no more to men's memories than the grass they 
 trod on, or the leaves which they cast down in felling 
 the oak ! 
 
 Against these stones on which I lay my hand, have 
 rung the sounds of battle. Yonder, on these very 
 grounds, there raged, in sight of men that stand where 
 
WARWICK CASTLE. 21 
 
 I do, fiercest and deadliest conflicts. All this ground 
 has fed on blood. 
 
 I walked across to Guy's Tower, up its long stone 
 stairway, into some of its old soldiers' rooms. The 
 pavements were worn, though of stone, with the heavy 
 grinding feet of men-at-arms. I heard them laugh be- 
 tween their cups, I saw them devouring their gross 
 food, I heard them recite their feats, or tell the last 
 news of some knightly outrage, or cruel oppression of 
 the despised laborer. I stood by the window out of 
 which the archer sent his whistling arrows. I stood 
 by the openings through which scalding water or mol- 
 ten lead were poured upon the heads of assailants, and 
 heard the hoarse shriek of the wretched fellows from 
 below as they got the shocking baptism. I ascended to 
 the roof of the tower, and looked over the wide glory 
 of the scene, still haunted with the same imaginations 
 of the olden time. How many thoughts had flown 
 hence beside mine! — here where warriors looked out, 
 or ladies watched for their knight's return. How did I 
 long to stand for one hour, really, in their position and 
 in their consciousness, who lived in those days ; and 
 then to come back, with the new experience, to my 
 modern self! 
 
 I walked, in a dream, along the line of the westward 
 wall, surveyed the towers begun, but, for some reason, 
 left unfinished ; climbed up the moat and keep, steep 
 enough, and densely covered with trees and underbrush, 
 to the very top. 
 
 Grand and glorious were the trees that waved in the 
 
 t 
 
22 RIDE TO STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 
 
 grounds about the castle; but, though some of them had 
 seen centuries, they were juvenile sprouts in comparison 
 of these old walls and towers, on which William the 
 Conqueror had walked, without thinking a word about 
 me, I'll warrant — in which matter I have the advantage 
 of him — following in his footsteps along the top of the 
 broad walls, ten times more lofty in my transcendent 
 excitement than ever was he in his royal excursion. 
 
 Already the sun was drooping far down the west, 
 and sending its golden glow sideways through the trees ; 
 and the glades in the park were gathering twilight as I 
 turned to give a last look at these strange scenes. I 
 walked slowly through the gateway, crossed the bridge 
 over the moat, turned and looked back upon the old 
 towers, whose tops reddened yet in the sun, though I 
 was in deep shadow. Then, walking backward, looking 
 still, till I came to the woods, I took my farewell of 
 Warwick Castle. 
 
 It was half-past six when I left the hotel for Stratford- 
 on-Avon. Can you imagine a more wonderful trans- 
 ition than from the baronial castles to the peaceful 
 village of Stratford? Can there possibly be a more 
 utter contrast than between the feelings which exercise 
 one in the presence of the memorials of princely estates 
 — knightly fortresses, scenes full of associations of phys- 
 ical prowess — -jousts and tournaments, knights and 
 nobles, kings and courtiers, war and sieges, sallies, de- 
 feats or victories, dungeons and palaces now all alike 
 in confused ruins, and the peaceful, silver Avon, with 
 its little village of Stratford snugged down between 
 
RIDE TO STI.'AT FORD-ON- A VON. 23 
 
 smoothly rounded hills ; all of whose interest centers 
 upon one man — gentle Shakspeare ? And what do you 
 think must be the condition of a man's mind who in one 
 day, keenly excited, is entirely possessed and almost de- 
 mented by these three scenes ? The sun had not long 
 set as I drove across the bridge of Avon, and stopped at 
 the Eed Horse Inn. As soon as I could put my things 
 away, the first question asked was for Henley Street, 
 It was near. In another moment I was there, looking, 
 upon either side, for Shakspeare's house, — which was 
 easily found without inquiry. I examined the kitchen 
 where he used to frolic, and the chamber in which he 
 was born, with an interest which surprised me. That I 
 should be a hero-worshiper — a relic-monger, was a reve- 
 lation indeed. 
 
 Now guess where I am writing ? You have the place 
 in the picture before you.* It is the room where Shak- 
 speare was born 1 Two hundred and eighty-six years 
 ago, in this room, a mother clasped her new-born babe 
 to her bosom ; perhaps on the very spot where I am 
 writing! Do you see the table on the right side of 
 the picture ? It is there I am sitting. The room is rep- 
 resented as it was before it passed into the hands of the 
 Shakspearian society. There are now no curtains to the 
 window which you see, and which looks out from the 
 front of the house into the street ; nor are there any pic- 
 tures ; but the room, with the exception of the two side 
 
 * This letter was written upon pictorial note-paper containing views in 
 and about Stratford. 
 
24 STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 
 
 tables and a few old chairs, is bare, as it should be; 
 leaving you to the consciousness that you are surrounded 
 only by that which the eyes of the child saw when he 
 began to see at all. The room is about fifteen feet wide 
 by eighteen in length. The hight is not great. I can 
 easily touch the ceiling with my hand. An uneven 
 floor of broad oaken plank rudely nailed, untouched, 
 probably, in his day, by mat or carpet. The beams in 
 this room, as also throughout the house, are coarsely 
 shapen, and project beyond the plaster. The original 
 building, owned by Shakspeare's father, has been so 
 changed in its exterior, that but for the preservation 
 of a view taken in 1769, we should have lost all 
 idea of it. It was, for that day, an excellent dwelling- 
 house for a substantial citizen, such as his father is 
 known to have been. It was afterwards divided into 
 three tenements, the center one remaining in possession 
 of Shakspeare's kindred, who resided there until 1646. 
 And it is this portion that is set apart for exhibi- 
 tion ; — the sections on either side of it having been 
 intolerably "improved" with a new brick front, by 
 the enterprising landlord of the " Swan and Maiden- 
 head Inn," about 1820! Its exterior has grown 
 rude since Shakspeare's time, for the old print rep- 
 resents a front not unpleasing to the eye, with a 
 gable and a bay window beneath, two dormer win- 
 dows, and three-light latticed windows upon the 
 ground story. The orchard and garden which were 
 in its rear when purchased by Shakspeare's father, are 
 gone, and their place is occupied by dwellings and 
 
STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 25 
 
 stables. There is not a spot for even a shrub to 
 grow in! 
 
 I shall spend a portion of three days at Stratford-on- 
 Avon; and I have made a treaty with the worthy woman 
 who keeps the premises, by which I can have free use of 
 the room where I now write. Never have I had such a 
 three days' experience ! Kenil worth, Warwick, and 
 Stratford-on- Avon, all in one day ! Then I am to spend 
 a Sabbath here ! I can neither eat nor sleep for ex- 
 citement. If my journey shall all prove like this, it 
 will be a severer taxation, to recruit than to stay at 
 home and labor. 
 
 This room, its walls, the ceiling, the chimney front 
 and sides, the glass of the window, are every inch covered 
 and crossed and re-crossed with the names of those who 
 have visited this spot. 
 
 I notice names of distinction noble and common, of 
 all nations, mingled with thousands of others known 
 only to the inscribers. In some portions of the room the 
 signatures overlay each other two or three deep. I felt 
 no desire to add my name, and must be content to die 
 without having written any thing on the walls of the 
 room where Shakspeare was born. I must confess, how- 
 ever, to a little vanity — if vanity it be. A book is open 
 for names and contributions to enable the Committee for 
 the preservation of Shakspeare's house to complete the 
 payment of the purchase money. I did feel a quiet satis- 
 faction to know that I had helped to purchase and pre- 
 serve this place. Strange gift of genius, that now, after 
 nearly three hundred years, makes one proud to con 
 2 
 
26 STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 
 
 tribute a mite to perpetuate in its integrity the very 
 room where the noble babe was born ! 
 
 But I am exhausted and must sleep, if sleep I can 
 To-morrow will be my first Sabbath in England — and 
 that Sunday at Stratford-on-Avon 1 
 
II. 
 
 A SABBATH AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON". 
 
 August ^ih, 1850. 
 
 My dear : If you have read, or will read, my 
 
 letter to , you will see what a wonderful day was 
 
 Saturday. Coventry, famous for the legend of Godiva, 
 of which Tennyson has a pretty version ; the ruins of 
 Kenil worth Castle, the stately castle of Warwick and 
 its park, and Stratford-on-Avon, all in one day ! Do 
 you wonder that my brain was hot and my sleep fitful 
 that night? 1 tossed from side to side, and dreamed 
 dreams. It was long after midnight before I began to 
 rest, free from dreams; but the sleep was thin, and I 
 broke through it into waking, every half hour. 
 
 It was broad daylight when I arose ; the sun shone 
 out in spots ; masses of soft, fleecy clouds rolled about 
 in the heaven, making the day even finer than if it had 
 been all blue. I purposed attending the village church, 
 in the morning, where Shakspeare was buried ; in the 
 afternoon at Shottery, a mile across the fields, where the 
 cottage in which lived Anne Hathaway, his wife, still 
 stands ; and in the evening, at the church of the Holy 
 Cross, adjoining the Grammar School ; in which, as the 
 school about that time was open, and for a period kept, 
 it is probable that Shakspeare studied. 
 
 Never, in all the labors of a life not wont to be idle 
 upon the Sabbath, have I known such excitement or 
 
28 A SABBATH AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 
 
 such exhaustion. The scenes of Saturday had fired me ; 
 every visit to various points in Stratford-on-Avon added 
 to the inspiration, until, as I sallied forth to church, I 
 seemed not to have a body. I could hardly feel my 
 feet striking against the ground ; it was as if I were 
 numb. But my soul was clear, penetrating, and ex- 
 quisitely susceptible. 
 
 You may suppose that every thing would so breathe 
 of the matchless poet, that I should be insensible to re- 
 ligious influences. But I was at a stage beyond that. 
 The first effect, last night, of being here, was to bring up 
 suggestions of Shakspeare from every thing. I said to 
 myself, this is the street he lived in, this the door he 
 passed through, here he leaned, he wandered on these 
 banks, he looked on those slopes and rounded hills. 
 But I had become full of these suggestions, and acting 
 as a stimulus, they had wrought such ; n ecstatic stale. 
 that my soul became exquisitely alive to every influ- 
 ence, whether of things seen, or heard, or thought of. 
 The children going to church, how beautiful they ap- 
 peared 1 How good it seemed to walk among so many 
 decorous people to the house of God. How full of mu- 
 sic the trees were ; music, not only of birds, but of winds 
 waving the leaves ; and the bells, as they were ringing, 
 rolled through the air a deep diapason to all other 
 sounds. 
 
 As I approached the church, I perceived that we were 
 to pass through the churchyard for some little distance; 
 and an avenue of lime trees meeting overhead formed a 
 beautiful way, through which my soul exulted to go up to 
 
A SABBATH AT BTRA.TFORD-ON'-AVON. 29 
 
 the house of God. The interior was stately and beauti 
 f'ul ii was to me, ami I am not describing any thing bo 
 von as it was, but am describing myself while in the 
 presence of scenes with which through books you are 
 
 familiar. As I sat down in a, pew close liy the reading- 
 desk and pulpit, I looked along lo the elunerl, which 
 Stretched some fifty or sixty feel, hack vi' the pulpit and 
 
 desk, and saw, upon the wall, flu" welkknown bust of 
 
 Shakspeare; ami I knew that- beneath the pavement 
 
 under that, his dust reposed. 
 
 In a tew minutes, a, little fat. man with :i red collai 
 and red eulVs, advanced from a side room behind the 
 
 pulpit and led the way for the rector, a man of about fifty 
 years — bald, except on the sides of his head, which were 
 covered with white hair. 1 had been anxious lest some 
 Cowper's ministerial fop should officiate, and the sight 
 
 o\' this aged man was good. The lorni of his face and head 
 
 indicated firmness, but his features were suffused with an 
 expression of benevolence, lie ascended the reading- 
 desk, and the services began. You know my mother 
 
 was, until her marriage, in the eommunion of the Kpis- 
 COpal Church. This thought hardly left me while I sat, 
 
 grateful for the privilege of worshiping God through a 
 service that had expressed so often her devotions. I 
 
 Call U01 tell you how much I was affected. I had never 
 had such a, Iranee of worship, and I shall never ha\e 
 
 such another view until I gain The (late. 
 
 1 am so ignoranl of the church service that, 1 can not 
 call the various parts by their right names; hut tho 
 
 portions which most affected me were the prayers and 
 
30 A SABBATH AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 
 
 responses which the Choir sang. I had never heard any 
 part of a supplication — a direct prayer, chanted by a 
 choir ; and it seemed as though I heard not with my ear, 
 but with my soul. I was dissolved — my whole being 
 seemed to me like an incense wafted gratefully toward 
 God. The Divine presence rose before me in wondrous 
 majesty, but of ineffable gentleness and goodness, and I 
 could not stay away from more familiar approach, but 
 seemed irresistibly, yet gently, drawn toward God. 
 My soul, then thou did'st magnify the Lord, and rejoice 
 in the God of thy salvation ! And then came to my 
 mind the many exultations of the Psalms of David, and 
 never before were the expressions and figures so noble 
 and so necessary to express what I felt. I had risen, it 
 seemed to me, so high as to be where David was when 
 his soul conceived the things which he wrote. Through- 
 out the service, and it was an hour and a quarter long, 
 whenever an " Amen " occurred, it was given by the 
 choir, accompanied by the organ and the congregation. 
 0, that swell and solemn cadence rings in my ear yet ! 
 Not once, not a single time did it occur in that service 
 from beginning to end, without bringing tears from my 
 eyes. I stood like a shrub in a spring morning — every 
 leaf covered with dew, and every breeze shook down 
 some drops. I trembled so much at times, that I was 
 obliged to sit down. O, when in the prayers breathed 
 forth in strains of sweet, simple, solemn music, the love 
 of Christ was recognized, how I longed then to give 
 utterance to what that love seemed to me. There was 
 a moment in which the heavens seemed opened to me, 
 
A SABBATH AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 31 
 
 and I saw the glory of God 1 All the earth seemed to 
 me a storehouse of images, made to set forth the Re- 
 deemer, and I could scarcely be still from crying out. 
 I never knew, I never dreamed before, of what heart 
 there was in that word amen. Every time it swelled 
 forth and died away solemnly, not my lips, not my 
 mind, but my whole being said — Saviour, so let it be. 
 
 The sermon was preparatory to the Communion, which 
 I then first learned was to be celebrated. It was plain 
 and good ; and although the rector had done many things 
 m a way that led me to suppose that he sympathized 
 with over much ceremony, yet in his sermon he seemed 
 evangelical, and gave a right view of the Lord's Supper. 
 For the first time in my life I went forward to commune 
 in an Episcopal Church. Without any intent of my 
 own, but because from my seat it was nearest, I knelt 
 down at the altar with the dust of Shakspeare beneath 
 my feet. I thought of it, as I thought of ten thousand 
 things, without the least disturbance of devotion. It 
 seemed as if I stood upon a place so high, that, like one 
 looking over a wide valley, all objects conspired to make 
 but one view. I thought of the General Assembly and 
 Church of the First Born, of my mother and brother and 
 children in heaven, of my living family on earth, of 
 you, of the whole church intrusted to my hands ; — they 
 afar off — I upon the banks of the Avon. 
 
 In the afternoon 1 walked over to Shottery, to attend 
 worship there, but found that I had been misinformed, 
 and that there was no church or service there. 1 soon 
 found the cottage where Shakspeare's wife, Anne Hath- 
 
82 A SABBATH AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 
 
 away, was born, but stayed only for a little time, mean- 
 ing to visit it more at my leisure on Monday. I hastened 
 back, hoping to reach the village church in Stratford in 
 season for part of the service, but arrived just in time to 
 meet the congregation coming out. I turned aside to 
 the churchyard which surrounds the church on every 
 side. As I stood behind the church on the brink of the 
 Avon, which is here walled up to the hight of some 
 eight feet, looking now at the broad green meadows be- 
 yond, and now at a clump of " forget-me-nots" growing 
 wild down at the water's edge, and wondering how I 
 should get them to carry back to my friends, I was ac- 
 costed by a venerable old man, whose name I found 
 
 afterwards to be T . He was not indisposed to talk, 
 
 and I learned that he was eighty-one years of age ; had 
 lost his father in America during our revolutionary war, 
 where he had been a soldier ; he remembered the sad 
 tidings, being then eleven years old ; he had resided at 
 Stratford for thirty years ; he was a turner and carver 
 by trade ; he had lately buried his wife, and had come 
 after service to visit her grave. We walked together 
 along the banks of the Avon, he repeating some familiar 
 lines of poetry. He gave me various local information 
 of interest. Among other things, that the vicar was but 
 recently come among them ; that he seemed to him very 
 " whimsical," for, said he, " he has got a new brass thing 
 to hold his Bible, down in front of the reading-desk; 
 and he stands sometimes with his back to the people 
 when reading parts of the service, and has a good many 
 scholarly tricks about him, as it seems to me." I for- 
 
STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 33 
 
 bore making any remarks, not wishing to disturb the 
 associations of the morning. We crossed the stream by 
 a bridge, walked up through the broad, smooth, turfy 
 meadows upon the other side, and on reaching my inn, 
 I pressed him to come in and take tea with me. I did 
 so, in part from interest in him, and in part because he 
 had mentioned, when I apologized for using his time in 
 so long a walk, that his only remaining daughter was 
 gone out to tea, and he did not care to go home and be 
 alone. So we took tea together ; after which he proposed 
 waiting upon me to the Church of the Holy Cross, where 
 evening services were then commencing. The interior 
 of the church was plain ; and its age and its connection 
 with Shakspeare constituted its only interest to me. I 
 feel greatly obliged to the venerable old man, whose 
 heart seemed guileless and whose mind was simple. 
 This only acquaintance that I have made in Stratford 
 takes nothing away from the romantic interest of my 
 experience here. 
 
 Monday, August 5, 1850. — As I was sitting this 
 morning after breakfast writing busily, my venerable 
 
 friend T came in to bid me good-morning, and to 
 
 bring me a relic, a piece of the mulberry tree which 
 stood in Shakspeare's garden, but which was cut down 
 by its after owner, he being. much annoyed by relic- 
 hunters. He finally destroyed the house itself. The 
 old man also gave me a snuff-box which had been made 
 years and years ago, either from the wood of this same 
 tree, or from a tree sprung from the original. He avers 
 
34 STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 
 
 that it was from the original tree ; that he obtained it 
 from the former turner, as a model by which to turn 
 boxes, and that he was assured that it was of the real, 
 orthodox, primitive mulberry tree ! I do not doubt it. 
 I will not doubt. What is the use of destroying an 
 innocent belief so full of pleasure ? If it is not a genu- 
 ine relic, my faith shall make it so. 
 
 One or Two Hours Later. — Alas ! I've been out, 
 and among other inquiries, have asked after my old 
 
 friend T . I find him to be living in the poorhouse ! 
 
 At first, I confess to a little shame at intimacy with a 
 pauper ; but in a moment I felt twice as much ashamed 
 that for a moment I had felt the slightest repugnance 
 toward the old man on this account. I rather believe 
 his story of the tree and the box to be true ; at any rate, 
 I have a mulberry snuff-box which I procured in Strat- 
 ford-on- Avon !' 
 
 Among the many things which I determined to see 
 and hear in England were the classic birds, and espe- 
 cially the thrush, the nightingale and the lark ; after these 
 I desired to see cuckoos, starlings and rooks. While in 
 Birmingham, going about one of the manufactories, I 
 was inquiring where I might see some of the first- 
 named. The young man who escorted me pointed across 
 the way to a cage hanging from a second-story window 
 and said, " There's a lark !" Sure enough, in a little 
 cage and standing upon a handful of green grass, stood 
 the little fellow, apparently with russet brown wings and 
 lighter colored breast, ash color, singing away to his own 
 great comfort and mine. The song reminded me, in 
 
BIRDS OF STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 35 
 
 many of its notes, of the canary bird. In my boyhood, 
 I had innocently supposed that the lark of which I read 
 when first beginning to read in English books, was our 
 meadow lark ; and I often watched in vain to see them 
 rise singing into the air ! As for singing just beneath 
 "heaven's gate" or near the sun, after diligent observa- 
 tion, with great simplicity, I set that down for a pure 
 fancy of the poets. But I had before this learned that 
 the English sky-lark was not our meadow-lark. 
 
 A bird in a cage is not half a bird ; and I determined 
 to hear a lark at Stratford-on-Avon, if one could be 
 scared up. And so, early this morning I awoke, ac- 
 cording to a predetermination, and sallied out through 
 the fields to a beautiful range of grounds called " Wel- 
 cornbe." I watched for birds and saw birds, but no larks. 
 The reapers were already in the wheat fields, and 
 brought to mind the fable of the lark who had reared 
 her young there. Far over, toward the Avon, I could 
 see black specks of crows walking -about, and picking 
 up a morsel here and there in the grass. I listened to 
 one very sweet song from a tree near a farm-house, but 
 it was unfamiliar to my ear ; and no one was near from 
 whom I might inquire. Besides, the plain laboring 
 people know little about ornithology, and would have 
 told me that "it is some sort of a singing bird," as if 1 
 thought it were a goose ; and so I said to myself, I've 
 had my labor for my pains ! Well, I will enjoy the 
 clouds and the ribbon strips of blue that interlace them. 
 I must revoke my judgment of the English trees ; for as 
 I stood looking over upon the masses of foliage, and the 
 
36 SHOTTERY. 
 
 single trees dotted in here and there, I could see every 
 shade of green, and all of them most beautiful, and as 
 refreshing to me as old friends. After standing awhile 
 to take a last view of Stratford-on-Avon, from this high 
 ground, and the beautiful slopes around it, and of the 
 meadows of the Avon, I began to walk homeward, when 
 I heard such an outbreak behind me, as wheeled me 
 about quick enough ; there he flew, singing as he rose, 
 and rising gradually, not directly up, but with gentle 
 slope — there was the free singing lark, not half so happy 
 to sing as I was to hear ! In a moment more, he had 
 reached the summit of his ambition, and suddenly fell 
 back to the grass again. And now, if you laugh at 
 my enthusiasm, I will pity you for the want of it. I 
 have heard one poet's lark, if I never hear another, and 
 am much happier for it. 
 
 If you will wait a moment or two, till I can break- 
 fast, you shall have the benefit of a stroll over to Shot- 
 tery — a real old English village. I walked over there 
 yesterday afternoon, to church, as I told you, and so 
 can show you the way without inquiring it three times, 
 as I did then. Emerging from the village, we take this 
 level road, lined on either side with hedges and trees ; 
 trees not with naked stems, but ruffled from the hedge 
 to their limbs with short side brush, which gives them 
 a very beautiful appearance. The white clover-turf 
 under foot is soft as velvet ; men are reaping in the 
 fields, or going past us with their sickles. "We have 
 walked about a mile, and here is a lane turning to the 
 left, and a guide-board pointing to " Shottery." I see 
 
SHOTTERY. 37 
 
 the village. A moment's walk brings us to a very neat 
 little brick, gothic cottage, quite pretty in style, and 
 painted cream color; it is covered with roses and fra- 
 grant flowering vines, which make the air delicious. 
 By the gate is a Champney rose — the largest I ever saw 
 — its shoots reaching, I should think, more than twelve 
 feet, and terminated with clusters of buds and open roses, 
 each cluster having from fifty to a hundred buds. Yes- 
 terday afternoon, as I passed this same cottage, I stopped 
 to admire this rose, and to feed upon the delicious per- 
 fume which exhaled from the grounds. A lady, appar 
 ently about forty-five, and two young women about 
 eighteen and twenty years of age respectively, seeing a 
 stranger, approached the gate. I bowed and asked, 
 
 " Is this a Champney rose?" 
 
 "It is a Noisette, sir!" 
 
 " I thought so ; a Champney of the Noisette family ! 
 Will you tell me what flower it is that fills the air with 
 such odor ?" 
 
 " I don't know ; it must be something in the gar- 
 den." 
 
 " "Will you be kind enough to tell me the way to 
 Anne Hathaway's cottage ?" 
 
 " Take the first lane to the left," said the eldest young 
 woman, pointing to the right. 
 
 " The lane on the right, you mean." 
 
 " Oh }^es, on the right, but I do not know where the 
 cottage is exactly !" and yet it lay hardly two good 
 stone-casts from where they stood. You can see its 
 smoke from the windows. Did they not know, or were 
 
38 ANNE HATHAWAY. 
 
 they ashamed to seem too familiar with a stranger? 
 But William Shakspeare, eighteen years old as he was, 
 had no need of asking his way, as he came by here of a 
 Sabbath evening ! What were the thoughts of such a 
 mind drawing near to the place which now peeps out 
 from the trees across the field on the right? What 
 were the feelings of a soul which created such forms of 
 love in after days ? I look upon the clouds every mo- 
 ment changing forms, upon the hedges or trees, along 
 which, or such like, Shakspeare wandered, with his 
 sweet Anne, and marvel what were the imaginations 
 the strifes of heart, the gushes of tenderness, the san- 
 guine hopes and fore-paintings of this young poet's soul. 
 For, even so early, he had begun to give form to thai 
 which God created in him. One cannot help thinking 
 of Olivia, Juliet, Desdemona, Beatrice, Ophelia, Imogen, 
 Isabella, Miranda ; and wondering whether any of his 
 first dreams were afterward borrowed to form these. 
 It is not possible but that strokes of his pencil, in these 
 and other women of Shakspeare, reproduced some fea- 
 tures of his own experience. Well, I imagine that Anne 
 was a little below the medium hight, delicately formed 
 and shaped, but not slender, with a clear smooth fore- 
 head, not high, but wide and evenly filled out ; an eye 
 that chose to look down mostly, but filled with sweet 
 confusion every time she looked up, and that was used 
 more than her tongue ; a face that smiled oftener than 
 it laughe !. i;ut so smiled that one saw a world of bright- 
 ness within, as of a lamp hidden behind an alabaster 
 shade ; a carriage that was deliberate but graceful and 
 
SHAKSFEAKE. 39 
 
 elastic. This is my Anne Hathaway. Whether it was 
 Shakspeare's I find nothing in this cottage and these 
 trees and verdant . hedges to tell me. The birds are 
 singing something about it — descendants doubtless of 
 the very birds that the lovers heard, strolling together ; 
 but I doubt their traditionary lore. I did not care to 
 go in. There are two or three tenements in the long 
 cottage as it now stands ; but the middle one is that to 
 which pilgrims from all the world do come ; and though 
 it was but a common yeoman's home, and his daughter 
 has left not a single record of herself, she and her home 
 are immortal, because hither came the lad Shakspeare, 
 and she became his wife. I leaned upon this hedge 
 yesterday afternoon, it being the Sabbath, and looked 
 long at the place, and with more feelings than thoughts, 
 or rather with thoughts that dissolved at once into feel- 
 ings. Here are the rudest cottages ; scenery, beautiful 
 indeed, but not more so than thousands of other places ; 
 but men of all nations and of every condition, the 
 mingled multitude of refined men are thronging hither, 
 and dwell on every spot with enthusiasm unfeigned. 
 Whatever Shakspeare saw, we long to see ; what he 
 thought of, we wish to think of; where he walked, 
 thither we turn our steps. The Avon, the church, the 
 meadows lying over beyond both ; the street and the 
 room where he was born ; — all have a soul imbreathed 
 upon them, all of them are sacred to us, and we pass as 
 in a dream amid these things. The sun, the clouds, the 
 trees, the birds, the morning and evening, moonlight or 
 twilight or darkness, none of them here have a nature 
 
40 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 of their own ; all of tliem are to us but memorials or 
 suggestions of Shakspeare. 
 
 God gave to man this power to breathe himself upon 
 the world ; and God gave us that nature by which we feel 
 the inspiration. Is this divine arrangement exhausted 
 in man's earthly history ? Are we not to see and to 
 know a sublime development of it when we come to a 
 knowledge of God himself, face to face ? Then, not a 
 hamlet alone, a few cottages, a stream or spire will be 
 suggestive ; but throughout the universe, every crea- 
 ture and every object will breathe of God. Not of his 
 genius, as Stratford-on-Avon speaks of Shakspeare ; but 
 of every trait of character, every shade of feeling, every 
 attribute of power ; of goodness, love, mercy and gen- 
 tleness, magnanimity, exquisite purity, taste, imagina- 
 tion, truth and justice. May we know this revelation ; 
 walk amid those scenes of glory, and know the rapture 
 of feeling God effulge upon us from everything which 
 his heart has conceived, or his hand fashioned ! But 
 chiefly may we see that noontide glory when we shall 
 gaze unabashed upon his unobstructed face. 
 
III. 
 
 OXFORD. 
 
 Dear . Did I ever dream of writing you from 
 
 this renowned seat of learning, memorable in history, 
 the residence of good King Alfred, the birthplace of 
 Richard Cceur de Lion, the burning place of Latimer, 
 Ridley, and Cranmer, and the place where many among 
 the greatest historical men were educated ? But I must 
 go back a little, for I believe I have said nothing in 
 either of my letters to others, of my route hither. 
 
 I send you a forget-me-not which was gathered from 
 the edge of the river Avon, just beneath the wall which 
 divides the face of the churchyard from the water. 
 These little beauties awakened me from a dream by 
 their meek looks, and I determined to send this one to 
 you. To climb down the wall was easy enough, too easy 
 for a man who did not love wetting. I cast about for 
 expedients. For, you must know that the river washes 
 Lhe very wall, and that a little bit of soil, scarcely a foot 
 across, had formed in one spot and proclaimed its tri- 
 umph by wearing these tufts of flowers for its feather. 
 I studied the wall, speculated upon my relative position 
 to the water and flowers, should I reach such and such 
 a chink. I partly climbed down, and wholly clam- 
 bered back again, satisfied that it was easier to get my- 
 self in, than to get the flowers out. My courage rose 
 
42 OXFORD. 
 
 with the difficulty. Have them now I would, if I wa3 
 obliged to swim for them. I walked down to the mill, 
 a little below, and, crossing over, returned up the other 
 bank, opposite to them. They seemed to my wistful 
 looks further off than ever. Happily, before attempt- 
 ing the Hellespont, Hero-like, I espied someway up the 
 Avon, a boat in charge of two young men, and easily en- 
 gaged them to put me across to the coveted treasure. 
 Though very rough in their exterior, the fellows had 
 some heart ; and when they saw what I would be at, 
 they took great pains not to crush the gems with the 
 bow of the boat, and quite eagerly helped me to gather 
 every stalk. You know the story of this flower and 
 its name? A knight, walking in his armor, with his 
 lady-love, attempted, at her wish, just such a feat as I 
 had declined, — for the want of his motive. While 
 reaching down for the flowers he slipped, and was 
 plunged into the deep stream, hopelessly weighed 
 down by his armor. As he sank he threw the flowers 
 toward the bank, crying, " Forget me not." 
 
 The morning on which I mounted the coach-top for 
 Oxford was bright. The heavens were beautiful, and 
 the earth was beautiful. The past was grateful to recol- 
 lection ; the future was hopeful. Indeed, I was in har- 
 mony with everything — with the driver, the passengers, 
 the horses, the fields with their herds, the trees and 
 hedges. To be sure, I maintained a grave and reserved 
 exterior, all the way ; but my heart laughed and sung 
 at every step. We rode through Woodstock, and 
 passed by Blenheim, the seat of the Duke of Marl- 
 
OXFORD. 43 
 
 borough. I could not gratify my wish to go over the 
 grounds and house, as it chanced not to be one of the 
 days on which visitors are allowed. 
 
 In drawing near to Oxford, I felt the zeal going up 
 m the thermometer ; and dusky shadows of olden his- 
 tories began to arise. I had a distinct picture of the 
 place in my mind, at least of the University. I im- 
 agined it to be a group of buildings, say eight or ten in 
 number, opening upon a common court, not unlike the 
 cotton-factory style of architecture which prevails in 
 New-England Colleges. I had no very distinct idea of 
 their number or extent, but a clear impression, that, 
 more or fewer, they were grouped together upon some 
 one spot. 
 
 Accordingly, I inquired with innocent simplicity of 
 a gentleman next to me, in what part of the town the 
 Um versity buildings were, and was answered promptly, 
 " In every part ; they are scattered all over the city." 
 
 Imagine, then, a city of 25,000 inhabitants, not with 
 narrow streets, and continuous stone houses and shops, 
 like commercial cities ; nor yet, like a rural city, full 
 of yards and gardens; but something distinct from 
 either, and peculiar — a city of castles and palaces ! 
 
 The University comprises twenty distinct Colleges, 
 and five Halls. The Colleges are incorporated ; pos- 
 sessing their own rights, buildings, grounds, revenues, 
 laws, and officers. The Halls are not incorporated, or 
 endowed with estates ; but, in other respects, are not 
 materially different from the Colleges. Here, then, are 
 twenty-five suites of buildings distributed throughout 
 
44 OXFORD UNIVERSITY. 
 
 the city. You must not for a moment imagine a strait- 
 sided, bald, rectangular, five-story building. Exorcise 
 all such, brick parallelograms from your thoughts ; 
 and call up instead images of castles, palaces, ornate 
 galleries, and atheneums; and that too of the most 
 imposing dimensions. The buildings of Magdalen 
 College cover eleven acres ; and of gardens and dec- 
 prated grounds, there are one hundred acres more ! 
 Christ Church College is much more extensive than 
 this. You would suppose yourself under the battle- 
 ments of an old warlike castle. The front line of wall 
 is four hundred feet, with turrets, bastions, and a huge 
 octagonal tower for a gateway. The College buildings 
 are arranged in systems of quadrangles, called familiarly 
 quads. 
 
 Thus a central plat of ground is inclosed on every 
 side by the magnificent and continuous College struc- 
 tures, running four hundred by about two hundred and 
 sixty feet; and this forms the Great Quadrangle. A 
 huge gateway opens out of this into another such quad- 
 rangle, named the Peckwater, but of less dimensions; 
 and the Canterbury Quadrangle, again, opens out of this. 
 The buildings are of different styles of architecture. In- 
 deed, Christ Church College represents almost the history 
 of architecture, from the times of the Saxons to Sir 
 Christopher Wren. And the diversities and contrasts of 
 architecture increase the impression of vastness and end- 
 less extent. 
 
 Now, although Christ Church College and Magdalen 
 College are the most extensive, yet, to an eye not ao 
 
THE COLLEGES. 45 
 
 customed to measurement, and whose lenses are some- 
 what inclined to magnify through the bewildering ex- 
 citement of novelty and surprise, the smallest seem 
 scarcely less than the largest.- And you may conceive 
 what impression would be made upon my mind in my 
 first walk, alone, at sunset and twilight, through a 
 strange city, composed so largely of such magnificent 
 palatial structures, in which had once dwelt and studied 
 so many names most honorable and prominent in Eng- 
 lish history. I left my inn almost at once after my 
 arrival, and was glad to be alone : to be unquestioned : 
 to go wherever chance took me ; to gaze on the differ- 
 ent piles, as they came one after another, until the 
 strangeness grew almost into enchantment! The twi- 
 light as it gently settled down made tower and spire seem 
 gigantic ; the dusky stones of the ancient structures re- 
 ceded into illusory distances ; and the somber pedi- 
 ments, which yet retained a slight silvery glow from 
 the West, seemed lifted up to an incredible hight. 
 By and by the buildings sunk into darkness and disap- 
 peared, except where the now multiplying lights in 
 some principal streets, threw another and scarcely less 
 bewitching glare upon them. The same causes which 
 invoked the imagination in respect to single buildings, 
 in like manner produced an impression in respect to 
 the extent of the city, which daylight could not have 
 borne out. 
 
 Bright and early the next day, I took an ante-pran- 
 dial stroll. Every thing was changed. The same build- 
 ings were different ; there was the soft, somber evening 
 
£6 THE COLLEGES 
 
 effect in my memory, and the clear lines of accurate 
 daylight in my eye ; and the old and new impressions 
 disputed with each other. I had gained a pretty correct 
 topographical knowledge of the city, and had, by my 
 guide-book, identified several of the most noticeable 
 Colleges before returning to breakfast.* 
 
 It was my good fortune to be put in the charge of a 
 young lawyer, by the good offices of the same stranger 
 that had ridden with me upon the coach from Wood- 
 stock, and at whose suggestion I had lodged at the 
 Miter Inn. He was not only a fme-hearted, generous, 
 and intelligent man, but had the advantage of knowing 
 from boyhood all the under officers, janitors, stewards, 
 butlers, etc., of the various Colleges. It was vacation, 
 and the buildings were for the most part vacant. The 
 frank and gay face of my guide seemed a charm to 
 open doors seldom open to visitors. Had I come to 
 Oxford to take an honorary degree, I should have failed 
 to see much that was shown to me now. An inspec- 
 
 * The following are the names, and dates of the founding, of the Colleges 
 in the University of Oxford. The number of officers, members on founda- 
 tions, and students, at the time we were there, was said to be more than five 
 thousand. Merton College, founded 1264. University College, about 1249. 
 Baliol College, about 1263. Exeter College, 1314. Oriel College, about 
 1326. Queen's College, 1340. New College, 1378. Lincoln College, 
 about 1479. All Souls' College, 1437. Magdalen College, 1457. 
 Brazen Nose College, 1509, named from the circumstance of a brazen 
 nose 1 with a ring in it, swinging as a knocker on the Hall, whose site it oc- 
 cupies, and whose name it also inherited. Corpus Christi College, 1516. 
 Christ Church College, founded by Wolsey, 1524. Trinity College, 1564. 
 St. John's College, 1557. Jesus' College, 1546. Wadham College, 1613 
 Pembroke College, . Worcester College, 1714. 
 
CHRIST CHURCH COLLEGE. 47 
 
 tion of the kitchens, the butteries, the dining-halls, and 
 a rehearsal of the habits of both students and professors, 
 satisfied me that there was most excellent drill of the 
 animal man, wnatever befell the moral and intellectual 
 development. The plump, jovial, rubicund professors 
 of cuisine were obligingly communicative, giving savory 
 explanations of every thing that seemed strange to me. 
 They courteously proffered me a complimentary mutton 
 chop ; and gave me a knowing laugh when I declined 
 beer and wine, as articles that I never employed. A 
 thing more utterly inconceivable than a deliberate re- 
 jection of good wine and beer could not be told to an 
 Oxford butler. 
 
 At Christ Church College kitchen, I was shown an 
 enormous gridiron, nearly five feet square ; formerly 
 used before the introduction of ranges. I could not but 
 imagine a fancy heretic, broiling upon it, like a shrunk 
 robin. They seemed hurt at the suggestion, assured 
 me that it had never served such uses, and swung it 
 aside by its chain which suspended it, as if the associa- 
 tions of such a relic had been ungenerously offended. 
 
 When we speak of Dining Halls, pray dismiss all 
 modern halls or hotel saloons from your mind. Sum- 
 mon up rather the noblest, cathedral-like apartment, 
 of the highest architectural embellishments ; impressive 
 by its very space, and hung, often profusely, with por- 
 traits and pictures. You would suppose upon entering 
 that you saw tables stretched in a gothic church, or in 
 some vast library, or in some picture gallery. The Hall 
 of Jesus College is thirty by sixty feet in dimensions, 
 
48 CARVED STONE. 
 
 with an arched ceiling, designed by Sir Christopher 
 Wren. That of New College is seventy-eight by thirty- 
 five feet. Wadham College Hall is eighty -two by 
 thirty-five, and thirty-seven feet high. The Hall of 
 Christ Church College is one hundred and fifty feet in 
 length, forty feet wide, and fifty feet high, having about 
 one hundred and twenty pictures upon its walls. 
 
 These quite put to shame my ignoble ideas of College 
 dining-halls ; — as the larders and butteries did the 'fare 
 of College commons. These Colleges resemble Ameri- 
 can institutions in the fact that they are resorts of stu- 
 dents, that they have corps of tutors and professors, 
 rooms and dormitories, libraries and halls ; but, a visitor 
 wandering through them in vacation, would think them 
 literary hotels, as in many respects they really are. 
 
 One who has only seen the plain stone of American 
 buildings, uncarved, and scarcely chiseled, will be 
 struck with the carving and decorations in stone. The 
 cornices were not wood painted like stone, but stone 
 curled, and carved — as if in olden times cutting stones 
 had been the easiest of all occupations. We are accus- 
 tomed to decorations in paste, in wax, in plaster, in wood. 
 We do not think it strange to see picture-frames wreathed 
 with vines, or furniture sculptured into flowers and 
 fruits ; but the time and expense required for working 
 stone has forbid such ornaments in America, with the 
 exception of execrable carving on lamentable grave- 
 stones, that can not but keep alive a sense of pain, in 
 the spectator, as long as they last. 
 
 In Oxford, in all the Colleges and other public build- 
 
COLLEGE GROUNDS. 49 
 
 ings, uncarved stone would seem to be accounted as 
 almost unseemly. The doorways, the window-sills and 
 caps, the cornices, the capitals, the pediments, are pro- 
 fusely decorated. Grotesque heads, lion's faces, satyrs, 
 distorted human faces, birds, flowers, leaves, rosettes, 
 seize upon every projection of the Gothic buildings. 
 Where the buildings represented Greek architecture, 
 they were decorated more severely, but with scarcely 
 less profusion of carving. 
 
 I was even more delighted with the grounds and 
 walks, than with the twilight seclusion of the cloistered 
 rooms. I sat down in the recess of a window, in one 
 of the student's rooms, and looked out into an exquisite 
 nook, with a large mound, not unlike some of our coni- 
 cal hills in the rolling lands of the West, planted with 
 shrubs and trees to the very top. Is there any thing 
 more bewitching than to look up, beneath the branches 
 of trees, upon the ascent of a hill ? The grass was like 
 the pile of velvet, thick, even, deeply green, and with a 
 crisp, succulent look, that made you feel that Nebu- 
 chadnezzar had not so bad a diet after all. The grounds 
 were laid out with parterres of flowers, clumps of trees, 
 graveled walks artfully traced to produce the utmost 
 illusion, vines, and upon every unsightly object, and 
 along the stone fence, that glorious sheet of ivy that, 
 everywhere in England, incases walls and towers in 
 vegetable emerald. In these delicious coverts, birds 
 hopped about in literary seclusion, or chatted with each 
 other in musical notes, such as Jenny Lind might be 
 supposed to sing to her sleeping cradle, or to a froliok- 
 3 
 
50 LIBRARIES. 
 
 ing child. It is a very paradise of seclusion. Noise 
 seemed like an antediluvian legend as I sat and dreamed 
 in the slumberous stillness. 
 
 Nor was I flattered by the painful contrast which my 
 memory supplied of American Colleges, with frigid 
 rooms, without gardens or secluded walks, with grounds 
 undecorated except by chips, ashes, and the dunk and 
 molded droppings of paper, rags, and various frag- 
 ments of nocturnal feasts, which may often be found 
 beneath the windows, among rank and watery weeds, 
 on the neglected side of College buildings, where every 
 side is neglected. But, if all the stories told me be 
 true, or the half of them, cloistered rooms are not neces- 
 sarily productive of profound study, any more than 
 cloistered cells of profound piety. The Fellows of the 
 Colleges are unmarried men, who have suites of rooms, 
 ample gustatory provision for the earthly man, and 
 revenues for gentlemanly support, that they may give 
 themselves utterly to study. And in many cases, study, 
 that makes other men lean, is blessed to these fellows, 
 even as was the simple pulse to the companions of 
 Daniel. 
 
 One can scarcely realize the treasures of literature 
 and of art which are gathered into this city. Beside 
 the libraries of each College, which are large, there is 
 the Bodleian Library with books and manuscripts enough 
 to turn the heads of the whole nation. Each College 
 has in profusion, beside architectural treasure, busts 
 and statues of distinguished men, pictures by all the 
 great masters of art, in great numbers ; prints, coins, and 
 
ENDOWMENTS. 51 
 
 'literary and archaiological curiosities without number, 
 and cabinets of natural history. I stood in the midst 
 of such treasures as helpless and as hopeless of ever 
 looking at them with a more individual recognition, 
 as I was when I first trod a prairie, journeying from 
 dawn till dark through the dwarf floral groves, and 
 beheld millions of acres of flowers. I passed by rare 
 treasures without a look, which, at another time, would 
 have eagerly occupied hours. The mind was sated with 
 literary riches. 
 
 As I stood beneath the arches of Christ Church Col 
 lege, I was impressed with the immortality of earthly 
 influence when rightly embodied. Wolsey's designs 
 for national education have gone through generations 
 performing the noblest services, and perpetuating among 
 men the blessings which his life and personal conduct 
 failed to render to his fellows. His endowments have 
 been noble, undying, undecaying. Nay, Time, that 
 wastes monuments and plucks up the longest lived 
 forests, has but consolidated his gifts to learning, and 
 renewing their strength in every generation. They are 
 stronger, more vigorous, with a surer hope of good for 
 the future, than when in the freshness of their original 
 youth. It were not an unworthy ambition to desire such 
 posthumous influence, having one's name gratefully 
 mentioned through hundreds of years, amidst scenes 
 of learning, by the noblest spirits, who were deriving 
 their very life from your benefaction I 
 
 Every one, familiar with his own mind, knows how 
 differently that subtile and mysterious agency works 
 
52 PICTURES. 
 
 within him, on different days. But I never felt the 
 difference so strikingly as since I have been ranging 
 through these historic places ; and I find that the keen, 
 and fine excitement, which inevitably steals upon one 
 in the walks and galleries of these venerable Colleges, 
 is precisely of the kind favorable for the appreciation 
 of pictures. They cease to be pictures. They are 
 realities. The canvas is glass, and you look through 
 it upon the scene represented as if you stood at a win- 
 dow. Nay, you enter into the action. For, once pos- 
 sessed with the spirit of the actors or of the scene, 
 all that the artist thought lives in you. And if you are 
 left, as I was once or twice, for an hour quite alone, in 
 the halls, the illusion becomes memorable. You know 
 the personages. You mingle in the action as an actor. 
 You gaze upon the Apostles of Guido, and. it is not the 
 ideal head that you see, but the character, the life, the 
 career, extend in shadowy length before you. At 
 last you are with them ! No longer do you look 
 through the eighteen hundred years at misty shadows. 
 The living men have moved down toward you, and 
 here you are face to face ! I was much affected by a 
 head of Christ ; not that it met my ideal of that sacred 
 front, but because it took me in a mood that clothed it 
 with life and reality. For one blessed moment I was 
 with the Lord. I knew Him. I loved Him. My eyes 
 [ could not close for tears. My poor tongue kept 
 silence, but my heart spoke, and I loved and adored. 
 The amazing circuit of one's thoughts in so short a 
 period is wonderful. They circle round through all 
 
BODLEIAN LIBRARY. 53 
 
 the past, and up through the whole future, and both 
 the past and future are the .present, and are one. For 
 one moment there arose a keen anguish, like a shooting 
 pang, for that which I was, and I thought my heart 
 would break that I could bring but only such a nature 
 to my Lord ; but in a moment, as quick as the flash of 
 sunlight which follows the shadow of summer clouds 
 across the fields, there seemed to spring out upon me, 
 from my Master, a certainty of love so great and noble 
 as utterly to consume my unworth, and leave me shin- 
 ing bright ; a<s if it were impossible for Christ to love a 
 heart, without making it pure and beautiful by the 
 resting on it of that illuming affection, just as the sun 
 bathes into beauty the homeliest object when he looks 
 full upon it. But why should I seek to imprison in 
 words the thoughts and feelings that nothing but the 
 heart itself had power to utter ? Words belong to the 
 body. But when we are "in the spirit," thoughts and 
 feelings are expressed by the very act of existing, and 
 syllable themselves by their own pulsations. 
 
 In the same mood I stood before the busts and por- 
 traits of England's most illustrious names. But a 
 volume would not suffice to record the experience of a 
 single hour, even if my memory could compass the 
 blessed illusion with words. 
 
 Few places affected me more than the Libraries, and 
 especially the Bodleian Library, reputed to have half a 
 million printed books and manuscripts. I walked 
 solemnly and reverently among the alcoves and through 
 the halls, as iJ in the pyramid of embalmed souls. It 
 
54 BODLEIAN LIBRARY 
 
 was their life, their heart, their mind, that they treas- 
 ured in these book-urns. Silent as they are, should all 
 the emotions that went to their creation have utterance, 
 could the world itself contain the various sound? They 
 longed for fame ? Here it is — to stand silently for ages, 
 moved only to be dusted and catalogued, valued only 
 as units in the ambitious total, and gazed at, occasionally, 
 by men as ignorant as I am, of their name, their place, 
 their language, and their worth. Indeed, unless a man 
 can link his written thoughts with the everlasting wants 
 of men, so that they shall draw from them as from wells, 
 there is no more immortality to the thoughts and feel- 
 ings of the soul than to the muscles and the bones. ' A 
 library is but the soul's burial-ground.') It is the land 
 of shadows. 
 
 Yet one is impressed with the thought, the labor, 
 and the struggle, represented in this vast catacomb of 
 books. Who could dream, by the placid waters that 
 issue from the level mouths of brooks into the lake, all 
 the plunges, the whirls, the divisions, and foaming 
 rushes that had brought them down to the tranquil 
 exit ? And who can guess through what channels of 
 disturbance, and experiences of sorrow, the he'art passed 
 that has emptied into this Dead Sea of books ? 
 
 It seemed to me that I was like one who walked in 
 the forests of the tropics, astounded at the gigantic 
 growths, and at their uselessness. Centuries had nursed 
 them to their present stature ; but not one in ten thou- 
 sand of them will ever be sought for commerce or for 
 use. "Where they stand, they will drop, and where 
 
TAYLOR AND RANDOLPH GALLERY. 55 
 
 they fall they will decay. It is always so — life striking 
 its roots into the dead, and feeding upon decay. 
 
 I visited the Taylor and Randolph Gallery in Oxford, 
 m which are casts of all of Chantrey's statues and busts; 
 and many original drawings of Raphael and' Michael 
 Angelo ! One hundred and ninet}?" sketches and draw- 
 ings in pencil, ink, and by other means, of Raphael ; and 
 eighty-seven by Angelo ! They were from their rude 
 school-boy essays to their latest efforts ! Here was the 
 sketch from which Angelo drew the Last Judgment; 
 hands, feet, faces, the body in every conceivable atti- 
 tude, the face expressing mirth, joy, surprise, grief. 
 These were in some respects even more interesting than 
 the after works would have been for which these pre- 
 pared the way. For here I saw the idea as it originally 
 dawned upon the great mind, and was instantly dashed 
 down upon paper. Sometimes you see the Yery germ 
 and the growth of it — as when at first it was a faint pen- 
 sketch ; then, on the same sheet, another and another 
 thought were added, and finally all of them grouped 
 together. I could have cried with regret at being 
 obliged to race through these collections like a hound 
 on a hunt. It seemed almost degrading to me to be 
 anything other than obedient to the high attractions 
 which drew me; jet, many things burned themselves 
 upon my imagination never to grow out or grow over ! 
 But I must leave Oxford — though I have scarcely 
 touched the mass of impressions which I there re- 
 ceived 
 
IV. 
 
 THE LOUVRE — LUXEMBOURG GALIERY. 
 
 Paris, Avgust, 1850. 
 
 * * * Next I visited Faubourg St. Antoine, where 
 the Archbishop of Paris was killed while endeavoring 
 to stop the fighting in the Revolution of 1848, I believe. 
 Thence I went to the Jardin des Plantes, which, beside 
 its most admirable collection of plants, has a noble 
 zoological collection, a museum of natural history that 
 well nigh epitomises the living tribes of the earth, to- 
 gether with mineralogical and geological cabinets. I 
 seemed to have God's wide-spread earth presented to me 
 at a sight. I never before had such a conception of 
 what had been done in making our globe. But I resolve 
 a hundred times a clay that I will leave Paris, that I may 
 not be so tantalized ! For it is a greater pain than en- 
 joyment just to glance at a department long enough to 
 feel deeply, and almost only, what you are losing in not 
 being able calmly to examine and be filled with its 
 treasures. One whole day would not suffice for the 
 most cursory glance at this one ground, and I passed 
 through in an hour! It lies in my memory like a 
 dream. — Thence to the Pantheon, a temple of glory; 
 much admired, but to me vast, cold and empty. — Thence 
 to the Palace de Luxembourg. But here there is a gal- 
 lery of paintings ! Ah, what a new world has been 
 
GALLERIES OF PAINTINGS. 57 
 
 opened to me ! And what a new sense within rnyseli. 
 I knew that I had gradually grown fond of pictures from 
 my boyhood. I had felt the power of some few. But 
 nothing had ever come up to a certain ideal that had 
 hovered in my mind ; and I supposed that I was not fine 
 enough to appreciate with discrimination the works of 
 masters. To find myself absolutely intoxicated — to find 
 my system so much affected that I could not control my 
 nerves — to find myself trembling and laughing and 
 weeping, and almost hysterical, and that in spite of my 
 shame and resolute endeavor to behave better, — such a 
 power of these galleries over me I had not expected. I 
 have lived for two days in fairy -land, — wakened out of 
 it by some few sights which I have mechanically visited, 
 more for the sake of pleasing dear friends at home, when 
 I return j than for a present pleasure to myself; but re- 
 lapsing again into the golden vision. The Gallery of 
 the Luxembourg has about three hundred paintings by 
 two hundred and thirty-six artists now living. 
 
 I shall give you some account of the effect on my 
 mind of my visits to this gallery yesterday and to the 
 Louvre to-day. This last collection is enormous. To 
 examine it in one or two visits is like attempting to read 
 an encyclopedia at one sitting. One can only take the 
 general effect, and record his experiences in the midst 
 of this wilderness of beauty. I had as lief attempt to 
 pluck and examine each special flower growing in 
 France, as to single out and observe carefully each 
 picture. Indeed, your first feeling is that of despair. 
 But an intense hour will do more than dreamy years ; 
 3* • 
 
58 THE LOUVRE. 
 
 and I gathered much. It contains a vast collection of 
 antique statues, Greek and Eoman ; cabinets of curiosi- 
 ties, which are curiosities ; coins ; the utensils of various 
 ages and nations; arms and armor; vases, cameos, 
 jewelry; the costly plate of royal families, engraved 
 s>3nes, &c, &c. ; Indian and Chinese collections ; ma- 
 chinery; and in particular the models of French ships, 
 and the history, in models, of ship-building, not only 
 from the keel to the last rope of rigging, but also 
 of the progress of marine architecture from age to age. 
 But this is only a thing aside. It has a vast collection 
 of the great schools of painters ancient and modern. 
 Each school has its saloons ; and they follow one after 
 another until the mind reels and staggers under the be- 
 fore unconceived and inconceivable riches ! No descrip- 
 tion will impress you with the multitudinousness of this 
 repository of art. All the streams of pictorial beauty 
 seem, since the world began, to have flowed hither, and 
 this is the ocean. I mean first to give you in some de- 
 tail the states of my mind, as I now look back upon 
 them ; and then I will take you with me into the gal- 
 leries, and step by step I will soliloquize, or describe, or 
 paint with my pen : — at least I shall fill out this inten- 
 tion unless some new excitement bursting on me quite 
 drives this purpose from the field. You have lost, or 
 perhaps rather escaped, several descriptions and wonder- 
 ful experiences in this way. For if I do not write al- 
 most at once what I have to say, a new crop springs up 
 and grows so rankly as quite to smother down the 
 growth of yesterday. 
 
IMPEESSIONS. 59 
 
 The first feeling which overwhelmed me was that of 
 surprise — profound wonder. It seemed as if all picture- 
 admiration, before, had been of one sort, but this of 
 another <xnd higher, — the result of instant conversion, 
 if the expression be not irreverent. The number of 
 pictures — the great number of good pictures ! — not stuff 
 to fill up, — but noble, enchanting pieces, some of vast 
 size, of wonderful brilliancy, of novel subjects, in posi- 
 tions the most favorable for the finest effect, — all this 
 filled me with exquisite surprise. Can you imagine the 
 feelings which you would have, if, after all the flowers 
 you have seen, you should, in a chance drive, unexpect- 
 edly come into some mountain-pass, and find the sides 
 far up perfectly overspread with flowers, the most beau- 
 tiful and new, of all forms, of every color, of fragrance 
 surpassing any hitherto found, of every size, and so 
 growing that one set off another, and all of them spread 
 abroad on ruby rocks, with diamonds, and every pre- 
 cious stone, gleaming out between the leaves ! In some 
 such way did I stand surprised when first in these grand 
 galleries. 
 
 This surprise soon changed to a more complex pleas- 
 ure. It was not the enjoyment of color, alone ; nor of 
 form, nor of the composition, nor of the sentiment of 
 the pieces, but a harmony of pleasure from all of these. 
 The walls beam upon you as if each was a summer; 
 and, like one strolling at summer's eve, you can not tell 
 whether it be the clouds, the sky, the light, the shadows, 
 the scenery, or the thousand remembrances which rise 
 over the soul in such an hour, that give the pleasure. 
 
60 IMPRESSIONS. 
 
 I saw all that the painter painted, and more ; I imagined 
 in each scene (for the most were pictures' of human forms) 
 what had gone before, and what had followed. I 
 talked with the beautiful or fearful creatures, and they 
 spake to me. As I gradually journeyed down the gal- 
 lery, the sense of multitudinous beauty increased, and 
 all that I had seen and all that I was seeing seemed to 
 run together and form a bewildering sense of tropical 
 luxuriance of conception and execution. There was 
 that same individuality of picture that there is of trees 
 in a forest ; and yet, like trees, each picture seemed to 
 extend its branches into others, so that there was a 
 unity — a forest. 
 
 The sense of beauty — beauty of every kind — of form, 
 feature, expression, attitude, intent, grouping — beauty 
 of drawing, of coloring, of each thing by itself, and of 
 all together — was inexpressible. 
 
 After a time this passed away, and I began to select 
 one and another picture for special examination. They 
 contested with each other for supremacy in my regard. 
 One is sustained for a longer time under a degree of at- 
 tention and high excitement, than you could have sup- 
 posed it possible. Hour after hour passes, and no sense 
 of exhaustion warns you of time. Joy, and the higher 
 powers of pleasurable excitement, I think have no such 
 thing as time. Poets have sung this of love. But I am 
 conscious now that it is a fact of all intense and pure 
 excitements that have in them a loving spiritual element 
 
 I could not tell whether hours or minutes were pass- 
 ing. It was a blessed exhalation of soul, in which I 
 
IMPEESSIONS. 61 
 
 seemed freed from matter and, as a diffused intelligence, 
 to float in the atmosphere. I could not believe that a 
 dull body was the center from which thought and emo- 
 tion radiated. I had a sense of expansion, of etherealiza- 
 tion, which gave me some faint sense of a spiritual state. 
 Nor was I in a place altogether unfitted for such a state. 
 The subjects of many of the works — suffering, heroic 
 resistance, angels, Arcadian scenes, especially the scenes 
 of Christ's life and death — seemed a not unfitting ac- 
 companiment to my mind, and suggested to me, in a 
 glorious vision, the drawing near of a redeemed soul to 
 the precincts of Heaven ! O, with what an outburst 
 of soul did I implore Christ to wash me and all whom 
 I loved in His precious blood, that we might not fail of 
 entering the glorious city, whose builder and maker is 
 God ! All my sins seemed not only sins, but great de- 
 formities. They seemed not merely affronts against 
 God, but insults to my own nature. My soul snuffed 
 at them, and trod them down as the mire in the street. 
 Then, holy and loving thoughts toward God or toward 
 man, seemed to me to be as beautiful as those fleecy 
 islets along the west at sunset, crowned with glory ; 
 and the gentler aspirations for goodness and nobleness 
 and knowledge seemed to me like silvery mists through 
 which the morning is striking, wafting them gently and 
 in wreaths and films heavenward. Great deeds, hero- 
 ism for worthy objects, for God or for one's fellows, or 
 for one's own purity, seemed not only natural, but as 
 things without which a soul could not live. 
 
 But at length I perceived myself exhausted, not by 
 
62 IMPRESSIONS. 
 
 any sense of fatigue (I had no sense or body), but by 
 perceiving that my mind would not fix upon material 
 objects, but strove to act by itself. Thus, a new picture 
 was examined only for an instant, and then I exhaled 
 into all kinds of golden dreams and visions. 
 
 I left the gallery, and in this mood, as I threaded my 
 way back, how beautiful did every thing and every 
 body seem ! The narrow streets were beautiful for 
 being narrow, and the broad ones for being broad ; 
 old buildings had their glory, and new structures had 
 theirs ; children were all glorified children ; I loved the 
 poor workmen that I saw in the confined and narrow 
 shops ; the various women, young and old, with huge 
 buck-baskets, or skipping hither and thither on errands, 
 all seemed happy, and my soul blessed them as I passed. 
 My own joy of being, overflowed upon every thing which 
 I met. Sometimes, singing to myself or smiling to 
 others, so as to make men think, doubtless, that I had 
 met some good luck, or was on some prosperous errand 
 of love, I walked on through street after street, turn- 
 ing whichever corner, to the right or left, happened to 
 please the moment, neither knowing nor caring where 
 I went, but always finding something to see, and enjoy- 
 ing all things. Nor do I know yet by what instinct 
 I rounded up my journeyings by finding my proper 
 lodging. That night I slept, as to my body, but felt 
 little difference between dreaming asleep and dreaming 
 awake. 
 
 And now I dare say you will all of you criticise such 
 a wild way of examining pictures. You will pronounce 
 
IMPRESSIONS. 63 
 
 it most unphilosophical, rendering one liable to admire 
 without discrimination or justice. But in things that 
 respect the feelings, no man is sane who does not know 
 how to be insane on proper occasions ! As to a critical 
 judgment, or technical study of pictures upon a first 
 visit, I should as soon think of reading my wife's letter 
 as a grammarian, or of looking at a rose sent me for a 
 token of love, with the eye of a mere botanist. To make 
 my first visit to a gallery of paintings a process of study- 
 ing causes, instead of experiencing effects, would be to 
 throw away an exquisite pleasure, and one which omit- 
 ted could never be recalled. Only once in a man's life 
 can he be or see what I have been or seen. There is 
 but ONE first time to any thing ; and he is foolish indeed 
 that squanders it by giving himself to analysis, instead 
 of yielding himself to sympathy and enthusiasm ; and 
 the more artless and unashamed his enjoyment, the 
 better. The first merit of pictures is the effect which 
 they can produce upon the mind ; — and the first step of 
 a sensible man should be to receive involuntary effects 
 from them. Pleasure and inspiration first, analysis 
 afterward. The more perfectly one can abandon him- 
 self, the more true he can be to his real feelings and 
 impressions, the wiser he is. It is a glorious thing to 
 have a freshet in the soul ! To have the better feelings 
 overflow their banks and carry out of the channel all 
 the dull obstructions of ordinary life. It reveals us to 
 ourselves. It augments the sense of being. .In these 
 higher moods of feeling there is intuitional moral in- 
 struction, to the analysis of which the intellect comes 
 
64 GALLERY OF THE LUXEMBOURG. 
 
 afterward with slow steps. Therefore, I said to the 
 pictures, " I am here ; I am yours ; do what you will 
 with me ; I am here to be intoxicated." My feelings 
 opened out to them as flowers upon a southward slope 
 would open to the morning sun, letting its stimulation 
 develop whatever was in them to be developed. They 
 took me at my word, and such another revel — such an 
 ethereal intoxication, drunk from the cup of heavenly 
 beauty, I shall not have again, until I drink that new 
 wine of the Kingdom of Heaven ! 
 
 Gallery of Paintings at the Luxembourg. 
 
 I have come again to spend the day here. If I feel 
 that I can express any of the thoughts which rise and 
 which would interest you, I will do it. But they will be 
 detached. For when any view or thought springs up, I 
 shall stop upon the spot and dash it down as it first lives 
 in me. 
 
 Did you ever, after very dear friends, with whom 
 all the sympathies of your heart were affiliated, had left 
 places in which you and they had lived much in a short 
 time, experience a gentle, serene happiness, and stroll 
 about — sorry and glad that they were gone — feeling their 
 presence in every thing, and having from every object 
 around you a bright emanation of remembrance of 
 them? Well, then you know, not how I feel to-day, 
 in this gallery, but you know the direction in which to 
 imagine it. I am calm, happy, full of sympathy — but 
 rational — piercingly appreciative — and yet, there is 
 
GALLERY OF THE LUXEMBOURG. 65 
 
 everywhere a second sense, or bright over-current of 
 remembrance of the golden joys of my first visit. The 
 visit of day before yesterday seems like the gnardian 
 angel of to-day's visit — a spirit hovering round its 
 charge ! 
 
 It is surprising to what an extent one may learn his 
 own mental peculiarities in such a gallery, by remarking 
 the pictures which affect him most, and those, equally 
 good, and better as works of art, from which he turns 
 soon and carelessly. I do not feel attracted by pictures 
 which express only veneration, nor by those which ex- 
 press unmingled sorrow, or horror, or fear. There is 
 here a noble painting, by Scheffer, of a distant battle 
 between the Turks and Suliot Greeks, and the near 
 figures composed of the Suliot women witnessing the 
 defeat of their husbands and parents, and resolving to 
 cast themselves down from the high rocks on which 
 they are grouped. I can not look at it for a moment. 
 There are eighteen women, exhibiting very different 
 effects of grief, and three beautiful children in the 
 group ; — when is not a child beautiful ? I linger upon 
 these little fellows more than upon all the rest. 
 
 In another picture, by Delorme, Hector reproaches 
 Paris for not going out to the war, but living in effem- 
 inate enjoyment with Helen. She is the center figure, 
 the very impersonation of light, simple, confiding love ; 
 not the deep, silent love, but the laughing, childlike 
 affection. She is disrobed the one half, with gossamer 
 
66 GALLERY OF THE LUXEMBOURG. 
 
 about one arm, and a delicate cherry-colored robe about 
 her loins and limbs. Hector stands on the left, his back 
 to the light, so that his face and whole front arc in the 
 shadow of his own body, enhancing the expression of 
 high honorable reproach conveyed by his face, position, 
 and full apparel of arms. Paris, stung by his words, 
 has risen up hastily from dalliance with Helen, and is 
 striding away, wearing an expression of shame and 
 honorable resolve upon a face which yet retains, in part, 
 the recent sweetness of love. He tears a chaplet of 
 flowers from his head; and a thin filmy scarf, which his 
 forward motion luckily entangles, sweeps upon him 
 judiciously, just in time to save him from being quite 
 naked. A statue of Venus in the dim, but light back- 
 ground, a fan of peacock's feathers in her hand, fall- 
 ing upon her right shoulder, a couch behind with a 
 leopard's skin upon it, sufficiently indicate the auspices 
 under which they hitherto had dwelt. 
 
 Romans during the Decline. — This picture alone 
 is larger than the whole side of one of our parlors, 
 measuring about thirty feet by twenty, and contains 
 thirty-five figures larger than life size. It represents a 
 luxurious Roman banquet, in its last stages ; flowers, 
 roses, princely and gorgeous garments of Tyrian dye, 
 lie on the marble table in front ; a couch and table ex- 
 tend the whole length of the portico, which is open to 
 the air on the far side, from which the light comes. 
 The whole indicates the utmost luxury of dress — which, 
 however, seems to have very little to do with their 
 
GALLERY OF THE LUXEMBOURG. 67 
 
 bodies — and the utmost abandonment to wine and pleas- 
 ure. The men are in every stage of intoxication — some 
 being carried out by slaves — some asleep on the floor, 
 or dozing at the table — some drinking wine — some kiss- 
 ing their beautiful neighbors, who are profusely scattered 
 through the picture in every conceivable condition, ex- 
 cept decent ones. It is full of nakedness, lust, and 
 drunken revelry. There is an air of earnestness about 
 the whole, of an utter abandonment of themselves, soul 
 and body, to revelry, that makes the effect awful. This 
 is hightened by powerful accessories. The vast build- 
 ing, a fruit of old Eoman greatness of conception ; the 
 statues of the noble Eomans of other days standing up 
 in gigantic size against the background, and two noble, 
 virtuous and indignant Eomans, on one side, who are 
 looking in, ashamed and heart-faint at the beastliness of 
 their countrymen — these give such an effect to the whole, 
 that one can not help feeling his indignation rising 
 against the luxurious wretches. The utmost breath of 
 sensuous pleasure excites not one sympathy in you for 
 the pleasure, but you mourn for the state which is can- 
 kered and destroyed by such citizens. 
 
 O, what a noble, melancholy picture is the next, by 
 Delaroche — the Death of Elizabeth, Queen of England. 
 I never before have seen a death-scene painted that 
 equaled the occasion. But what can I say more of a 
 picture, in which Elizabeth is dying, Cecil trying to com- 
 fort her, her nobles and chief women being present, than 
 that it more than equals the imagination? It lifts it up 
 
68 GALLERY OF THE LUXEMBOURG. 
 
 — it gives it to know, as it never did before, what such a 
 scene must have been ! I will describe it if I get home 
 — language may indicate the ideas, but never the color- 
 ing, the strength of the figures, the depth of the whole 
 thing. It was hardly more real, in life, than on the 
 canvas. 
 
 I never before realized the right effect of size in pic- 
 tures. Large canvas conveys something which is more 
 than the mere figures — there is a sense of reality in 
 things of life-size, or even greater than the natural, 
 which does not belong to and can not be conveyed by 
 under-sizes. 
 
 I have finished — six hours are gone — from ten to four 
 — the gallery closes, and I look probably for the last 
 time on these treasures of the living French Artists ! 
 Well, many of these pictures I shall continue to see as 
 long as I live. By the help of some of them I believe I 
 shall preach better hereafter. 
 
 Being all new pictures, that is, not fifty years old, 
 they have a great freshness of color, which is both a help 
 and a hindrance. It gives vividness to them, but then 
 there is lacking that subdued mellowness that age gives 
 to pictures. 
 
 I think, of the artists which I have seen thus far, 
 these are the best, and in this order, Vernet, Delaroche, 
 Scheffer, Schnetz, Delorme. It is hard to decide be- 
 tween the first two. I suppose Vernet is the better, bul 
 I certainly like the two pictures of Delaroche — the Death 
 of Elizabeth, and another without name — far better. 
 
GALLERY OF THE LUXEMBOURG. 69 
 
 I am heartily tired of French nakedness. Their sec- 
 ond-rate painters seem to abhor nothing so much as 
 linen. I think myself not to be fastidious in such things. 
 I am willing always to see the human form sculptured 
 or painted when it seems to subserve a good purpose. 
 If it be natural that it should under such and such cir- 
 cumstances be disrobed, I do not turn away from it, 
 provided the sentiment is noble, and predominates to 
 such a degree as to make the condition of the figure a 
 secondary and scarcely perceived affair. But, so to paint 
 women, that, against the propriety of the thing (to say 
 nothing of morals), you admire beauty instead of follow- 
 ing the sentiment; or to select subjects which require 
 effeminacy and luxury, and corresponding representa- 
 tives, is too bad. I am sick of naked harems. The Turk 
 refuses a sight of his women even when dressed. The 
 French are courteous to the other extreme. I could not 
 help feeling, at length, and not alone of this gallery, that 
 a yard of linen would be, of itself, almost an object of 
 beauty ; and quite original, too, as an idea of art, among 
 a certain class of French painters. 
 
 But enough of this. You are yawning by this time, 
 and wishing my gallery, painters, and writer too, in 
 Jericho — for dullness — and I will stop. Perhaps I may 
 add a chapter to-morrow. 
 
Y. 
 
 THE LOUVRE. 
 
 Paris. 
 
 Here am I, iu the Gallery of Statues. I shall jot 
 down, here and there, notes of my impressions, and if 
 they do not interest you, skip them and save them for 
 me; for I can not write in my private note-book many 
 things which I wish to remember. 
 
 How strange is the feeling which subdues one in the 
 presence of this vast collection — thousands of statues, 
 brought from Rome and adjacent places, and made in 
 the best days of her greatness. Here is a Jupiter made 
 when men believed in his power ; here are Cesars carved 
 when that name made the world tremble ; here are Bac- 
 chus, Venus, Apollo, Minerva, centaurs, cupids, nymphs, 
 vestals, and they are almost to me as if they lived; be- 
 cause I feel that when they were made, they were, to the 
 age, realities, and not mythological, as they are to us. 
 Besides, these marbles once represented the mind and 
 heart of the world. What mighty changes have rolled 
 over the globe since the day when not to believe and 
 to worship these, and such as these, was infidelity ! 
 Since then, they have fallen from the niches and ped- 
 estals — have been buried in ruin. They slept awhile ; 
 the world wrought and grew, and at length, secure for 
 centuries, they are dug out and reerected. But bow 
 changed — not they, but we ; now, only a fool or some 
 
THE LOUVRE. 71 
 
 poet-mad creature worships. One, in looking at them, 
 feels a dim and misty history of this long period and 
 its changes rising before him, and filling his soul with 
 a strange somber joy and sadness. 
 
 Every statue of Trajan is alike in representing his 
 head low in the moral region, very large perceptives and 
 very small reflectives, full in the sides, back and top. 
 
 All the heads of Augustus are good, and the face 
 noble. It is the face of a man— rgenius and frank good- 
 heartedness. 
 
 The head of Demosthenes, as here carved, is not re- 
 markable ; language small ; brow good, but not com- 
 manding; equally developed in perceptive and reflective 
 faculties — not such an one as I imagined. 
 
 One easily reads the condition of women in the most 
 refined days and nations of antiquity, in the idealization 
 of them in statues. In this respect the French painters 
 are like the ancients ; — grace, extreme physical beauty, 
 and an inviting softness of expression, characterize their 
 women. But genius, intelligence, nobleness of purity, 
 and that capacity for loving which wins admiration but 
 awes familiarity — these attributes, in which we conceive 
 of woman, do not belong to the statues, as they probably 
 did not belong to the living women that sculptors 
 knew, in antiquity, or to the ideal conceptions of them. 
 Women are a new race, recreated since the world re- 
 ceived Christianity. I feel, in this gallery, among these 
 memorials, what it would be to go back to the time 
 before Christianity enlightened the world. 
 
 All the heads of Venus are finer in profile than in 
 
72 THE LOUVRE. 
 
 front. Contrary to my expectation, the greatest num- 
 ber of statues of Yenus, as a divinity, are anything but 
 voluptuous. Her freaks, in the fabulous histories, were 
 surely wanton enough ; but the ancients evidently had 
 a conception of her which we do not at all take in. As 
 the divinity of new life ; of fresh existence • ancl so of yet 
 unstained purity. "We must separate in our minds the 
 Venus of pleasure from the more purely and poetically 
 conceived Yenus. Youth, beauty, hope, and health, 
 characterize her. If this ideal be separated from the 
 grosser associations, it is not wanting in beauty. I am 
 greatly but agreeably disappointed in the statues of 
 Yenus. 
 
 I have often heard of grand stairs ; but with us, stairs 
 are such matters of mere convenience that I had no con- 
 ception of the architectural effects of 1 which they are 
 susceptible. For, when a space larger than the whole 
 of two such houses as yours is devoted to them, and 
 they are twelve or fifteen feet broad, and broken every 
 twenty steps by a platform, surrounded by columns, 
 decorated with vases and carved sides, and they run to 
 such a length as to form a grand vista, narrowing in the 
 distance, they are among the most striking objects which 
 you will see. 
 
 Painted Ceilings. — The fact is that we have no ceil- 
 ings to paint, ours being low, circumscribed, and without 
 grandeur. But when you have domes that swell above 
 your head almost like the heavenly vault, and vast but 
 diversified ranges of ceilings, you feel the propriety of 
 covering them with every device. The richness of the 
 
THE LOUVRE. 73 
 
 compartments, and the complexity of the borders, the 
 innumerable figures, the inexhaustible fertility of sub- 
 jects, and the neck-breaking weariness vi trying to look 
 straight up long enough to enjoy them — these things 
 one must experience to understand or appreciate. But 
 so much richer in interest are the things around, that I 
 oan look at ceilings but in passing. One feels, however, 
 how grand a field it gives to an artist — such an unob- 
 structed space ! And when the rooms are, like these, 
 each devoted to a given purpose, the artist by some 
 allegorical painting gives to the ceiling the name and 
 character of the collections. Thus the hall where I 
 write, and the room just left, are called from Hercu- 
 laneum and Pompeii. In the first room, the ceiling 
 represents the genii of the arts under the form of 
 women, quite beautiful and quite nude, looking with 
 pleasure upon a youth, who represents Charles X., the 
 collector of these treasures. Still more appropriately 
 in this room of the destroyed cities, the artist repre- 
 sents the presiding goddess, or rather represents the 
 cities that were destroyed, under the form of -beautiful 
 goddesses, who sit sadly upon the awful sides of the 
 mountain, which already is lurid with eruption, and 
 from whose fiery summit-gulf the <^ark and angry god 
 of fire is rushing forth to destroy. 
 
 In the Egyptian saloon, little winged spirits draw a 
 drapery from before a throne on which sits a beautiful' 
 majestic Egyptian princess ; at her feet are symbols of 
 Art and Eeligion, and, receding in the distance, are 
 seen the dim summits of the pyramids ; while Art and 
 4 
 
74 THE LOUVKE. 
 
 Learning are advancing toward her as if surprised bj 
 the discovery". 
 
 One soon begins to feel, in examining such an endless 
 gallery of representations as this, how little he knows 
 minutely and accurately, even of the most familiar 
 things in nature. The range of subjects covers almost 
 the whole ground of human knowledge. One must be 
 multifariously learned to follow the painter even super- 
 ficially. But when we reflect that each artist — men of 
 signal genius and intelligence — devoted their lives to 
 the minute study of the topics which they represent, it 
 appears plain that, in details, their pictures ought to be 
 beyond the criticism of most men. I can criticise a 
 floral picture ; but the dogs and game of Desportes, 
 which nearly fill one room, are perfectly life-like, and 
 every time I look I see some new excellence and it 
 grows to wonder; and the exact knowledge of the 
 painter, the close observation, the minute study of the 
 minutest things, all impress me with a* feeling of how 
 much there is in the least thing that God has made. 
 In some respects, God's works are more surprising to us 
 through the imitations of men than in themselves. 
 
 We pass to another saloon — filled with the works of 
 Lesuer, Rigaud, Mignard, and Claude Lorraine. The 
 ceiling represents, with exquisite beauty and effect, the 
 popular love of art in their age. A noble statue, a man 
 pounced upon by a lion, has just been opened in the 
 public grounds, and crowds are assembled to inspect it. 
 Doubtless many of the faces are portraits. The variety 
 of expressions of face, indicating the effects of a fine 
 
THE LOUVRE. 75 
 
 work of art on different dispositions, is admirable. Then 
 as to position and drapery, and intensely rich colors 
 and contrasts, it is wonderful. These ceilings grow on 
 me. But, O, my neck ! 
 
 Who that has read at all has not read of Claude's 
 sunsets ? At length I see them with my own eyes ! The 
 whole air is full of ether-gold ! There are other artists 
 who put more color into their pictures — into the trees, 
 the forms> the clouds. He puts it into the atmosjihere. 
 Every thing is then bathed and suffused with its glow. 
 
 It is two hours since I wrote the above. My mind 
 refused to reproduce in writing its thoughts long before 
 it was too much wearied to enjoy. But now I am only 
 half through the gallery, and am utterly exhausted. I 
 can neither feel, think, nor look. There are Murillos, 
 Titians, Carraccis, and others of equal note ; but I see 
 only a vast wilderness of color, and the sense of beauty, 
 jaded and sated, sinks under the burden. If you aver- 
 age these saloons, each one is larger than the gallery of 
 the New York Art Union (single saloon). There are 
 forty-four saloons ! Five or six only are devoted to 
 cabinets of coins, etc., and the rest to pictures ! Yet, 
 nearly a half of the collection is shut up and can not be 
 seen until the improvements are completed in the saloons 
 where the pictures are to hang ! Only think of nearly 
 eighty saloons of pictures classified into the French, Ital- 
 ian, Flemish, German, English and Ancient Schools! 
 But this does not include the basement, devoted to 
 
76 DOVER CLIFFS. 
 
 marble statuary, or the upper story devoted to marine 
 models of ships, engines, etc., etc. Such is the Louvre ! 
 
 Dover Cliffs, Friday morning, 7 o'clock, August 
 23, 1850. — I am sitting upon the very edge of these 
 cliffs which Shakspeare has made memorable ! Dover 
 lies at the base, and its sounds rise up to me through 
 the long distance. The channel is spotted with sails — 
 the sun shines mistily — the air is mild, and hardly a 
 breath waves the harebells which grow round me. I 
 pluck from the very edge of the cliff, where they have 
 looked below and above, and felt every wind of sum- 
 mer, three delicate flowers for you, for Shakspeare's 
 sake and for my own. Four doves flying far up have 
 just alighted near me on the brink ; had I their wings I 
 would soon prove the ocean deeps', not of water but of 
 ether ! 0, how sweet it is again to hear one's mother 
 tongue, even when spoken by strangers ! I blessed 
 even the everlasting waiter dunning me for fees, be- 
 cause he asked in English, and overpaid him. But 
 how could I have contained myself had the greeting 
 been from tried friends ! Hastily snatching a morsel 
 of food, needed after an all-night journey from Paris, I 
 determine to stand a moment on the highest cliff — and 
 to leave in my letter a little memorial of it. Imagine 
 me standing up against the clear blue sky and waving 
 my hand, as I do heartily, to you and yours, both a 
 good morning and a farewell from Dover ! Good bye 
 — I hasten down lest I lose the train — and with it my 
 very amiable mood ! 
 
VI. 
 
 LONDON NATIONAL GALLERY. 
 
 London. 
 
 We often suppose, in the heat and noise and weari- 
 ness of the city, that could we find retirement among 
 cool shades, amid flowers and trees, by brooks or airy 
 mountains, we should rest. So we should if we could 
 carry with us our friends, or else leave behind and 
 forget our friendships! But even with our friends about 
 us in the city, we are wearied by the noise and endless 
 excitement. In seclusion, without our friends, we are 
 soon wearied by the trouble that rises up within. But 
 could friends go with us into the quiet of rural life, 
 that were the highest reach of earthly happiness. 
 
 The long discontinuance of regular occupation, pro- 
 duces sadness and depression, by a sense of personal 
 waste and worthlessness, which makes the day long and 
 life almost a burden. I am less able to dispose of my 
 Sabbaths than any other part of my time ; partly, because 
 they are days that always bring up the remembrances of 
 childhood to me — the days of stillness and brightness 
 which used to visit me when young, in Litchfield, and 
 possess me with visions and dreams, or reveries and 
 imaginations, which I did not then understand. But, 
 aside from these associations, the Sabbath, for more than 
 fifteen years, has been a day of intense activity, of the 
 highest mental and moral excitement. Now I am idle : 
 
78 LONDON. 
 
 I seem like a broken-stemmed flower that tlie river 
 lias cast up on the bank, and that lies there, seeing the 
 stream go past, but itself lying still. Or rather like a 
 branch wrenched off from its stock, and drifted and 
 drifting without aim or rest. I seem a useless thing. 
 I quite envy men that have capacity to do anything. 
 To be sure, I have a latent pride that would not al- 
 low others to treat me as if they thought so too. But 
 when I am by myself, or sauntering about the 
 streets, or in church, I feel as if I were much like a 
 thistle-down in a bright summer's day, that neither lifts 
 up into the air nor settles down, but floats here and 
 there as chance may blow it, — and no one will ask 
 to-morrow (who saw it to-day), Where is it ? So that I 
 find a man, out of his associations and life-connections, 
 to be little better than an odd wheel of a machine, good 
 for nothing without its fellows. 
 
 Now, too, I am apt, if I do not fall asleep soon 
 enough, — or more frequently when I wake, hours before 
 it is the fashion here to get up, — to lie and think over my 
 way of life hitherto ; and my life-work seems to me to 
 have been so little and so poorly done, that I feel dis- 
 couraged at the thought of resuming it! I have, 
 everywhere, in my travelings, — at the shrine of the mar- 
 tyrs in Oxford, at the graves of Bunyan and Wesley in 
 London, at the vault in which Kaleigh was for twelve 
 years confined in the Tower, asked myself whether 1 
 could have done and endured what they did, and as 
 they did! It is enough to make one tremble for him- 
 self, to have such a heart-sounding as this gives him. 
 
LONDON. 79 
 
 I cast the lead for the depth of my soul, and it strikes 
 bottom so soon that I have little reason for pride. 
 
 Had it not been for paintings, flowers, trees, and land- 
 scapes, I do not know what I should have done with 
 myself. Often, when extremely depressed, I have gone 
 to the parks or out of the city to some quiet ground, 
 where I could find a wooded stream, and the wood filled 
 with birds, and found, almost in a moment, a new spirit 
 coming over me. I was rid of men — almost of myself. I 
 seemed to find a sacred sweetness and calmness, not com- 
 ing over me but into me. I seemed nearer to Heaven. I 
 felt less sadness about life, for God would take care of it ; 
 and my own worthlessness, too, became a source of com- 
 posure ; for, on that very account, it made little differ- 
 ence in the world's history whether I lived or died. 
 God worked, it seemed to me, upon a scale so vast and 
 rich in details, that anything and anybody could be 
 spared, and not affect the results of life. There is 
 such a view of the sufficiency of God as to make your 
 own littleness and feebleness a source of very true and 
 grateful pleasure. What if this or that flower per- 
 ishes, is the summer bereaved ? A single leaf plucked 
 from the oak makes no difference. What if I should 
 die abroad? A shock it would be to many, — but in 
 a month's time only a few would feel it. In a year, 
 and perhaps half-a-dozen only out of* the world's crew 
 would have a thought or a sadness about it. The ship 
 would sail merrily on. Yea, my own children, elastic 
 with youth, would, soonest of any, grow past regret ; 
 and the two or three who clung to the broken reed, 
 
80 NATIONAL GALLERY. 
 
 would themselves soon come on and greet me in 
 Heaven ! How wisely is this so. There were no end 
 to grief, and no room for joy, if we carried all the 
 accumulated troubles of life with undiminished sensi- 
 bility from year to year. First we bury friends, then 
 time buries our grief. 
 
 How often and often have I blessed God for the 
 treasures and dear comforts of his natural world ! Shall 
 I ever be grateful enough for Trees ! Yet, without 
 doubt, better trees there might be than even the most 
 noble and beautiful now. I suppose God has, in His 
 thoughts, much better ones than he 'has ever planted 
 on this globe. They are reserved for the glorious land. 
 Beneath them may we walk ! 
 
 National Gallery, London. 
 
 I have now seen so many pictures, here and on 
 the continent, by the greatest masters, ancient and 
 modern, that my mind begins to inter-compare them. 
 Every painter of note has a holy family — a Madonna, 
 a Christ and John, a Crucifixion, a Descent from the 
 Cross, and a Magdalen. Often, the same artist has 
 several on t^e same subject: two I have see^ this 
 morning, a Magdalen by Guido, in the British Insti- 
 tution, and another is before me here, and a much 
 finer one. In the fact that so many painters engage 
 upon the same subject, I find a secondary pleasure 
 of no small degiee, i. e. in comparing the pictures of 
 each with the other. If I could only retain in my 
 
NATIONAL GALLERY. 81 
 
 mind all that I have seen, and have an interior gallery of 
 the memory, it seems to me that I should be enriched 
 for life. The finest head of a youthful Christ is one by 
 Guido. He is apparently about fifteen or sixteen years 
 of age. Without at all resembling those countenances 
 which you see of Eaphael, he is yet of the same style 
 of face. It is full of youth and love, calm yet vivacious, 
 with a look of dignity that is to be. He is looking 
 upon John (Baptist), who, with a swarthier and more 
 rugged face, but suffused with reverence and love com- 
 mingled, is gazing also upon Christ, and putting one hand 
 upon his shoulder. There is another picture by Leonardo 
 da Vinci, representing Christ disputing with the Doctors. 
 It is only half-length, small, Christ's head and bust in 
 the center, and two heads on each side. Christ is speak- 
 ing apparently to you, and not to them, with his hands 
 before him, the forefinger of his right hand upon the tip 
 of the middle finger of his left, as if making a point of 
 argument. The painting is beautiful, the expression 
 exceedingly serene, soft, yet sagacious. Yet, it is nol 
 Christ ; but one imagines that Guido's is, or might have 
 been. 
 
 Indeed, in almost all the heads of Christ which I 
 have .seen, there is much to admire but nothing to 
 satisfy. They are more than human, but not divine. 
 They carry you up a certain distance, but then leave 
 you unsatisfied. If they are majestic, they are stern; 
 if severe, they are flat and expressionless ; if loving, 
 they are effeminate. Many of them, by old masters, are 
 absolutely shaggy and repulsive. There has been but 
 4* 
 
82 NATIONAL GALLERY. 
 
 one which I felt to be even an approximation; but I 
 have, in the ocean of pictures, lost trace of it, and can - 
 not recall the painter. You may well suppose that in 
 Roman Catholic countries this subject would be univer- 
 sally tried by the pencil. A very large gallery made 
 up only of pictures of Christ might be collected ; and, 
 on some accounts, it would not be a thing amiss. 
 
 I have before me an admirable piece by Garcia — 
 a dead Christ. He lies at full length across the knees 
 of his mother, his lower extremities sustained by an 
 angel, who, gazing at his feet, is evidently full of the 
 past; his head is lovingly upheld by another angel, 
 whose bright and almost smiling face is full of the 
 future; while his mother wears the perfect expression 
 of deep, inward, maternal anguish ; not the grief which 
 outbursts, but the still grief which suffocates and kills. "S 
 The face of Christ is very noble: it has the severest 
 wisdom, a divine intelligence, a sweet, placid endurance. 
 But it lacks that suffusion of love, from which all these 
 other expressions should seem to spring. It is this that 
 was true of Christ, and it is this that all pictures lack, y 
 Love was the true nature of Christ. It was love that 
 sent, that animated, that sustained him. Only because 
 of his great loving did he become a man of sorrow. 
 All other qualities must spring from that. That must 
 be the atmosphere, and other expressions must be bathed 
 in it. It is this very element that painters have failed 
 to depict. It was not possible for it to be otherwise. 
 The world's idea of Christ was crude and partial ; and 
 the part which was entertained was magisterial. 
 
NATIONAL GALLERY. 83 
 
 Veneration — in an age of veneration, when worship 
 was only or mostly reverential, and not through justifi- 
 cation by a faith which works by love — naturally sought 
 to produce a kingly head of the Saviour — a head that 
 should express purity, wisdom, patience, loftiness. But 
 these should have been the adjuncts of Love. There- 
 fore, it not being so, I feel an aching want in the 
 presence of every representation. The youthful Christ 
 of Guido is the nearest to my wish, and will live in my 
 remembrance. 
 
 At times I can not but be deeply moved by these pic- 
 tures of the Saviour. I seem really to stand in his 
 presence. I feel overwhelmed with unworthiness. It 
 seems as if my inmost soul 'were known to him, my 
 secret sins were spread before him, and I hardly dared 
 to look up. I know that he will forgive them — but 
 •will he deliver me from them? It is not a want of 
 faith in Christ for the past that I lack — but, O, that I 
 might have a Christ who should assure me of rescue 
 and purity in every period of life to come ! All my 
 life I have seen what was holy, just and good ; and all 
 my life, that which I would be is so far beyond what I 
 am, and seemingly must be, that the struggle seems 
 welt nigh useless, and Death is invoked as the only 
 effectual deliverer. 
 
 O ! what a riches of enjoyment must there be to 
 those that have such galleries to resort to at leisure, and 
 in all their different moods. It is impossible to be omni- 
 mooded, and yet without this it is not possible to be in 
 sympathy with all the subjects ; and unless you are you 
 
84 NATIONAL GALLERY. 
 
 can not rightly behold them. Could I come when sadness 
 prevails, single out a few and feed upon them, — and 
 come again when love and joy predominated, and select 
 such as that inspiration craved, — and come again when 
 feelings of reverence would make it easy to enter into 
 the conceptions of old masters, and so on through • all 
 the variations of the mind's estate, — how rich an addi- 
 tion would such galleries be to the refined enjoyments 
 of life. But now I am always hastening and always 
 haunted with the feeling that I may never see them 
 again ; that I must omit nothing which I should regret 
 afterward ; and so one picture destroys another, and my 
 mind, like a daguerreotype process, constantly inter- 
 rupted, is not a gallery of distinct impressions, but for 
 the most part a recess of gorgeous confusion. Yet I 
 have reaped much. I shall be able to think many 
 things and preach many things which otherwise had 
 been impossible. 
 
 Correggio. — His name was always familiar, but I 
 nave learned to love his pictures. Before me is his 
 " JEcce Homo," or Christ crowned with thorns, delivered 
 up by Pilate. The painting, merely, is exquisite. The 
 expression of Christ is that of weariness and drooping 
 under suffering. It is too human. I do not see the 
 God shining through and bearing up under sorrow. 
 The Satan of Milton could endure ! And if we can not 
 but admire the infernal heroism, how much more do we 
 demand it to meet our conception of a God ! His 
 mother, fainting, is falling into the arms of John. I 
 had felt a contempt for this picture from having seen 
 
NATIONAL GALLERY. 85 
 
 some engravings of it, in which the face of Mary was 
 pleasure-loving, almost voluptuous ; but in the painting 
 it is that of intense love yet lingering on a mother's face 
 in a swoon, and is rarely and exquisitely beautiful. 
 
 How different, how violent the contrast between this 
 and the next of his pieces and one of the finest of his 
 pencil : Cupid instructed by Mercury under the aus- 
 pices of Yenus. Nothing can be rounder, softer, and 
 more beautiful than every figure here. Mercury is full 
 of arch sagacity, as if inwardly laughing at what he is 
 doing ; Cupid has the slyest mirth all over his face, as 
 if almost ready to burst into laughter at the mischiefs in 
 prospect, while Yenus at full length by his side, holding 
 his bow, entirely nude, seems — I do not know how, 
 neither arch_ nor mirthful, nor voluptuous, but all of 
 them! 
 
 Eubens. — There are here not a few specimens of the 
 works of this artist. He was twice married, and his second 
 wife he seems to have loved entirely, as she is forced into 
 almost cv rty picture which contains a female face. Thus, 
 in the decision of Paris, when he awarded the apple to the 
 handsomest of all the goddesses, Yenus has his wife's face. 
 In the fine allegorical picture of Peace and War, the 
 centra 1 iigure is his wife. In the abduction of the Sa- 
 bine women, a fine Eoman has had the luck to get his 
 wife, the finest woman of the crowd. In that noble 
 picture, the Brazen Serpent, the prominent female figure 
 is his wife again ; and in the Holy Family he has paint- 
 ed not only her again, but all his family. This fondness 
 for his wife is amiable enough ; but it redounds to the 
 
86 NATIONAL GALLERY. 
 
 credit of his heart more than to the fertility of his fancy 
 I soon am tired of his women. They are so well fed, 
 and have so amazingly thriven on their food. They 
 are not alone plump, but fat. Therefore you may im- 
 agine that one less sensitive than I to the ridiculous 
 would feel how ludicrous is one little thing of his en- 
 titled an Apotheosis, in which the warrior, about to be- 
 come divine, is lying all abroad in the air with his 
 armor on, his booted feet sprawling wide apart, and 
 himself sustained by five or six angelic forms, whose 
 solidity makes the idea of floating even, still more of 
 rising — and that too with such a dumpish jackanapes in 
 tow — supremely laughable. 
 
 Cuyp. — I have been particularly struck with the 
 landscapes, both here and at Paris, of this artist, and 
 had compared him to Claude in the margin of my cata- 
 logue; and was pleased, this morning, at finding the 
 same sentence in the descriptive catalogue of the Na- 
 tional Gallery. I know so little about painting that 
 when by any perception or sympathy I judge as I ought 
 to, and as masters have done who both feel and know 
 better than I, it certainly gives me pleasure. 
 
 The portraits from the hand of Eembrandt and of 
 Vandyke, are almost as interesting to look long at, as a 
 group of figures or a landscape. I can not tell you, who 
 have not seen them, what it is that arrests the eye, and 
 fixes it upon a simple head, perhaps of an imaginary 
 person. But if you were to see one, you would appre- 
 ciate it. 
 
 "When I read the criticisms of eminent artists, I per- 
 
VERNON GALLERY. 87 
 
 ceive how many things there are in painting of which 
 I knew nothing — things which are known only by edu- 
 cation — as in literature, the graces, the style, the deli- 
 cate shades of thought, the richest beauties, are those 
 which the untutored do not grasp, and which we appre- 
 ciate only after long familiarity. Some few of these 
 things I begin to find struggling for a birth in my mind ; 
 and I have a feeling that, had I the opportunity, I could 
 soon grow wise. But now, when I have the pictures, I 
 have no leisure to read such works as would greatly 
 assist me ; and by and by, when I have the leisure and 
 the books, I shall not have the pictures ! "Well, one can 
 not be everything ! Yet, at times, I rebel at the thoughts 
 of how much in the world lies within the grasp of my 
 industry, and yet that I should live a mere nothing ! 
 
 I visited the Vernon collection also to-day. I do not 
 by any means enjoy it as I do the National Gallery. 
 Yet it possesses treasures, which at home would be 
 counted precious wonders. I saw the originals of the 
 engravings which have enriched the London Art-Union 
 Journal for several years past. 
 
 Nothing can exceed the minute accuracy of the paint- 
 ing, or the very life and spirit of animals, to be found 
 in Landseer's paintings. Fine as the engravings are, 
 they no more express the merit of -the canvas, than the 
 canvas expresses the actual vitality of dogs and deer. 
 
 I was delighted with Wilkie's pictures ; for example, 
 Reading the News, The Piper ; and, in the National Gal- 
 lery, The Penny Wedding, The Blind Fiddler, The Vil- 
 lage Festival, etc. 
 
88 PAINTINGS. 
 
 Such of Turner's pictures as I saw were utterly dis- 
 pleasing to me. I rejoiced over Gainsborough, a copy 
 of one of whose little landscapes, you will remember, 
 I have. Ettey's paintings seemed all tinsel to me — 
 skin — skin, without depth or thought, just such things 
 on canvas as we find engraved in ladies' magazines for 
 fashions. Ah, how I wished that I might own, or have 
 within reach, the young female figures of Greuze — a 
 French painter. I never saw such sweetness, innocence, 
 and simplicity of character. They are not at all insipid, 
 as innocence usually is, at least on canvas. 
 
 Teniers and Ostade are names which are almost words 
 of description with novelists and descriptive writers, and 
 it was pleasant to me to see a few of their works. 
 Such as I saw were very close and smooth imitations 
 of natural objects. 
 
 Poussin always seemed cold and stiff to me, and 
 I could not persuade myself to look upon his pictures. 
 They chilled me, or tended to check good spirits. 
 
 As this lettt r is a sort of Charivari, I may as well 
 stop my comment Upon pictures, and tell some of my 
 rambles. I visited the graves of Wesley, Watson, and 
 Adam Clarke ; and opposite to the yard where they lie, 
 in Bunhill fields, the graves of Wesley's mother, of Dr. 
 Owen, Dr. Watts, and, what was more than all to me, 
 John Bunyan ! Think of the difference, in their day, 
 of this poor tinker, and the notable bishops and lords. 
 But now I feel insulted, or rather I feel worried and 
 annoyed, to see the worthless names of men who were 
 in their life great by the outside only or chiefly ; — while 
 
LONDON. 89 
 
 I feel inspired and blessed to stand by the spot which 
 bears the names of such men as Bunyan and Wesley ! 
 Such as they are the true men ! Their own day knew 
 them not. The world could not know them until the 
 breadth of their fame was developed by time. On yes- 
 terday I visited Cripplegate church — in which Ben 
 Jonson was married — Oliver Cromwell, also — where 
 Fox, the martyrologist, is buried. But it was not for 
 these that I went, but to have the privilege of standing 
 upon the stone beneath which are the ashes of John 
 Milton ! I found the street where he lived. The place 
 on which his house stood was afterwards a bear garden, 
 then a brewery, then a theater, then a Methodist chapel, 
 and now is built again into dwelling-houses ! 
 
EXPEKIENCES OF NATURE. 
 
EXPERIENCES OF NATURE. 
 
 I. 
 
 A DISCOURSE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 Happy is the man that loves flowers ! Happy, even 
 if it be a love adulterated with vanity and strife. For 
 human passions nestle in flower-lovers too. Some 
 employ their zeal chiefly in horticultural competitions, 
 or in the ambition of floral shows. Others love flowers 
 as curiosities, and search for novelties, for "sports," and 
 vegetable monstrosities. We have been led through 
 costly collections by men whose chief pleasure seemed 
 to be in the effect which their treasures produced on 
 others, not on themselves. Their love of flowers was 
 only the love of being praised for having them. But 
 there is a choice in vanities and ostentations. A contest 
 of roses is better than of horses. "We had rather be 
 vain of the best tulip, dahlia, or ranunculus, than of 
 the best shot. Of all fools, a floral fool deserves the 
 eminence. 
 
 But these aside, blessed be the man that really loves 
 
94 A DISCO UESE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 flowers! — loves them for their own sakes, for their 
 beauty, their associations, the joy they have given, and 
 always will give; so that he would sit down among 
 them as friends, and companions, if there was not 
 another creature on earth to admire or praise them I 
 But such men need no blessing of mine. They are 
 blessed of God ! Did He not make the world for such 
 men ? Are they not clearly tae owners of the world, 
 and the richest of all men ? 
 
 It is the end of art to inoculate oaen with the love 
 of nature. But thosf who ha* i a passion for nature in 
 the natural way, need no pictur *s nor galleries. Spring 
 is their designer, and the whole year their artist. 
 
 He who only does not appreciate floral beauty is 
 to be pitied like any other man who is born imperfect. 
 It is a misfortune not unlike blindness. But men 
 who contemptuously reject flowers as effeminate and 
 unworthy of manhood, reveal a certain coarseness. 
 Were flowers fit to eat or drink, were they stimulative 
 of passions, or could they be gambled with like stocks 
 and public consciences, they would take them up just 
 where finer minds would drop them, who love them as 
 revelations of God's sense of beauty, as addressed to 
 the taste, and to something finer and deeper than taste, 
 to that power within us which spiritualizes matter, and 
 communes with God through His work, and not for 
 their paltry market value. 
 
 Many persons lose all enjoyment of many flowers by 
 indulging false associations. There be some who think 
 that no weed can be of interest as a flower. But all 
 
A DISCOUESE OF FLOWERS. 95 
 
 flowers are weeds where they grow wildly and abun- 
 dantly ; and somewhere our rarest flowers are some 
 body's commonest. Flowers growing in noisome places, 
 in desolate corners, upon rubbish, or rank desolation, 
 become disagreeable by association. Eoadside flowers, 
 ineradicable, and hardy beyond all discouragement, lose 
 themselves from our sense of delicacy and protection. 
 And, generally, there is a disposition to undervalue 
 common flowers. There are few that will trouble 
 themselves to examine, minutely, a blossom that they 
 have seen and neglected from their childhood ; and yet 
 if they would but question such flowers, and commune 
 with them, they would often be surprised to find 
 extreme beauty where it had long been overlooked. 
 
 If a plant be uncouth, it has no attractions to us 
 simply because it has been brought from the ends of 
 the earth and is a "great rarity;" if it has beauty, 
 it is none the less, but a great deal more attractive to 
 us, because it is common. A very common flower 
 adds generosity to beauty. It gives joy to the poor, 
 the rude, and to the multitudes who could have no 
 flowers were nature to charge a price for her blossoms. 
 Is a cloud less beautiful, or a sea, or a mountain, 
 because often seen, or seen by millions ? 
 
 At any rate, while we lose no fondness for eminent 
 and accomplished flowers, we are conscious of a growing 
 respect for the floral democratic throng. There is, for 
 instance, the mullein, of but little beauty in each 
 floweret, but a brave plant, growing cheerfully and 
 heartily out of abandoned soils, ruffling its root about 
 
96 A DISCOURSE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 with broad-palmed, generous, velvet leaves, and erect- 
 ing therefrom a towering spire that always inclines us 
 to stop for a kindly look. This fine plant is left, by 
 most people, like a decayed old gentleman, to a good- 
 natured pity. But in other countries it is a flower, and 
 called the " American velvet plant." 
 
 We confess to a homely enthusiasm for clover, — not 
 the white clover, beloved of honey-bees, — but the red 
 clover. It holds up its round, ruddy face and honest 
 head with such rustic innocence ! Do you ever see it 
 without thinking of a sound, sensible, country lass, sun- 
 browned and fearless, as innocence always should be ? 
 We go through a field of red clover, like Solomon in a 
 garden of spices. 
 
 There is the burdock too, with its prickly rosettes, 
 that has little beauty or value, except (like some kind, 
 brown, good-natured nurses) as an amusement to chil- 
 dren, who manufacture baskets, houses, and various 
 marvelous utensils, of its burrs. The thistle is a 
 prince. Let any man that has an eye for beauty take 
 a view of the whole plant, and where will he see more 
 expressive grace and symmetry ; and where is there a 
 more kingly flower? To be sure, there are sharp 
 objections to it in a boquet. Neither is it a safe 
 neighbor to the farm, having a habit of scattering its 
 seeds like a very heretic. But most gardeners feel 
 toward a thistle as boys toward a snake; and 
 farmers, with more reason, dread it like a plague. 
 But it is just as beautiful as if it were a universal 
 favorite. 
 
A DISCO UKSE OF FLOWERS. 97 
 
 "What shall we say of mayweed, irreverently called 
 dog- fennel by some ? Its acrid juice, its heavy pungent 
 odor, make it disagreeable ; and being disagreeable, its 
 enormous Malthusian propensities to increase render it 
 hateful to damsels of white stockings, compelled to 
 walk through it on dewy mornings. Arise, scythe, 
 and devour it ! 
 
 The buttercup is a flower of our childhood, and very 
 brilliant in our eyes. Its strong color, seen afar off, 
 often provoked its fate ; for through the mowing-lot we 
 went after it, regardless of orchard-grass and herd-grass, 
 plucking down its long, slender stems crowned with 
 golden chalices, until the father covetous of hay 
 shouted to us, "Out of that grass! out of that grass I 
 you rogue !" 
 
 The first thing that defies the frost in spring is the 
 chickweed. It will open its floral eye and look the 
 thermometer in the face at 32° ; it leads out the snow- 
 drop and crocus. Its blossom is diminutive: and no 
 wonder, for it begins so early in the season that it has 
 little time to make much of itself. But, as a harbinger 
 and herald, let it not be forgotten. 
 
 You can not forget, if you would, those golden kisses 
 all over the cheeks of the meadow, queerly called ' 
 dandelions. There are many green-house blossoms less 
 pleasing to us than these. And we have reached 
 through many a fence, since we were incarcerated, like 
 them, in a city, to pluck one of these yellow flower 
 drops. Their passing away is more spiritual than their 
 bloom. Nothing can be more airy and beautiful than 
 5 
 
98 A DISCOURSE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 the transparent' seed-globe — a fairy dome of splendid 
 architecture. 
 
 As for marigolds, poppies, hollyhocks, and valorous 
 sunflowers, we shall never have a garden without them, 
 both for their own sake, and for the sake of old-fash- 
 ioned folks, who used to love them. Morning-glories 
 — or, to call them by their city name, the convolvulus 
 — need no praising. The vine, the leaf, the exquisite 
 vase-formed flower, the delicate and various colors, will 
 secure it from neglect while taste remains. Grape 
 blossoms and mignonnette do not appeal to the eye; 
 and if they were selfish no man would care for them. 
 Yet because they pour their life out in fragrance they 
 are always loved, and, like h : ojnelv__^eojDl_e___3vilh 
 noble hearts, they seem beautiful by association. No- 
 thing that produces constant pleasure in us can fail to 
 seem beautiful. We do not need to speak for that 
 universal favorite — the rose ! As a flower is the finest 
 stroke of -creation, so the rose is the happiest hit among 
 flowers ! Yet, in the feast of ever blooming roses, and 
 of double roses, we are in danger of being perverted 
 from a love of simplicity, as manifested in .the wild, 
 single rose. "When a man can look upon the simple, 
 wild rose and feel no pleasure, his taste has been 
 corrupted. 
 
 But we must not neglect the blossoms of fruit-trees. 
 What a great heart an apple-tree must have! What 
 generous work it makes of blossoming ! It is not con- 
 tent with a single bloom for each apple that is to be ; 
 but a profusion, a prodigality of blossom there must be. 
 
A DISCOURSE OF FLOWERS. 99 
 
 The tree is but a huge boquet. It gives you twenty 
 times as much as there is need for, and evidently 
 because it loves to blossom. We will praise this 
 virtuous tree. Not beautiful in form, often clumpy, 
 cragged, and rude ; but it is glorious in beauty when 
 efflorescent. Nor is it a beauty only at a distance and 
 in the mass. Pluck down a twig and examine as 
 closely as you will ; it will bear the nearest looking. 
 The simplicity and purity of the white expanded flower, 
 the half open buds slightly blushed, the little pink- 
 tipped buds unopen, crowding up together like rosy 
 children around an elder brother or sister, can any 
 thing surpass it? Why here is a cluster more beau- 
 tiful than any you can make up artificially even if you 
 select from the whole garden! Wear this family of 
 buds for my sake. • It is all the better for being com- 
 mon. I love a flower that all may have ; that belongs 
 to the whole, and not to a select and exclusive few. 
 Common, forsooth! a flower can not be worn out by 
 much looking at, as a road is by much travel. 
 
 How one exhales, and feels his childhood coming 
 back to him, when, emerging from the hard and hateful 
 city streets, he sees orchards and gardens in sheeted 
 bloom, — plum, cherry, pear, peach, and apple, waves 
 and billows of blossoms rolling over the hill sides, and 
 down through, the levels ! My heart runs riot. This 
 is a kingdom of glory. The bees know it. Are the 
 blossoms singing? or is all this humming sound the 
 music of bees ? The frivolous flies, that never seem" to 
 be thinking of any thing, are rather sober and solemn 
 
100 A DISCOURSE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 here. Such a sight is equal to a sunset, which is but a 
 blossoming of the clouds. 
 
 We love to fancy that a flower is the point of trans- 
 ition at which a material thing touches the immaterial ; 
 it is the sentient vegetable soul. We ascribe dispo- 
 sitions to it ; we treat it as we would an innocent child. 
 A stem or root has no suggestion of life. A leaf 
 advances toward it; and some leaves are as fine as 
 flowers, and have, moreover, a grace of motion seldom 
 had by flowers. Flowers have an expression of coun- 
 tenance as much as men or animals. Some seem to 
 smile ; some have a sad expression ; some are pensive 
 and diffident; others again are plain, honest, and up- 
 right, like the broad-faced sunflower and the hollyhock. 
 We find ourselves speaking of them as laughing, as 
 gay and coquettish, as nodding and dancing. No man 
 of sensibility ever spoke of a flower as he would of a 
 fungus, a pebble, or a sponge. Indeed, they are more 
 life-like than many animals. We commune with 
 flowers — we go to them if we are sad or glad; but 
 a toad, a worm, an insect, we repel, as if real life was 
 not half so real as imaginary life. What a pity flowers 
 can utter no sound! A singing rose, a whispering 
 violet, a murmuring honeysuckle ! 0, what a rare 
 and exquisite miracle would these be. 
 
 When we hear melodious sounds, — the wind among 
 trees, the noise of a brook falling down into a deep 
 leaf-covered cavity — birds' notes, especially at night; 
 children's voices as you ride into a village at dusk, far 
 from your long absent home, and quite home-sick ; or 
 
A DISCOURSE OF FLOWERS. 101 
 
 a flute "heard from out of a forest, a silver sound rising 
 up among silver-lit leaves, into the moon-lighted air; 
 or the low conversations of persons whom you love, 
 that sit at the fire in the room where you are conva- 
 lescing ; — when we think of these things we are apt to 
 imagine that nothing is perfect that has not the gift of 
 sound. But we change our mind when we dwell lov- 
 ingly among flowers; for, they are always silent 
 Sound is never associated with them. They speak 
 to you, but it is as the eye speaks, by vibrations of 
 light and not of air. 
 
 It is with flowers as with friends. Many may be 
 loved, but few much loved. Wild honeysuckles in 
 the wood, laurel bushes in the very regality of bloom, 
 are very beautiful to you. But they are color and form 
 only. They seem strangers to you. You have no 
 memories reposed in them. They bring back nothing 
 from Time. They point to nothing in the future. But 
 a wild-brier starts a genial feeling. It is the country 
 cousin of the rose ; and that has always been your pet. 
 You have nursed it, and defended it ; you have had it 
 for companionship as you wrote ; it has stood by your 
 pillow while sick ; it has brought remembrance to you, 
 and conveyed your kindest feelings to others. Yon 
 remember it as a mother's favorite ; it speaks to you of 
 your own childhood, — that white rosebush that snowed, 
 in the corner, by the door; that generous bush that 
 blushed red in the garden with a thousand flowers, 
 whose gorgeousness was among the first things that 
 drew your childish eye, and which always comes up 
 
102 A DISCOURSE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 before you when you speak of childhood. You re- 
 member, too, that your mother loved roses. As you 
 walked to church she plucked off a bud and gave you, 
 which you carried because you were proud to do as she 
 did. You remember how, in the listening hour of ser- 
 mon, her roses fell neglected on her lap — and how you 
 slyly drew one and another of them ; and how, when 
 she came to, she looked for them under her handker- 
 chief, and on the floor, until, spying the ill-repressed 
 glee of your face, she smiled such a look of love upon 
 you, as made a rose for ever after seem to you as if it 
 smiled a mother's smile. And so a wild rose, a prairie 
 rose, or a sweet-brier, that at evening fills the air with 
 odor, (a floral nightingale whose song is perfume,) 
 greets you as a dear and intimate friend. You almost 
 wish to get out, as you travel, and inquire after their 
 health, and ask if they wish to send any messages by 
 you to their town friends. 
 
 But no flower can be so strange, or so new, that a" • 
 friendliness does not spring up at once between you. 
 You gather them up along your rambles ; and sit down 
 to make their acquaintance on some shaded bank with 
 your feet over the brook, where your shoes feed their 
 vanity as in a mirror. You assort them ; you question 
 their graces ; you enjoy their odor ; you range them on 
 the grass in a row and look from one to another ; you 
 gather them up, and study a fit gradation of colors, and 
 search for new specimens to fill the "degrees between 
 too violent extremes. All the while, and it is a long 
 while, if the day be gracious and leisure ample, various 
 
A DISCOURSE OF FLOWERS. 103 
 
 suggestions and analogies of life are darting in and out 
 of your mind. This flower is like some friend ; another 
 reminds you of mignonnette, and mignonnette always 
 makes you think of suck a garden and mansion where 
 it enacted some memorable part ; and that flower con- 
 veys some strange and unexpected resemblance to cer- 
 tain events of society ; this one is a bold soldier ; that 
 one is a sweet lady dear ; — the white flowering blood- 
 root, trooping up by the side of a decaying log, recalls 
 to your fancy a band of white bannered knights; and 
 so your pleased attention' strays through a thousand 
 vagaries of fancy, or memory, or vaticinating hope. 
 
 Yet, these are not home flowers. Yon did not plant 
 them. You have not screened them. You have not 
 watched their growth, plucked away voracious worms, 
 or nibbling bugs ; you have not seen them in the same 
 places year after year, children of your care and love. 
 Around such there is an artificial life, an associational 
 beauty, a fragrance and grace of the affections, that no 
 wild flowers can have. 
 
 It is a matter of gratitude that this finest gift of Pro- 
 vidence is the most profusely given. Flowers can not 
 be monopolized. The poor can have them as much as 
 the rich. It does not require such an education to love 
 and appreciate them, as it would to admire a picture of 
 Turner's, or a statne of Thorwaldsen's. And, as they 
 are messengers of affection, tokens of remembrance, and 
 presents of beauty, of universal acceptance, it is pleasant 
 to think that all men recognize a brief brotherhood in 
 them. It is not impertinent to offer flowers to a stran- 
 
104 A DISCOURSE OF FLOWERS. 
 
 ger. The poorest child can proffer them to the richest. 
 A hundred persons turned together into a meadow 
 full of flowers would be drawn together in a transient 
 brotherhood. 
 
 It is affecting to see how serviceable flowers often 
 are to the necessities of the poor. If they bring their 
 little floral gift to you, it can not but touch your heart 
 to think that their grateful affection longed to express 
 itself as much as yours. You have books, or gems, or 
 services, that you can render as you will. The poor 
 can give but little, and do but little. Were it not for 
 flowers they would be shut out from those exquisite 
 pleasures which spring from such gifts. I never take 
 one from a child, or from the poor, that I do not thank 
 God in their behalf for flowers ! 
 
 And then, when Death enters a poor man's house ! It 
 may be, the child was the only creature that loved the un- 
 befriended father — really loved him ; loved him utterly. 
 Or, it may be, it is an only son, and his mother a 
 widow — who, in all his sickness, felt the limitation of 
 her poverty for her darling's sake as she never had for 
 her own; and did what she could, but not what she 
 would, had there been wealth. The coffin is pine. The 
 undertaker sold it -with a jerk of indifference and haste, 
 lest he should lose the selling of a rosewood coffin, 
 trimmed with splendid silver screws. The room is 
 small. The attendant neighbors are few. The shroud 
 is coarse. O ! the darling child was fit for whatever 
 was most excellent, and the heart aches to do for him 
 whatever could- be done that should speak love. It 
 
A DISCOURSE OF FLOWERS. 105 
 
 takes money for fine linen ; money for costly sepulture. 
 But flowers, thank God, the poorest may have. So, 
 put white buds in the hair — and honey-dew, and mig- 
 nonnette, and half blown roses, on the breast. If it be 
 spring, a few white violets will do ; and there is not a 
 month till November, that will not give you something. 
 But if it is winter, and you have no single pot of roses, 
 then I fear your darling must be buried without a 
 flower ; for flowers cost money in the winter ! 
 
 And then, if you can not give a stone to mark his 
 burial-place, a rose may stand there ; and from it you 
 may, every spring, pluck a bud for your bosom, as the 
 child was broken off from you. And if it brings tears 
 for the past, you will not see the flowers fade and come 
 again, and fade and come again, year by year, and not 
 learn a lesson of the resurrection — when that which 
 perished here shall revive again, never more to droop 
 or to die. 
 
 5* 
 
II. 
 
 DEATH IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 Woodstock, Conn., July 28, 1851. 
 
 There is something peculiarly impressive to me in 
 the old New England custom of announcing a death. 
 In a village of but a few hundred inhabitants, all are 
 known to each. There are no strangers. The village 
 church, the Sabbath school, and the district school 
 have been channels of intercommunication ; so that one 
 is acquainted with not only the persons, but, too often, 
 with the affairs, domestic and secular, of every dweller 
 in the town. 
 
 A thousand die in the city every month, and there is 
 no void apparent. The vast population speedily closes 
 over the emptied space. The hearts that were grouped 
 about the deceased doubtless suffer alike in the country 
 and in the city. But, outside of this special grief, there 
 is a moment's sadness, a dash of sympathy ; and then 
 life closes over the grief as waters fill the void made 
 when a bucketful is drawn out of the ocean ! 
 
 There goes a city funeral ! Well, I wonder who it is 
 that is journeying so quietly to his last home ? He 
 was not in my house, nor of my circle ; his life was not 
 a thread woven with mine ; I did not see him before, 
 I shall not miss him now. We did not greet at the 
 church ; we did not vote at the town meeting ; we had 
 not gone together upon sleigh-rides, skatings, huskings, 
 
DEATH IN THE COUNTRY. 107 
 
 fishings, trainings, or elections. Therefore it is that 
 men of might die daily about us, and we have no sense 
 of it, any more than we perceive it when a neighbor 
 extinguishes his lamp. And when one is buried — ah, 
 a city burial ! Amidst drays and carts, in the thunder 
 of a million wheels, a few carriages fall behind a grim 
 and heathenish hearse, black as midnight; for hearses 
 are made, as all our funeral habits are, to express but 
 one unbroken sorrow, as if a Christian heart had but 
 that experience ! It is a shame that eighteen hundred 
 years of Christianity yet leave Death grim and dismal 
 as a devil's cave. To be sure there is sorrow, but there 
 is sorrow ended as well as begun ; there is release, there 
 is rest, there is victory, as well as bereavement. And 
 yet, no badge of hope, not one sign of cheer, not a color 
 or insignia of immortal joy and beauty, mingles with 
 the black crape and plumes of Christian heathenism 
 about the tomb ! But I wander. "When the procession 
 starts, it moves through the crowded street scarcely 
 attracting a look. No one asks the useless question, 
 Who is it ? No one knows or cares. There it goes — 
 a black pilgrimage through a dusty, roaring street, 
 wending its way toward Greenwood. When the city 
 is well nigh cleared, then begins a- gentle funeral trot, 
 as if the attraction of the grave accelerated our pace as 
 we drew nearer. Blessed portal ! only within these 
 bounds do we seem to receive from nature those lessons 
 of death which we refuse to learn of Christianity. The 
 very hills of life are here I Yonder, where men live, 
 is only noise and dust, heat and smoke, canker and 
 
108 DEATH IN THE COUNTRY- 
 
 care ! But here every curve and slope speaks beauty 
 and peace. Almost only here the sun falls tranquilly, 
 and flowers thrive, and winds make harps of every 
 tree, and birds, unblemished and unterrified, rejoice. 
 Surely these are the vales that speak of life ! One 
 must needs smile, and, in spite of our perverse education, 
 feel some joy as we lay down the weary body to its 
 rest. One enters Greenwood with a sense of relief. 
 The air changes at the gate. We leave our burdens 
 outside. But when we have laid the dust within its 
 parent's bosom, we emerge into the world again as into 
 a prison. It is a blessed contrast to have so much 
 peace and so deep a beauty close by the city, silently 
 putting life to shame, and winning grief thitherward, 
 as if to the bosom of a parent ! 
 
 It was upon the very day that we arrived in "Wood- 
 stock, upon this broad and high hill-top, in the after- 
 noon, as we were sitting in ransomed bliss, rejoicing in 
 the boundless hemisphere above, and in the beautiful 
 sweep of hills feathered with woods, and cultivated 
 fields ruffled with fences, and full, here and there, of 
 pictures of trees, single or in rounded groups : it was 
 as we sat thus, the children, three families of them, 
 scattered out, racing and shouting upon the village 
 green before us, that the church bell swung round 
 merrily, as if preluding, or clearing its throat for some 
 message. It is five o'clock — what can that bell be 
 ringing for ? Is there a meeting ? Perhaps a prepara- 
 tory lecture. It stops. Then one deep stroke is given, 
 and all is still. Every one stops. Some one is dead. 
 
DEATH IN THE COUNTRY. 109 
 
 Another solemn stroke goes vibrating through the 
 crystal air, and calls scores more to the doors. Who 
 can be dead? Another solitary peal wafts its message 
 tremulously along the air ; and that long, gradually 
 dying vibration of a country bell — never heard amid 
 the noises of the air in a city — swelling and falling, 
 swelling and falling ; aerial waves, voices of invisible 
 spirits communing with each other as they bear aloft 
 the ransomed one ! 
 
 But now its warning voice is given. All are listening. 
 Ten sharp, distinct strokes — and a pause; some one is 
 ten years old of earth's age. No ; ten more follow — 
 twenty years is it? Ten more tell us that it is an 
 adult. Ten more and ten more, and twice ten again, 
 and one final stroke count the age, seventy-one 1 Seventy- 
 one years? "Were they long, weary, sorrowful years? 
 Was it a corrugated wretch who clung ignobly to life ? 
 Was it a venerable sire, weary of waiting for the silver 
 cord to be loosed? Seventy-one years! Shall I see 
 as many ? And if I do, the hill-top is already turned 
 and I am going down upon the further side ! How 
 long to look forward to ! how short to look back upon ! 
 Age and youth look upon life from the opposite ends 
 of the telescope: it is exceedingly long, it is ex- 
 ceedingly short! To one who muses thus, the very 
 strokes of the bell seem to emblem life. Each is 
 like a year, and all of them roll away as in a moment 
 and are gone. 
 
III. 
 
 INLAND VS. SEASHORE. 
 
 Woodstock, Conn., August, 1851. 
 
 My dear Brother Storrs: — Your first letter from 
 Newport was pleasant to read. I rejoiced in your 
 pleasure, but was quite aroused by your heresies. I 
 do* not mean any unsoundness of faith, but of taste. 
 Do you not set forth the joys of a fashionable and 
 crowded watering-place in terms that would draw 
 thither a very recluse? I take up arms for the true 
 country; — the pure and undefiled place of Nature! 
 
 Pray tell me whether there is in Newport such a 
 thing as quiet? How many people have you there, 
 every one on the search for amusement ? Do you ever 
 get rid of noise, or crowds, or excitements ? You only 
 exchange hot and dusty excitement, for excitements 
 with sea-breezes. Can you find a place out of doors to 
 be alone in for half-an-hour ? You can not go out of 
 doors without meeting somebody. Somebody is liable 
 to be acquainted with you at every turn. Something 
 is always " going on " in town. You are as much 
 in society and as little with Nature as if in the old, 
 thundering city. 
 
 But here, in this quiet, hill-top town, is the pro- 
 foundest peace. The clouds in the air are hardly more 
 alone than we. "We have the plenitude of Nature in 
 some of her loveliest aspects, and it requires an effort to 
 
INLAND VS. SEASHORE. Ill 
 
 get into company as great as for you to get out of it. 
 A man may sink down within himself in the pro- 
 foundest meditation. Nobody calls to see you. Nobody 
 knows that you are here. You float, like a mote in 
 sunbeams, where you will, up or down, hither or 
 thither, without contact and in silence. The whole air 
 is marvelous by its stillness. It is still in the morning, 
 at noon, at sunset, at dark, and still all night. Early 
 in the morning, from four to five, the birds say their 
 matins. (Alas ! Jenny Lind, you would be no bird 
 here !) The stalwart lord of the barnyard starts up 
 and challenges a hundred other cocks and cockerels of 
 each degree. Then come the obstreperous children and 
 coaxing nurses. These noises over, you have had the 
 last of it. Nothing else makes a noise in this village. 
 
 Indeed, this is quite a wonder of a village to all who 
 love quiet and a beautiful prospect. Its like I do not 
 know anywhere. It is a miniature Mount Holyoke; 
 and its prospect, the Connecticut Valley in miniature. 
 It is placidly spread upon a hill-top so high up that 
 dust, sound and insects have forsaken it, or never 
 found their way hither. It is marvelous how a village 
 can exist without any apparent trades. But, as far as I 
 can perceive, there are no occupations here of any sort. 
 There is a blacksmith's shop, which never makes a 
 noise, and that is all. No carpenter's shop, nor cabinet- 
 makers, nor turners ; no hatters, saddlers, watchmaker 
 or shoemaker, that I can see. No houses are building ; 
 we hear no trowel clinking, or muffled hammer-stroke ; 
 there is no mortar-making — no piles of brick or lumber. 
 
112 INLAND VS. SEASHOKE. 
 
 The town was finished long ago : and all workmen of 
 every sort seem to have gone off and left dear old 
 Woodstock all to itself. Even travelers leave our soli- 
 tude unbroken. There is no tavern on the street ; and 
 the two little tranquil stores might plant corn up to 
 their very door steps without much fear of its being 
 trodden down. Once in a while, toward evening, a 
 farmer's wagon skirts along the edge of the green. 
 Such a sight brings us to the windows. But it is a short 
 and headlong drive, as if the rider felt guilty for dis- 
 turbing the peace, or raising a dust, even for a moment. 
 Some twenty houses, white and yard-inclosed, stand 
 modestly apart, and back from the long, broad village- 
 green which they inclose but do not shut in. This 
 village-green is neither a circle, square, parallelogram, 
 nor polygon, but a space sloping chiefly from north to 
 south, and in some places eastward and westward, with 
 no shape at all, but coming nearer than to any thing 
 else to the form of an elongated flat-iron. For a long 
 time, seeing no people in the street, no one going in or 
 coming out of the doors, no persons in the window, or 
 even smoke in the chimneys, neither babies, boys, nor 
 maidens, being anywhere discernible, I supposed, for 
 the first week, that only old people lived here, — nice, 
 tidy, quiet old people, such as I saw on Sundays keep- 
 ing themselves awake in church by nibbling fennel or 
 caraway. I was mistaken. Familiarity has enabled 
 me to detect signs of life in all its varieties. But the 
 habit of the place is to be quiet. I wonder whether the 
 children cry or not? I wonder if the sober, tranquil 
 
INLAND VS. SEASHORE. 113 
 
 people ever made a noise in their life? How long is 
 it since they subsided and tranquilized ? 
 
 The air breathes as if it were iced sherbet. You have 
 a distinct luxury in each particular breath. You halt 
 voluntarily and cultivate inspiration. The sun, that 
 rages in the valleys below, and wilts down the crowds 
 in the sweltering cities, here walks in cool brightness 
 through the heavens, tempering the air to that delicious 
 point at which the chill is lost, but heat has not begun. 
 Your coolness is all imported. You are hot in that 
 pent-up, narrow-streeted, rackety Newport, and cooled 
 only by the sea-breeze. Coolness with you is a thing 
 inserted. But here it is indigenous. It belongs to the 
 very texture of the air. You may have the sea-shore, 
 waves and surf, storms once in a while, bathing and 
 fishing — all, except the last, boisterous. Beside, you 
 have the buzzing enthusiasm of thousands around you. 
 Your pulse never gets down, your eye never cools. 
 Why, my dear fellow, you see persons from the city 
 eveiy day ! You get the papers the very day of their 
 publication ! Do you call that the country ? 
 
 As for me, if I please to bathe, I have a little lake 
 down yonder. Just now there is not a ripple on its 
 surface — a falling insect here and there dimples it, and 
 a fish, in taking in the petty Jonah, increases the dimple 
 to a circlet. When, wading on the silver sand, I at 
 length have depth to plunge, the ripple runs half across 
 to yonder shore. Fishing? yes, I go down with great 
 possessions of various tackle ; but the perch are small, 
 pickerel scarce, and pout only go out at dusk ; so that one 
 
114 INLAND VS. SEASHORE. 
 
 forgets his line, and falls off into a dream, or rows about 
 the tranquil river, along the fringe of bushes, then 
 among lily-pads, then toward the mouth of the i7ilet, 
 then along the shaded edge, where deep, dark pine- 
 woods forever murmur. Now and then a fish leaps up 
 and falls back with a plash. Or your oar, poised for a 
 second, sheds musical pearls into the pure lake, or the 
 cracking of sticks tells you that a cow breaks through 
 the thicket to drink — two cows evidently in the water, 
 one drinking upward and the other downward, lip to 
 lip ! These are our bathings and fishings. By the way, . 
 those white pond-lilies ! Is there another flower, its 
 adjuncts also considered, so exquisitely beautiful. The 
 rare form of its elongated cup, the interior coronet of 
 stamens and pistils, delicately gold-colored, the green 
 and pink-edged sepals, its delicious fragrance, make it a 
 very queen. It chooses some nook or bay along the 
 lake's edge, spreads out its large shield-like leaf, and 
 floats its snow-white blossom on the surface. Flowers 
 growing from the soil are fall beautiful, but flowers grow- 
 ing out of crystal water are beyond all words of beauty. 
 In the morning, look out eastward. A vale with 
 every conceivable undulation stretches full thirty miles 
 from north to- south. It lies almost under you. It is so 
 near that you see the farm-houses, the orchards, the 
 groups of trees, the corn-fields, the yellow rye, and the 
 now half-ripe oats. It is not an even, level valley, bat 
 a collection of wide swells or rolls of land setting in on 
 the north, and but half commingling when they reach 
 the lake right over opposite to us. Indeed, so broken 
 
INLAND VS. SEASHORE. 115 
 
 and stony are the features, that it would not be a valley 
 at all if it were not for the hills that shut it in on either 
 side. And these hills are made up of multitudes of little 
 hills piled together in every way that is beautiful. The 
 little stream, that finds its course through the valley 
 among mounds and rounds and hillocks, seems uncer- 
 tain of its way, and sets trees and bushes along its 
 banks, for fear of forgetting where to flow. The brook 
 has fairly reflected itself in the air — for see that film of 
 silver mist, thin as gauze, hanging above the stream, 
 clear down to the lake ! 
 
 0, see the lake! — or, rather, see the robes of mist 
 that hide it ! The sun is at them. They are wreathing, 
 moving, lifting up, and moving off, sun-colored in their 
 depths, but silver-edged! Now the water reflects the 
 morning. At noon it will be breezy, and whitish, or 
 steel-gray. At night it will be black as ink. In the 
 early part of the day the lakelet speaks of life ; but at 
 twilight it seems to think of death. 
 
 "But what do you do for amusement?" Why, sir, 
 we do not receive company, or make calls, or ride about 
 among a caravan of dandy vehicles, or "go with the 
 multitude" in a-swimming, or anything else that implies 
 excitement or company. Be it known, however, that 
 we have a select few here, to whom quiet is enjoyment. 
 We look at the picture-gallery of God in the heavens, 
 with never two days' pictures alike ; we sit down with 
 our books on the brow of the breezy hill, under an old 
 chestnut tree, and read sometimes the book, sometimes 
 the landscape, sometimes the highland clouds ; we wait 
 
116 INLAND VS. SEASHOKE. 
 
 till the evening sun begins to emit rose-colored light, 
 and then we take rides along the edges of woods, upon 
 unfrequented roads, across suspicious bridges, along 
 forest paths leading no one knows where, and coming 
 out just at the very spot we did not expect. In this 
 perilous journeying we often breathe our horse while 
 we collect flowers, leaves, mosses, and grasses ; and we 
 get home at the most urgent moment of sunset, just in 
 time to go up into the observatory and see the wide and 
 wonderful glory, of which for a moment we utter ex- 
 clamations — "Look at that islet of fire," "and that deep 
 crimson bank," " and that exquisite blue between those 
 rifts of fire," "and that dove-colored cloud with a bronze- 
 colored molding and fringe!" But words are foolish! 
 And we sink away to silence, and only gaze and think ! 
 But, on other days we vary the entertainment ; for 
 there is an inexhaustible variety. Behold us then — the 
 ladies incipiently Bloomerized — wending afoot along 
 the road leading out of town westward. Before we are 
 half out of sight of the houses, the road is lined with 
 blackberries. The high-blackberry is yet holding back, 
 but the low-blackberry, trailing all over the banks and 
 covering the rocks, is in high condition. How large 
 and plump are these unhandled berries ! It is a marvel 
 how such little mouths as I see can get a whole one in. 
 We are soon satisfied. Now for boquets of wayside 
 flowers. Spireas, one, two, three, four species ! . Golden 
 rod, a lingering bud or two on the wild rose ; and here 
 are pussies, as the children call the velvet little mul- 
 berry-shaped posies : and here are flowering grasses, 
 
INLAND VS. SEASHORE. 117 
 
 and rushes, and ferns, and green leaves diverse and 
 innumerable ; — and a leaf is as pretty as a flower, any- 
 day, if you will only think so. Here, too, is the trailing 
 strawberry, whose vine, inwoven with buds of spirea, 
 will make your lady a queen-like coronet. 
 
 And now we come to the forks of the road, and 
 yonder is a whortleberry patch ! Even at a table, in a 
 saucer, with cream and spoon, berries are not to be 
 despised. But the bush is the only fit table, your hand 
 the best spoon, and your exhilaration the richest cream. 
 Commend me to a rocky hill-side, full of crickets, grass- 
 hoppers, butterflies, and birds, with blue berries, whortle- 
 berries, and, about the edges of the field, blackberries, 
 millions and millions more than you, and all the village 
 boys, and all the country girls, and all the little birds in 
 the air or out of the woods, can eat ! By the way, have 
 you locusts, and chirping crickets, and stridulous grass- 
 hoppers, in Newport ? A few crickets, perhaps, in the 
 ashes, or cracks of the hearth, which you hunt with 
 brush and broom, as soon as their shrill song disturbs 
 you. But grasshoppers, brown, green, and gray, you 
 have not in Newport, I know. You can not sit upon a 
 gray, shelving rock, ruffled about with bushes, half of 
 them in flower, and the rest full of berries, covered but 
 in nowise cushioned with filmy lichens, and see grass- 
 hoppers, • those speculators of the pasture, which jump 
 first, and consider afterwards where they shall land. 
 There goes one upon a spider's web, half broken through 
 by its sprawling descent. Unwelcome morsel ! It is 
 doubtful which is most alarmed, spider or grasshopper. 
 
118 INLAND VS. SEASHORE 
 
 Doubtless you have human spiders and webs, and 
 entangled insects about you, in that fashionable water- 
 ing-place. 
 
 There are a world of things to be considered on the 
 way home. Mosses must be gathered ; new flowers are 
 espied ; a deal of engineering is required to scale the 
 fences; and I have never seen a lady tottering on a 
 stone fence, anxiously securing her skirts, with reef and 
 double reef, across whose mind convictions did not flash 
 in favor of Bloomerism. Then this piece of twilight 
 wood must be threaded, the golden-freckled ground 
 admired, and the long shadows which it flings across 
 the road and upon the meadow observed ; and when, at 
 length, you are safely home again, and daintily refreshed 
 on the whitest bread, the freshest butter, and berries of 
 your own picking, you sit an hour in the cool, shady 
 veranda, and think it must be eleven o'clock, but find 
 by your watch that it is only eight, you protest that 
 never were days so long, never days so full of joy, 
 deep and quiet, and never nights of unwinking sleep so 
 refreshing. 
 
 I have it in my heart to tell you of our experiences 
 in country thunder-storms ; of sunsets gorgeously fol- 
 lowing storms ; of moonlight scenery ; of village scenes 
 and country customs, awakening in us that were coun- 
 try bred, thousands of dear recollections of youth and 
 home. But I spare you ! I trust that you sinned in 
 your enthusiasm for Newport through ignoranee. I 
 should be loth to think you so hardened in your desire 
 to build there three tabernacles for the trine-editorship 
 
INLAND VS. SEASHORE. 119 
 
 of The Independent. I will therefore wait to see if you 
 recant your theses of heresy. But if you again shall 
 declare them, and post them on the broadside of The 
 Independent — as Luther did his on the church-door — it 
 will then be time to bring up these other forces. 
 
 Of one thing I am sure, that your children have not 
 half the chance in a fashionable watering-place that ours 
 here have, for frolic and health, in this little serene vil- 
 lage-wilderness. Here they are, perched like eagles on 
 a cliff, and I am delighted to see how much children 
 sympathize with landscape beauty, sunsets, cloud-flocks, 
 and all the variable phases of Nature. But this long, 
 sloping green, and the rounded sides of the almost pre- 
 cipitous hill which the village crowns, are their chief 
 joy. All day long they are abroad, and the darkness 
 hardly drives them in. Bad company is impossible 
 where there is no company. All day long they race and 
 chase, or go a-berrying, or gather under the shade of 
 orchards or elms to relate marvelous stories; or they 
 dig profound wells, in which, for lack of water, they 
 impound solemn toads ; they hunt hen's nests ; and the 
 lesser urchins disturb the gravity of old matronly hens 
 by sundry attempts at catching them. They gather 
 about the cow at milking, or drive her to pasture, or 
 ride the horses to water; and once in a week they 
 proudly vex the mill-pond with hook and line, and 
 astonish their simple parents with two perch and four 
 roach, caught, strung, sandy and dry ! They have no 
 time fo? 1 quarreling, and it seems impossible for them 
 to devise any mischief meritorious of a whipping. 
 
120 INLAND VS. SEASHORE. 
 
 But, good-bye, my dear friend ! May I live to see 
 you again and grasp your hand in fellowship of our 
 common work. 
 
 P. S. At length I have discovered a cabinet-maker's 
 shop ! but there was nothing going on therein. 
 
IV. 
 
 NEW ENGLAND GRAVEYARDS. 
 
 Woodstock, Conn., August 30, 1853. 
 
 When this reaches you, I shall have spent six suc- 
 cessive Sabbaths in the State of Connecticut — the longest 
 period of sojourn within this, the State of my birth, for 
 twenty -five years. During this quarter of a century, she 
 has partaken largely of the changes that have gone on 
 throughout New England. LTer old towns have grown 
 rusty, and lie up upon her high places to the coolness 
 of summer, and to the roaring winds of winter, in a 
 tranquillity which would soothe the progressive fears of 
 the most rooted conservative. Young men, as soon as 
 they attain their majority, push off to the West or 
 South, or to the nearest manufacturing village or rail- 
 road depot. Thus, the uplifted towns, seen afar, upon 
 their mighty hills, lie like a dream ; while their offspring 
 villages in the valleys below whirl like a top with enter- 
 prise. The gods of the valley are mightier in New 
 England than the gods of. the hills ; the loom is too 
 strong for the plow. Indeed, farmers' boys are the most 
 profitable crop that New England farms can now pro- 
 duce. To ride about these endlessly diversified hills, 
 and marvel at their beauty, and rejoice in their associa- 
 tions, is, I am persuaded, a much easier way of spending 
 time than to subdue them, and compel them to render 
 up remunerating harvests. One would think that there 
 6 
 
122 NEW ENGLAND GRAVEYARDS. 
 
 had been, at some time, a hailstorm of granite bowlders, 
 and a rain of small stones to boot, along these hills. I 
 have seen a number of farms on which must have origi- 
 nated the affecting stories of sheep having their noses 
 sharpened to get the grass between the stones, and grass- 
 hoppers clinging to mnllen stalks with tears in their 
 eyes from very hunger. And yet it is surprising to see 
 how much soil labor has redeemed from rock and stone, 
 and smoothed and enriched into deep and mellow tilth. 
 The rugged pastures which inclose many of these beauti- 
 ful farms are samples of what the farms once were, and 
 a gauge of the degree of labor which they have cost. A 
 highly cultivated farm is always an object of beauty ; 
 out in the rocky parts of New England, a fine farm has 
 a moral beauty ; it is an enduring mark and measure of 
 indomitable industry. And the best of all is, that, 
 while the men make the farms, the farms thus make the 
 men. There is scarcely a homestead to be met, far or 
 near, that has not reared some man who is or has been 
 distinguished in public life. Nor can I think of a 
 worthier aim, during the summer vacations of profes- 
 sional men, than to return to their native places, and 
 gather up the memorials of. past days, and in the lives, 
 customs, and familiar events of the past and passing 
 generations, furnish materials for history. Why should 
 not all the old mansions and farm-houses be secured by 
 daguerreotype, before they crumble? "Lossing's Field 
 Book of the Revolution" is, on this account, worthy of 
 all praise. But why should the memorials of only our 
 revolutionary worthies be preserved ? Why not the 
 
NEW ENGLAND GRAVEYARDS. 128 
 
 birth-places of eminent civilians, clergymen, inventors, 
 schoolmasters, and of all others who have worthily- 
 served their generation ? Dr. Sprague, of Albany, has 
 in preparation the lives of the most noted American 
 clergymen, now deceased, — a work which we believe, 
 from a slight taste which we have privately had, will be 
 of the highest interest. "Why should there not be illus- 
 trations, so easily and cheaply procured, of their resi- 
 dences, birth-houses, their churches, and of their monu- 
 ments or simple tomb-stones ; and if there is none even 
 of these, then of the spots Or graveyards where they lie? 
 By the by, speaking of graveyards, one can not but 
 be pained at the desolation of these places in so many 
 New England towns. Once decently buried, and a 
 stone erected, the labor of love ends, and the memorials 
 are given over to the elements. It is painful to me, for 
 the most part, to walk through the New England grave 
 yards, always excepting the noble cemeteries which 
 within a few years have begun to spring up near the 
 larger towns and cities. The fences are dilapidated, the 
 head-stones broken, or swayed half over, the intervals 
 choked up with briers, elders, and fat- weeds; and the 
 whole place bearing impress of the most frigid indiffer- 
 ence. Yet, nowhere on earth is death more solemn 
 than in New England, nor the remembrance of the dead 
 more ineffaceable. Nowhere else is man valued so 
 highly, or his loss more universally felt. But there 
 seems to be little thought of anything that is not in 
 some way connected with practical utility. If the 
 departed could be made one whit happier, — if it were 
 
124 NEW ENGLAND GRAVEYARDS. 
 
 dreamed that the beautifying of the grave would even 
 be noticed by those whose bodies sleep there, — nowhere 
 else in the world would loving care continue to be 
 lavished upon the inclosing soil, more than in New 
 England. But the habits of the people make a thorough 
 separation between the living and the dead. The the- 
 ology has entered into the practical ways of life. The 
 dead are utterly gone. God has them in another world. 
 Their state is fixed and unalterable. So thinking, it 
 seems of but little worth to garnish their sleeping places. 
 But in part, this neglect in New England is owing to a 
 want of education and of a love of the graceful and 
 the beautiful. It is a pain - to us to tread these places. 
 Were I buried here, it seems as if my bones would 
 pluck at these disgraceful weeds and thistles, should 
 they penetrate the mold above my head. I can not help 
 feeling that it is a shame and disgrace that the only 
 places in thrifty New England where weeds are allowed 
 to grow unmolested are graveyards, where the bodies 
 of our sweet children, where father and mother, brother 
 and sister, husband and wife, rest till the resurrection. 
 Cows and horses are often allowed to pasture ,on the 
 graves ; thus saving the expense of mowing, beside a 
 clear gain in grass! One of the finest orchards in Sher- 
 burnc, Mass., is that which flourishes upon the old town 
 graveyard (now private property). The remains of a suc- 
 cession of their former pastors, and one president of Har- 
 vard College, lie under the roots of these profitable trees. 
 It is impossible that pleasant associations can exist 
 with the place of burial under such circumstances. The 
 
NEW ENGLAND GRAVEYARDS. 125 
 
 grossest dreads hedge about the spot which a Christian 
 faith should hallow and enrich. Who would not shrink 
 from being buried under wild parsnej)S, burdocks, 
 blackberry bushes, and hardback? It were better to 
 be burned, or to sink to the bottom of the sea! One 
 loves to wander through Greenwood, and think of such 
 a resting-place for his body when life is done. Those 
 quiet rounds and hills, sacred from carelessness or in- 
 trusion, over which trees cast their checkered shadows, 
 and sing their music, how cheering and how refining 
 are such associations ! They tempt us frequently 
 thither. Our children are pleased to go. Death begins 
 to be more easily thought of. It becomes associated 
 with themes which often inspire and sanctify the im- 
 agination. Christ, the Victor and Eedemptor — our 
 own victory and redemption ; heaven, and renewed 
 friendship, higher loves, and inconceivable joys ; — these 
 themes find in such places an easy association with our 
 thoughts, and life becomes dignified by the estimate 
 which we place upon death. Besides, it is a blessed 
 attainment when we can so associate the truths of God's 
 word with natural objects, that one is, in a manner, 
 reading his Bible in flowers, in forests, in sunlight, and 
 at twilight, always, everywhere, and in every thing. 
 It is a blessed thing to have converted death into a 
 joy ; yea, to kindle up in its portals a light that shines 
 backward upon our path of life, and cheers us onward 
 toward it, as if it were, as it is, our home and glory. 
 For death is the coming of the Son of Man. A Chris- 
 tian ought not to be afraid of his Father's bosom. "N 
 
126 NEW ENGLAND GEAVEYAEDS. 
 
 But how should one not shrink from burial if he 
 sees that all who have gone before him are cast out into 
 a place of desolation, where friends will not choose to 
 come, or will come to wade through matted grass and 
 tangled weeds, and push away bush and brier to read 
 his decaying name; and hasten away, dreading the 
 cheerless day that shall briDg their bodies, too, to the 
 home of the refuse and worn out ! ! may the sun 
 pierce through the shade of trees, dear to many birds, 
 to fall in checkered light upon my grave! I ask no 
 stone or word of inscription. May flowers be the only 
 memorials of my grave, renewed every spriog, and 
 maintained through the long summer ! 
 
 To a certain extent this matter will be reformed by 
 the selection of grounds in imitation of our suburban 
 cemeteries. But this should not hinder an immediate 
 attention to the simple burial-grounds which must long 
 be the only resting-places for the departed of our villages. 
 And although any one who has Christian refinement 
 will feel an interest in mending the grossness of preva- 
 lent custom, is it not a peculiarly fit labor of love for 
 woman ? The ladies of any parish have but to deter- 
 mine that the resting-places of their ancestors shall bud 
 and blossom as the rose, and it will be done. Let clean 
 and sufficient fences be made ; let the borders and 
 paths be planted with shade trees ; let the side-path? 
 be lined with roses, vines, and free-growing shrubs . 
 let the grass be shorn at least every month ; lei 
 measures be taken to erect again the drooping head 
 stones of the ancient dead, and, if needful, retrace the 
 
NEW ENGLAND GRAVEYARDS. 127 
 
 effaced letters; for all these things are within the reach 
 of every village parish in New England. 
 
 We stood with peculiar pleasure, but a few days ago, 
 in the burial-place of the family of Uncas, in Norwich, 
 Conn., upon the banks of the Yantic. Blessed be the 
 hands that traced that inclosure, and builded the simple 
 shaft of granite that bears the only word " Uncas." 
 About fifty descendants, even to the last of his noble 
 line, lie sleeping about him. At but a little distance is 
 the ground, where the Indians buried their sachems. 
 Bringing them up the cove in their canoes, they ascended 
 a dark and beautiful ravine to the broad bluff-head, and 
 there laid them down in burial upon its level circuit. 
 This very ground is now the property of Ik Marvel, 
 (the pleasant author of much summer literature,) upon 
 which he proposes erecting his dwelling. At first one 
 reluctates at such a use. Yet, as all other Indian haunts 
 are now possessed by streets and dwellings — No, we are 
 not satisfied, after all, that it should be so. But, if it 
 must be, we are thankful that a genial soul, alive to all 
 the associations of the place — finding inspiration in them 
 ■ — perl i aps embalming their histories in his literary works, 
 will rear his mansion over the dust of many generations 
 of the mighty men of the forest. Perhaps, as he sits in 
 thoughtful twilight, reflecting over the graves of those 
 who once were chiefs among their fellows, but who 
 noAV have faded away to a mere memory, he may be 
 inspired to associate his labors with the moral growth 
 of his age, that so Ms memory shall never fade, hut 
 stand in freshness and glory, even after the trump shall 
 
128 NEW ENGLAND GRAVEYARDS. 
 
 have called forth his reanimated dust, and that of his 
 dusky predecessors, to the morning of ordeal and of 
 glory. 
 
 I must reserve for a separate letter some few words 
 about Norwich, the most picturesque of all the towns 
 of Connecticut. 
 
V. 
 
 TOWNS AND TEEES. 
 
 Norwich, Conn., August 30, 1851. 
 
 There are hundreds of villages in Connecticut that 
 are beautiful in various degrees and by different methods ; 
 some by the width of prospect, some by their mountain 
 scenery, some by their position on the water, and some, 
 nestled away from all the world, find their chief attrac- 
 tions in their deep tranquillity. But in every place the 
 chief beauty must be in what Nature has done, or in 
 what man Las done naturally. The rocks, hills, moun- 
 tains ; the innumerable forms of water in springs, rills, 
 rivulets, streams, estuaries, lakes or ocean; but above 
 all the trees — these create beauty, if it exist at all. It is 
 rare that any place combines to a great degree the several 
 specialities mentioned. A place that is inland, and yet 
 on the seaboard — that has bold, precipitous rocks close 
 at hand, and at the same time is spread out upon a 
 champaign — that unites the refinements belonging to 
 society in large towns with the freshness and quiet of 
 a secluded village, imbosomed in trees, full of shaded 
 yards and gardens, broad, park-like streets, soon opening 
 out into romantic rural roads among pine woods along 
 the rocky edges of dark streams — such a place, especially 
 if its society is good, if its ministers, teachers, civilians, 
 and principal citizens, are intelligent and refined, and 
 6* 
 
130 TOWNS AND TEEES. 
 
 its historical associations abundant and rich — must be 
 regarded as of all others the most desirable for residence. 
 And such a place is Norwich, Connecticut ! 
 
 The river Thames is formed by the junction of the 
 Yantic and the Shetucket. Upon the angle of these 
 three streams stands the town. The Shetucket is a 
 black water in all its course, and near to Norwich it has 
 a bed hewed out of rocks, and cliffs for banks. The 
 Yantic is a smaller stream, rolling also over a rocky 
 channel, with a beautiful plunge, just above the town, of 
 seventy -five feet. The Thames is not so much a river 
 as a narrow arm of the sea, thrust far up inland as if to 
 search for tributary streams. ThSse ribbon-like bays 
 mark the whole northern coast of Long Island Sound. 
 The Thames is navigable for large steamers to its point 
 of formation. The conformation of the ground on which 
 Norwich stands is entirely peculiar. Along the water 
 it is comparatively .low, affording a business plane, and 
 a space for railroad necessities. The whole ground then 
 rises with sudden slope, lifting the residences far up out 
 of the dust and noise of business into an altitude of 
 quiet. But what is the most remarkable is, that a huge 
 broad-backed granite cliff of rocks bulges up in the very 
 midst of the city, cutting it in two, extending backward 
 half a mile, and leaving the streets to sweep around on 
 either side of it. This masterly old monarch looks 
 down a hundred feet perpendicular, on the eastern 
 side, upon the streets below, its bare rocks and massive 
 ledges here and there half hid by evergreens, and in 
 spots matted with grass, and fringed with shrubs. On the 
 
TOWNS AND TliEES. 131 
 
 western side the slope is gradual, and it is cut half way 
 down to the Yantic by a broad street, nobly shaded with 
 stalwart elms, and rilled with fine family residences. 
 As one winds his way from the landing up the curving 
 street, about the base of the rock on the eastern side, at 
 evening especially, in twilight, or with a tender moon- 
 light, this wild uplifted cliff — in the very heart of a city, 
 with forest trees rooted almost plumb above his head 
 — has a strange and changeable uncertainty, at one 
 moment shining oat distinctly, and at the next dim and 
 shadowy ; now easily compassed by the eye, and then 
 glancing away, if he have imagination enough, into 
 vast mountain spaces. This singular rocky ridge trends 
 toward the north, and gradually loses itself in the plain 
 on which stands Norwich Old Town. There is thus 
 brought together, within the space of a mile, the city, 
 the country, and the wilderness. The residences are so 
 separated from the business part of the town, that one 
 who comes first into the upper part of the city, and 
 wanders about under its avenues of mighty elms, and 
 among its simple old houses, or its modern mansions, 
 would take it to be a place of elegant repose, without 
 * life or business. But if he first lands below, amid stores 
 and manufacturing shops, as for several years we did, 
 he might go away thinking Norwich to be a mere ham- 
 mering, rumbling place of business. Indeed, there are 
 three towns in one. The streets skirting the water form 
 a city of business ; the streets upon the hill, a city of 
 residences ; a mile or two back is the old town, a verita- 
 ble life-like picture of a secluded country village of the 
 
132 TOWNS AND TREES. 
 
 old New England days. What could one want better 
 for a place of retirement? An hour's ride brings you 
 to the seaside : to boats, fishing, lounging and looking, 
 whether in storm or calm. You may go by cars to old 
 New London, or by boat to Stonington, and then by 
 yacht or other craft to Block Island, or anywhere else 
 you please. There are places for fish — black fish, blue 
 fish, speckled bass, porgies, weak-fish, etc. ; there are 
 places for surf-bathing, with waves tempered to all 
 degrees of violence, and to every tone from whispering 
 to thunder. If your mood does not take you seaward, 
 half an hour will suffice to bear you inland, among bold 
 and rocky hills, cleft with streams, full of precipitous 
 ravines, and shaded with oaks and evergreens. Or, if 
 you do not wish to roam, you may ascend the intra- 
 urban mountain — the Tarpeian Eock of Norwich, or its 
 Mount Zion, whichever your associations prefer to call 
 it — and from its pinnacles overlook the wide circum- 
 jacent country. If you happily- own a house upon the 
 western side of Washington street, — or, better yet, if you 
 own a friend, who owns the house, and feels lonesome 
 without you, — then you can have the joys of the breezy 
 wilderness at home. For, if you will go back through 
 the garden, and then through a little pet orchard, you 
 shall find the forest-covered bank plunging two or three 
 hundred feet down toward the Yantic ; and there, hidden 
 among shrubs and wild flowers, oaks and elms, you hear 
 no din of wheels or clink of shops, but only the waving 
 of leaves and the sport of birds. 
 
 But if there were none of these rare conjunctions 
 
TOWNS AND TREES. 133 
 
 of hill, rock, and plain, river and sea, Norwich would 
 still be a beautiful place bj virtue of its trees, and 
 especially of those incomparably most magnificent of all 
 earthly trees, elms ! A village shaded by thoroughly 
 grown elms can not but be handsome. Its houses may 
 be huts; its streets may be ribbed with rocks, or chan- 
 neled with ruts ; it may be as dirty as New York, and as 
 frigid as Philadelphia; and yet these vast, majestic taber- 
 nacles of the air would redeem it to beauty. These are 
 temples indeed, living temples, neither waxing old nor 
 shattered by Time, that cracks and shatters stone, but 
 rooting wider with every generation and casting a vaster 
 round of grateful shadow with every summer. We had 
 rather walk beneath an avenue of elms than inspect the 
 noblest cathedral that art ever accomplished. What is it 
 that brings one into such immediate personal and exhila- 
 rating sympathy with venerable trees ! One instinctively 
 uncovers as he comes beneath them ; he looks up with 
 proud veneration into the receding and twilight recesses ; 
 he breathes a thanksgiving to Grod every time his cool 
 foot falls along their shadows. They waken the imagi- 
 nation and mingle the olden time with the present. 
 Did any man of contemplative mood ever stand under 
 an old oak or elm, without thinking of other days, — • 
 imagining the scenes that had transpired in their pres- 
 ence? These leaf-mountains seem to connect the past 
 and the present to us as mountain ridges attract clouds 
 from both sides of themselves. Norwich is remarkably 
 enriched by these columnar glories, these mysterious 
 domes of leaf and interlacing bough. No consider- 
 
134 TOWNS AND TEEES. 
 
 able street is destitute of them, and several streets 
 are prolonged avenues of elms which might give a 
 twinge of jealousy to old New Haven herself — elm- 
 famous ! Norwjch Old Town, however, clearly has the 
 pre-eminence. Its green is surrounded by old Revolu- 
 tionary elms of the vastest stature, and of every shape 
 and delineation of grandeur. How a man can live there 
 and ever get his eyes to the ground, I can not imagine. 
 One must needs walk with upturned face, exploring 
 these most substantial of all air castles. And when 
 pausing underneath some monumental tree, he looks 
 afar up, and sees the bird-population, that Appear scarcely 
 larger than humming-birds, dimly flitting about their 
 secure heritage and sending down a chirp that loses 
 itself half way down to a thin whistle, it seems as 
 though there were two worlds — he in one and they 
 in another. Nearly before the fine old-fashioned man- 
 sion where Lydia Huntly (Mrs. Sigourney) was brought 
 up are two gigantic elms — very patriarchs, measuring 
 at the base more than eighteen feet in circumference. 
 An old man of a hundred years, a member of Dr. 
 Bond's society, relates that his father selected these 
 trees from the forest, and hacked them into town and 
 planted them here. His name should.be written on 
 a tablet and hung upon their breasts ! The two elms 
 next south from these, though not as aged as they, may, 
 we think, be regarded as models of exquisite symmetry 
 and beauty. One might sit by the hour and look upon 
 them as upon a picture. 
 
 No other tree is at all comparable to the elm. The 
 
TOWNS AND TREES. 185 
 
 ash is, when well grown, a fine tree, but clumpy ; the 
 maple has the same character. The horse-chestnut, the 
 linden, the mulberry, and poplars, (save that tree-spire, 
 the Lombardy poplar,) are all of them plump, round, 
 fat trees, not to be despised, surely, but representing 
 single dendrological ideas. The oak is venerable by 
 association, and occasionally a specimen is found pos- 
 sessing a kind of grim and ragged glory. But the elm, 
 alone monarch of trees, combines in itself the elements 
 of variety, size, strength, and grace, such as no other 
 tree known to us can at all approach or remotely rival. 
 It is the ideal of trees ; the true Absolute Tree ! Its 
 main trunk shoots up, not round and smooth, like an 
 over-fatted, lymphatic tree, but channeled and corru- 
 gated, as if its athletic muscles showed their proportions 
 through the bark, like Hercules' limbs through his 
 tunic. Then suddenly the whole idea of growth is 
 changed, and multitudes of long, lithe branches radiate 
 from the crotch of the tree, having the effect of straight 
 ness and strength, yet really diverging and curving, 
 until the outermost portions droop over and give to the 
 whole top the most faultless grace. If one should at 
 first say that the elm suggested ideas of strength and 
 uprightness, on looking again he would correct .him- 
 self, and say that it was majestic, uplifting beauty that 
 it chiefly represented. But if he first had said that it 
 was graceful and magnificent beauty, on a second look 
 he would correct himself, and say that it was vast and 
 rugged strength that it set forth. But at length he 
 would say neither ; he would say both ; he would say 
 
136 TOWNS AND TREES. 
 
 that it expressed a beauty of majestic strength, and a 
 grandeur of graceful beauty. 
 
 Such domestic forest treasures are a legacy which but 
 few places can boast. Wealth can build houses, and 
 smooth the soil ; it can fill up marshes, and create lakes 
 or artificial rivers ; it can gather statues and paintings ; 
 but no wealth can buy or build elm trees — the floral 
 glory of New England. Time is the only architect of 
 such structures ; and blessed are they for whom Time 
 was pleased to fore-think! No care or expense should 
 be counted too much to maintain the venerable elms of 
 New England in all their regal glory ! No other tree 
 more enjoys a rich loam and moist food. In summer 
 droughts, if copious waterings were given to the finer 
 elms, especially with diluted guano water, their pomp 
 would be noticeably enhanced. But, except in moist 
 places, or in fields where the plow has kept the surface 
 stirred, we noticed that elms were turning yellow, and 
 thinning out their leaves. 
 
VI. 
 
 THE FIRST BREATH IN THE" COUNTRY. 
 
 Salibbuet, Conn., August, 1858. 
 
 Once more we find ourselves at home among lucid 
 green trees, among hills and mountains, with lakes and 
 brooks on every side, and country roads threading their 
 way in curious circuits among them. All day long we 
 have moved about with dreamy newness of life. Birds, 
 crickets, and grasshoppers, are the only players upon 
 instruments that molest the air. Chanticleer is at this 
 instant proclaiming over the whole valley that the 
 above declaration is a slander on his musical gifts. 
 Yery well, add chanticleer to cricket, grasshopper, and 
 bird. Add, also, a cow; for I hear her distant low, 
 melodious through the valley, with all roughness 
 strained out by the trees through which it comes 
 hitherward. O, this silence in the air, this silence on 
 the mountains, this silence on the lakes ! The endless 
 roll of wheels, the audible pavements, the night and 
 day jar of city streets, gives place to a repose so full 
 and deep, that, by a five-hours' ride, one is born into a 
 new world. Across the street the woods begin; the 
 real woods, that man never planted nor pruned, and 
 that pride and avarice have saved from being plucked 
 away. For, the property adjacent has long been 
 wished for building lots, but the owner has that 
 pride of land which leads . him to refuse to part 
 
138 THE FIKST BREATH IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 with an acre. Thus the forest stands, which, otherwise, 
 would long before this have given way to yards and 
 gardens. And there we stroll ; or lie down upon the 
 dethroned leaves that have had their day, and look up 
 upon the reigning leaves, endless and multitudinous, 
 that wink and quiver to every breeze, or idly spot the 
 blue sky when the wind hushes. It is no ordinary 
 forest. It covers some thirty or forty acres. The lower 
 part is quite level, and covered with oaks. Then 
 come sudden and very severe hills, bolted up so per- 
 pendicularly that, but for grooves and water-cut pas 
 sages, not more than five or six yards wide, you could 
 hardly climb them. Masses of granite rock are flung 
 up here and there in vast heaps, their sides mossed 
 over, the splits and rifts feathered out with ferns, with 
 here and there a bush for a captain. Over behind the 
 woods, there comes down a brook from the mountains, 
 rushing like a courier fierce with news, which it quite 
 forgets to tell, and tempering its zeal along a level 
 meadow, it goes across the road bent on industry. A 
 few miles below it works at a mill as steadily as .if it 
 were not a wild and mountain-born brook. The woods 
 are full of hemlock, pine, and spruce; of laurel and 
 ground-pine ; of all manner of leaves and flowers ; and 
 not least for beauty, the finely-cut ferns, with delicate 
 palms. All this, and a good deal more, for we have 
 not spoken of a diamond spring under a rock, like an 
 eye overhung by a shaggy brow, or of a pretty school - 
 house on the road-edge of the wood, or of a huge rock 
 balanced so as to seem falling, while yet it is firm: — ■ 
 
 
THE FIRST BREATH IN" THE COUNTRY. 139 
 
 all this we have within a stone's throw of our dwelling, 
 and it is just nothing to the abundance of attractions in 
 tjie neighborhood. 
 
 The early morning, and the two hours before sunset, 
 we give to riding and gazing. The middle of the day 
 is given to keeping still. To those who have lived in 
 intense excitements, there is something exquisitely 
 enjoj^able in mere quiet. Simple village sights, and 
 village sounds, bring with them full-measured pleasure. 
 Hours pass lightly away while you sit at your window, 
 looking at everything and at nothing, — a passive reci- 
 pient of all the impressions which the great out-of-doors 
 can make upon you. Let me recount a half-hour's 
 sights. 
 
 It is a very beautiful day. The sun is warm but the 
 air is cool. Some very dreamy clouds are drifting 
 about without any will of their own, and with no settled 
 purpose. Now and then they half obliterate the sun, 
 and make us look up from our book to see what is the 
 matter. In a minute they bring him back again with a 
 sudden dash of light, as if his eye flashed at the indig- 
 nity of a vail. In the garden, under my window, 
 crickets chirp and chirp, so long and steadily, that 
 chirping seems to be the most of their housekeeping. 
 A puff of air lifts the broad maple leaves, and shakes 
 out a murmurous noise from them, and then flies off, 
 leaving them motionless and silent. The far mountains 
 seem wrapt in a Sabbath. The near hills are green 
 beyond all greenness of any summers save such as this, 
 that has had a shower for every week, and for almost 
 
140 THE FIRST BREATH IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 every day. The fountains are full, the rills are brooks, 
 the brooks are streams, the streams rivers. 
 
 What does a man think of in one of these mid-day 
 summer hours ? He reads a little, but is easily in- 
 veigled by the first side suggestion, and is flying off 
 in every capricious fantasy. In full chase, through the 
 door-yard, three children-boys are vociferous. In the 
 next yard a young man lies fiat on the grass under the 
 tree. In front of the store stands an always-laughing 
 or whistling colored man ; just now he is cracking 
 nuts with his teeth. Somebody casts a jest at him 
 from out the store, and he laughs the whole air full. 
 Now he is making all the motions of a fiddler ; now he 
 is drumming on his chair, and now he starts off whis- 
 tling homeward for his dinner. " Well, Mott, whistling 
 again — I always hear you whistling, but never saw 
 you cry." Stopping the shrill tune, and sliding into the 
 freest and cheeriest laugh that ever pulsated in the air, 
 he answers, "Why, sir, I never cried in my life." I 
 believe him. Careless, contented, luxuriously at ease 
 when he has a dollar in his pocket, willing to work 
 when that is gone, he is, on all hands, admitted to be 
 the happiest man in town. 
 
 There goes the blacksmith — a jolly fellow. Hard 
 work makes him fat. I do not know about the hard 
 work — but the flesh is obvious. I can hear the anvil 
 ring, and the hammer clink — so, his journeyman is at 
 work. Here passes a new carriage. Somebody has 
 come to town. I wonder who it is. The neighbors 
 wonder who it is. It rolls through the town, and 
 
THE FIRST BREATH EST THE COUNTRY. 141 
 
 leaves nothing behind but a cloud of dust and much 
 curiosity. 
 
 There troop the three most roguish boys that ever 
 made parents scold and laugh. They have nothing to 
 do but to set each other on to mischief. They pull off 
 buds from the unblossomed rose-bushes; they pick 
 cucumbers by the half-bushel that were to have been 
 let alone ; they break down rare shrubbery to get 
 whips, and instead get whippings ; they kill the guinea- 
 pigs ; chase the chickens ; break up hen's nests ; get 
 into the carriages and wagons only to tumble out, and 
 set all the nurses a-running ; they study every means of 
 getting under the horses' feet, and, as the more danger- 
 ous act, they are fond of tickling their hind legs, and 
 pulling at their tails ; they fill the already fed horses 
 with extra oats, causing the hostler to fear for his 
 charges' health, since he refuses oats at the next regular 
 feeding ; they paddle in all the mud on the premises ; sit 
 down in the street and fill their pockets with dirt ; they 
 wet their clothes in the brook, tear them in the woods, 
 lose their caps a dozen times a day, and go bare-headed 
 in the blazing sun ; they cut up every imaginable prank 
 with their long-suffering nurses when meals are served, 
 or when bed-time comes, or when morning brings the 
 washing and dressing. They are little, nimble, compact 
 skinful s of ingenious, fertile, endless, untiring mischief. 
 They stub their toes, or cut their fingers, or get stung, 
 or eat some poisonous berry, seed or root, or make us 
 think that they have, which is just as bad; they fall 
 down stairs, or eat green fruit till they are as tight as a 
 
142 THE FIEST BREATH IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 drum ; and yet there is no peace to us without them, as 
 there certainly is none with them. Mischievous darlings ! 
 Joyful plagues! Loving, rollicking, laughing rogues! 
 
 Our house is girded about on the west with vigorous 
 maples. No shade-tree is cleaner- or more dense. Its 
 form can not vie with the elm. It is round and heavy. 
 Its foliage is black-green. The leaves are quite star- 
 like. Few are the places through which the now 
 westward-going sun can pierce. But through one or 
 two of these it is casting on my paper a mottled 
 radiance, that, as the leaves move to the breeze, runs 
 up and down like a kitten playing with my pen. There 
 is something solemn about a maple. The elm is airy, 
 open, dome-like. Through it you can see the skies, and 
 for this reason, as well as from its arched and hanging 
 boughs, it is a cheerful, inspiring and companionable 
 tree. The maple is opaque. Therefore, and especially 
 as the light fades at evening, it stands like a globe of 
 vegetable darkness. 
 
 However, we are not out now on a tree-errand ; and 
 all these remarks are thrown in accidentally and for 
 nothing. By stage we will take you with us to see 
 sights worth seeing; you shall go to Bashe-Byshe, to 
 Mount Prospect, to the Dome, to Bald Peak, and to 
 Monument Hill ; you shall stroll along the valley of 
 the Housatonic, to the Falls at Canaan ; you shall go 
 a-trouting up and down meadow and mountain brooks, 
 and catch perch and pickerel in the twin lakes, Washinee 
 and Washining, than which more beautiful can not be 
 found in the state. 
 
THE FIRST BREATH IN THE COUNTRY. 143 
 
 Here, then, for a few weeks we shall forget the city 
 and lay aside its excitements, and bathe with a perpetual 
 lavation in the bright, cool mountain air. 
 
 When one is young, and not yet entered on life, the 
 heart pants for new things and for excitements. But 
 after one has taken the burden upon his back, and lived 
 amidst cares that never rest, but beat upon the shore 
 like an unquiet surf, then nothing is so luxurious as the 
 calm of a country neighborhood. 
 
 Nor is the only experience that of pleasure. There is 
 ample space for retrospection, a mental state which is 
 almost denied to public men in the life of a city No 
 man in a city parish, driven by new demands each hour, 
 has leisure to go a-gleaning over harvested fields. He 
 must plow again, sow again, reap again. But now, at 
 this distance, and separated from all daily solicitation, 
 one can review the whole year ; and if done with any 
 worthy standard, it can not fail to furnish • food for the 
 most earnest reflection, and for the most solemn resolu- 
 tions for the future. 
 
VII. 
 
 TROUTING. 
 
 Where shall we go ? Here is the More brook, the 
 upper part running through bushy and wet meadows, 
 but the lower part flowing transparently over the 
 gravel, through the pasture ■ grounds near the edge of 
 the village. With great ingenuity, it curves and winds 
 and ties itself into bow-knots. It sets out with an in- 
 tention of flowing toward the south. But it lingers on 
 its errand to coquette with each point of the compass, 
 and changes its mind, at length, just in time to rush 
 eastward into the- Housatonic. It is a charming brook 
 to catch trout in, when you can catch them ; but they 
 are mostly caught. Nevertheless, there are here in 
 Salisbury, as in every village, those mysterious men who 
 are in league with fish, and can catch them by scores 
 when no one else can get a nibble. It is peculiarly 
 satisfactory to one's feelings to have waded, watched, 
 and fished with worm, grasshopper, and fly, for half a 
 day, for one poor feeble little trout, and four dace, and 
 at evening to fall in with a merry negro, who informs 
 you, with a concealed mirth in his eye, and a most 
 patronizing kindness, that he has been to the same 
 brook, and has caught three dozen trout, several of them 
 weighing half-a-pound ! We will not try that stream 
 to-day. 
 
TROUTING. 145 
 
 Well, there is the Candy bruok. We will look at 
 that. A man might walk through the meadows and 
 not suspect its existence, unless through the grass he 
 first stepped into it-! The grass meets over the top of 
 it, and quite hides it through the first meadow; and 
 below, through that iron-tinctured marsh land, it ex- 
 pands only a little, growing open-hearted by degrees 
 across a narrow field ; and then it runs for the thickets 
 —and he that takes fish among those alders will cer- 
 tainly earn them. Yet, for its length, it is not a bad 
 brook. The trout are not numerous, nor large, nor 
 especially fine ; but every one you catch renews your 
 surprise that you should catch any in such a ribbon of 
 a brook. 
 
 It is the upper part of the brook that is most remark- 
 able, where it flows through mowing meadows, a mere 
 slit, scarcely a foot wide, and so shut in by grass, that 
 at two steps' distance you can not tell where it flows, 
 though your ear hears the low sweet gurgle of its waters 
 down some pet waterfall. Who ever dreamed of fishing 
 in the grass? Yet, as you cautiously spy out an open- 
 ing between the red-top and foxtail, to let your hook 
 through, you seem to yourself very much like a man 
 fishing in an orchard. One would almost as soon think 
 of casting his line into a hay-mow, or of trying for a fish 
 behind winrows or haycocks in a meadow! Yet, if 
 the wind is only still, so that the line shall hang plumb 
 down, we can, by some dexterity, drop the bait between 
 grass, leaves, and spikes of aquatic flowers. No sooner 
 1 
 
146 TKOrTING. 
 
 does it touch the invisible water than the line cuts open 
 the grass and rushes through weeds, borne off by your 
 speckled victim. 
 
 Still further north is another stream, something larger, 
 and much better or worse according to your luck. It 
 is easy of access, and quite unpretending. There is a 
 bit of a pond, some twenty feet in diameter, from which 
 it flows ; and in that there are five or six half-pound 
 trout who seem to have retired from active life and 
 given themselves to meditation in this liquid convent. 
 They were very tempting, but quite untemptable. Stand- 
 ing afar off, we selected an irresistible fly, and with long 
 line we sent it. pat into the very place. It fell like a 
 snow-flake. No trout should have hesitated a moment. 
 The morsel was delicious. The nimblest of them should 
 have flashed through the water, broke the surface, and 
 with a graceful but decisive curve plunged downward, 
 carrying the insect with him. Then we should, in our 
 turn, very cheerfully, lend him a hand, relieve him of 
 his prey, and, admiring his beauty, but pitying his 
 untimely fate, bury him in the basket. But he wished 
 no translation. We cast our fly again and again ; we 
 drew it hither and thither; we made it skip and wriggle ; 
 we let it fall plash like a blundering bug or fluttering 
 moth ; and our placid spectators calmly beheld our 
 feats, as if all this skill was a mere exercise for their 
 amusement, and their whole duty consisted in looking 
 on and preserving order. 
 
 Next, we tried ground-bait, and sent our vermicular 
 hook down to their very sides. "With judicious gravity 
 
TROUTING. 147 
 
 they parted, and slowly sailed toward the root of an old 
 tree on the side of the pool. Again, changing place, 
 we will make an ambassador of a grasshopper. Laying 
 down our rod, we prepare to catch the grasshopper. That 
 is in itself no slight feat. At the first step you take, at 
 least forty bolt out and tumble headlong into the grass ; 
 some cling to the stems, some are creeping under the 
 leaves, and not one seems to be within reach. You step 
 again ; another flight takes place, and you eye them 
 with fierce penetration, as if thereby you could catch 
 some one of them with your eye. You can not, though. 
 You brush the grass with your foot again. Another 
 hundred snap out, and tumble about in every direction. 
 There are large ones and small ones, and middling- 
 sized ones ; there are gray and hard old fellows ; yellow 
 and red ones ; green and striped ones. At length it is 
 wonderful to see how populous the grass is. If you did 
 not want them, they would jump into your very hand. 
 But they know by your looks that you are out a-fishing. 
 You see a very nice young fellow climbing up a steeple 
 stem, to get a good look-out and see where you are. 
 You take good aim and grab at him. The stem you 
 catch, but he has jumped a safe rod. Yonder is anothei 
 creeping among some delicate ferns. "With broad palm 
 you clutch him and all the neighboring herbage too. 
 Stealthily opening your little finger, you see his leg ; 
 the next finger reveals more of him ; and opening the 
 next you are just beginning to take him out with the 
 other hand, when, out he bounds and leaves you to 
 renew your entomological pursuits ! Twice you snatch 
 
148 TROUTING. 
 
 
 handfuls of grass and cautiously open your palm to find 
 that you have only grass. It is quite vexatious. There 
 are thousands of them here and there, climbing and 
 wriggling on that blade, leaping off from that stalk, twist- 
 ing and kicking on that vertical spider's web, jumping 
 and bouncing about under your very nose, hitting you 
 in your face, creeping on your shoes, or turning summer- 
 sets and tracing every figure of parabola or ellipse in 
 the air, and yet not one do you get. And there is such 
 a heartiness and merriment in their sallies ! They are 
 pert and gay, and do not take your intrusion in the least 
 dudgeon. If any tender-hearted person ever wondered 
 Iioav a humane man could bring himself to such a 
 cruelty as the impaling of an insect, let him hunt for a 
 grasshopper in a hot day among tall grass ; and when 
 at length he secures one, the affixing him upon the 
 hook will be done without a single scruple, with judicial 
 solemnity, and as a mere matter of penal justice. 
 
 Now then the trout are yonder. We swing our line 
 to the air, and give it a gentle cast toward the desired 
 spot, and a puff of south wind dexterously lodges it in 
 the branch of the tree. You plainly see it strike, and 
 whirl over and over, so that no gentle pull will loosen 
 it. You draw it north and south, east and west ; you 
 give it a jerk up and a pull down ; you try a series of 
 nimble twitches ; in vain you coax it in this way and 
 solicit it in that. Then you stop and look a moment, 
 first at the trout and then at your line. Was there 
 ever anything so vexatious? Would it be wrong to get 
 angry ? In fact you feel very much like it. The very 
 
TROUTING. 149 
 
 things you wanted to catch, the grasshopper and the 
 trout, you could not; but a tree, that you did not in 
 the least want, you have caught fast at the first throw. 
 You fear that the trout will be scared. You cautiously 
 draw nigh and peep down. Yes, there they are, looking 
 at you and laughing as sure as ever trout laughed ! 
 They understand the whole thing. With a very decisive 
 jerk you snap your line, regain the remnant of it, and 
 sit down to repair it, to put on another hook, you rise 
 up to catch another grasshopper, and move on down 
 the stream to catch a trout ! 
 
 Meantime, the sun is wheeling behind the mountains, 
 for you are just at the foot of the eastern ridge of 
 Mount Washington (not of the White Mountains, but 
 of the Taconic range in Connecticut). Already its 
 broad shade begins to fall down upon the plain. The 
 side of the mountain is solemn and sad. Its ridge 
 stands sharp against a fire-bright horizon. Here and 
 there a tree has escaped the axe of the charcoal ers, and 
 shaggily marks the sky. Through the heavens are 
 slowly sailing continents of magnificent fleece moun- 
 tains — Alps and Andes of vapor. They, too, have 
 their broad shadows. Upon yonder hill, far to the east 
 of us, you see a cloud-shadow making gray the top, 
 while the base is radiant with the sun. Another cloud- 
 shadow is moving with stately grandeur along the 
 valley of the Housatonic ; and, if you rise to a little 
 eminence, you may see the brilliant landscape growing 
 dull in the sudden obscuration on its forward line, and 
 growing as suddenly bright upon its rear trace. How 
 
150 TROUTING. 
 
 majestically that shadow travels up those steep and 
 precipitous mountain sides ! How it scoops down the 
 gorge and valley and moves along the plain 1 
 
 But now the mountain-shadow on the west is creep- 
 ing down into the meadow. It has crossed the road 
 where your horse stands hitched to the paling of a 
 deserted little house. 
 
 You forget your errand. You select a dry tufty 
 knoll, and lying down you gaze up into the sky. 
 O ! those depths. Something within you reaches out 
 and yearns ; you have a vague sense of infinity — of 
 vastness — of the littleness of human life, and the sweet- 
 ness and grandeur of divine life and of eternity. You 
 people that vast ether. You stretch away through it 
 and find that celestial city beyond, and therein dwell 
 how many that are yours ! Tears come unbidden. 
 You begin to long for release. You pray. Was there 
 ever a better closet ? Under the shadow of the moun- 
 tain, the heavens full of cloudy cohorts, like armies of 
 horsemen and chariots, your soul is loosened from the 
 narrow judgments of human life, and touched with a 
 full sense of immortality and the liberty of a spiritual 
 state. An hour goes past. How full has it been of 
 feelings struggling to be thoughts, and of thoughts deli- 
 quescing into feeling. Twilight is coming. You have 
 miles to ride home. Not a trout in your basket ! 
 Never mind, you have fished in the heavens, and 
 taken great store of prey. Let them laugh at your 
 empty basket. Take their raillery good-naturedly; 
 you have certainly had good luck. 
 
TROUTING. 151 
 
 But we have not yet gone to the brook for which we 
 started. That must be for another tramp. Perhaps 
 one's experience of " fancy tackle" and of fly-fishing might 
 not be without some profit in moral analogies ; perhaps 
 a mountain stream and good luck in real trout may 
 afford some easy side-thoughts not altogether unprofit- 
 able for a summer vacation. At any rate it will make 
 it plain that oftentimes the best part of trout-fishing is 
 not the fishing. 
 
VIII. 
 
 A EIDE. 
 
 Come, if you are a-going to-day, it's high time you 
 were off. It's four miles to the mountain road, and 
 then a stiff pull up the hills. Is the lunch in the bas- 
 ket? Have you got all your rig? Well, good morn- 
 ing all ! And here we are under way. The sky is 
 full of slowly-opening, rolling, evasive fleece-clouds, 
 that never do what you think they are a-going to, and 
 always develop with unexpected shapes and effects. 
 So you get and lose the sunshine by turns, and go 
 along a checkered road just under the Taconic range. 
 First you have on your right the swampy meadows, 
 full of rank grasses, clumps of alders. Here and there 
 little arbpral villages of hemlock, a fringe of bushes 
 and trees wind circuitously through the four-mile 
 stretch, having in charge a brook, whose fair face the 
 sun is not to gaze at too broadly, but only in golden 
 glances, softened and tempered to mildness by the leafy 
 bath of lucid green through which it passes. 
 
 Birds are busy as you ride along, and they have 
 an intuitive knowledge that you are not to disturb 
 them. They scarcely rise from the bush. Black- 
 winged yellow-birds are harvesting the thistle-tops; 
 king-birds, perched upon the corner stakes of the 
 rail fence, wait till you are fairly up to them, and 
 then with a fling and a measured circuit, they alight 
 
A RIDE. 15S 
 
 upon another stake four or five panels ahead. Crows, 
 briskly flying through the air, are too intent for break- 
 fast to spend time in cawing. Now and then, a king- 
 bird makes a dash at them, and drives them up or 
 down with unwonted nimbleness. Striped squirrels 
 run along the fence, their pouches protuberant with 
 prudent stores. The grasses and leaves, as you look 
 aslant upon them, glitter with dewdrops ; and all about 
 you those nocturnal architects, spiders, have spread forth 
 their crystal palaces, which glitter and quiver along 
 every thread with jewel-drops. 
 
 This is called the under-mountain road. You would 
 know why if you were on it. The mountains are not' 
 of the giant species, but they are much too large for 
 hills. They range along on the west side of the Hou- 
 satonic valley about twelve or fifteen miles. Their 
 sides are not perpendicular except in two or three 
 places. They slope toward you with almost every 
 possible variation, giving your eye many and diverse 
 pathways to the summit, up through gorges, ravines, 
 and almost valleys. You of course know that moun- 
 tains, which have the firmest features and the most 
 fixed forms of nature, are yet of a more variable ex- 
 pression than any thing in the world except the ocean 
 and the air. Lakes, trees, meadows, and men, have 
 moods and changeable expressions; but mountains, 
 beyond all other natural objects, are subject to moods. 
 Every change of temperature, every change of hour 
 throughout the day, every change of cloud or sun, is 
 reflected upon the mountains. They are the grand 
 
154 A RIDE. 
 
 expositors of the atmosphere. Sometimes they stand 
 in dreamy mood, hazy, indistinct, absent-minded. All 
 inequalities seem effaced. The lines of depression or 
 the bulges of rock are lost, and they lie in airy tran- 
 quillity, as if God had sloped them from base to 
 summit with an even line. Perhaps the next morning 
 all reserve is gone. They have traveled up toward 
 you. They seem close at hand. Every line is sharp, 
 and there is no longer any dreamy expression, but one 
 of earnest out-looking. They gaze down on you. 
 There is a dark, solemn, positive expression, as if they 
 had come to judgment with you. Mountains are the 
 favorite grounds for shadows. They lie patiently still 
 while clouds amuse themselves with painting every 
 possible form and shape upon their huge sides; and 
 they even choose to make their own shadows rather 
 than to have none. A mountain-shadow, when the sun 
 is in the west — a somber sheet of transparent darkness, 
 cast loosely and mysteriously down from cliff to base — 
 is a very witch with the imagination. One's thoughts 
 play with it, rushing in and out, as we have seen 
 swallows at Niagara dashing in and out of the thunder- 
 mists of the Horse-shoe Falls. 
 
 But no effects are finer than those which sometimes 
 are seen at or near sunset, when the heavens are full of 
 white-gray and blue-gray clouds. The light which 
 reveals them is entirely reflected down from the clouds, 
 and from different strata and with different intensities. 
 It is of all other light that which gives- the utmost dis- 
 tinctness in contrast with the most perfect obscurity. 
 
A RIDE. 155 
 
 The nearest point to you will be black with purple 
 darkness, and swell up into an unfamiliar grandeur which 
 effaces all your former knowledge of it. Whether the 
 mountain is a cloud or the cloud a mountain ; whether 
 there is a change going on, and the rocky top is melting 
 away and mistily exhaling, or the mists are condensing 
 and hardening into rock, you can not tell. But right out 
 against this Obscure stands another section, so astonish- 
 ingly revealed that you can trace its anatomy almost to 
 the minutest line. Every swell or scoop, all the ribs and 
 bones, the petty ridges and hollows, the whole wavy 
 surface of the four-mile slope, is as distinct as the 
 wrinkles on your own hand. Between these extremes 
 is every possible gradation. Never long alike in any 
 feature, but changing with the ever-changing Teloud, 
 you can not but feel that there is some mysterious 
 connection between cloud-mountains and earthy rock- 
 mountains. Those airy hills, are they the spirit-forms 
 which come into visible communion with their yet 
 earth-bound brethren? Do these things symbol forth 
 the communion of spirits disembodied with spirits 
 embodied? And are these evanescent hues, these 
 strange effects of light, these systems of opal-shadows, 
 analogous to all those openings and shuttings of heart, 
 those lights and darks of imagination, which come upon 
 us in the experiences of life ? 
 
 We are at the foot of the hill. It is well that we 
 have a good horse, for it will be a stiff pull, such as 
 tvould appal dainty riders. It is the old road up the 
 mountain ; and is now principally used in hauling char- 
 
156 A RIDE. 
 
 coal. It is seldom repaired, and in many places, par- 
 ticularly at the steepest parts, all that could be washed 
 away has gone long ago, leaving nothing but ledges of 
 rock, _and loose round stones, from the size of a hen's 
 egg upward, indefinitely. Now we come to the first 
 pitch. Loose the check-rein, and give the horse his own 
 way. See how bravely he makes at the hill, quickening 
 his step, and breaking into a series of jumps ; the wagon 
 clatters and shakes, and bounds hither and thither, as 
 if it were a great horse-rattle ! There 1 stop and breathe 
 your nag ; pat him and praise him ; he understands you 
 perfectly, and enjoys applause just as much as if he had 
 but two legs instead of four. 
 
 Do you notice what a profusion of growth there is 
 about you, and what a fulness of health and perfection 
 of green every vegetable has ? Perpetual moisture, and 
 a right proportion of light and shade give here the best 
 conditions of growth. The asters are beginning to fringe 
 the way. Golden rod, one of the most regal of all late 
 summer plants, waves its plumy head. Its little arching 
 boughs, feathered with gold, light up the way-side, 
 shine along the fence corners, and glow in patches all 
 through the field; it follows you up the mountain- 
 sides, glittering along the edges of the laurel-bush, 
 splendidly pictured on the deep green and varnished 
 leaves. A young leaf of the laurel, just come of age, 
 in a favorable spot, is the perfection of leaves ! 
 
 However, we must not run off into these things. 
 Come, Charley, away with you: and away it is, sure 
 enough ; bounce, clatter, thwack, up here, down a little 
 
A RIDE. 157 
 
 there, over this side, over upon that, and at length, at 
 fall jump, up another pitch steeper than the last. Now, 
 while he breathes, you may see that the next rise is 
 steeper yet, and the next steeper than that; and if you 
 could see around that turn of the road, as you will full 
 soon enough, you would find another steeper than 
 all of them put together. There is no more riding 
 for the present. We must take it afoot, leaving the 
 horse only an empty wagon to draw. For little silver- 
 threaded streams are coming down the side of the rocks 
 at every few rods ; there is also such variety and beauty 
 of -leaf, and withal, such a hearty smell of the woods, 
 that with occasional peeps at the distant country through 
 forest and meadows, you find enough to tempt you to 
 leisurely ascent ; to say nothing of other reasons for it 
 which your feet find out. 
 
 Now, then, we have come to the turn, right up to the 
 left. Indeed, it is right up. When we first tried this 
 road we had a heavier carriage and stopped it at this 
 point. We will stop, again, but not for the same reason. 
 Do you hear that noise ? Yes ! a storm is coming up — 
 or is it the wind in the forest trees ? It is neither ; but 
 the sound of a water-fall, mellowed to a deep, grand 
 murmur. Fasten the horse, and let us turn off and see 
 it; it is but a few moments' walk, but is worth many 
 hours if you could not reach it sooner. There it opens-! 
 It is but a few feet wide ; it drops a hundred feet right 
 over the mountain's edge, to begin with, and white as 
 snow; then it lovingly embraces an insensible rock, and 
 dashes down beyond it a double fall, whiter than before. 
 
158 A RIDE. 
 
 Emboldened by its success, it now commences every 
 species of fantastic caper that ever entered the imagina- 
 tion of a mountain brook. It comes together and then 
 widens over that shelving rock, rushing down into a 
 crystal pool; then, like a watery hand, at the exit it 
 divides into five fingers, each sparkling with myriads 
 of diamonds. The alacrity with which the separated 
 currents make haste to get together again after this feat, 
 is amusing ; — the whirls, the side quirks, the petty 
 impetuosities, the splitting and uniting, the plunging 
 and emerging, until the distributed waters impool them- 
 selves once more, and look back upon you with a grave 
 and a placid face, as if they asked your forgiveness for past 
 levity, and your pity for the serious experience which 
 now awaits them below. For we are on the upper brink 
 of another series of long down-plunges, each one of 
 which would be enough for a day's study. Below these 
 are cascades and pools in which the water whirls friskily 
 around like a kitten running earnestly after its tail. 
 But we will go no further down. These are the moun- 
 tain jewels; the necklaces which it loves to hang down 
 from its hoary head upon its rugged bosom. 
 
 Shall we take out our tackle? That must be a glorious 
 pool yonder for trout ! No, my friend, do not desecrate 
 such a scene by throwing a line into it with piscatory 
 intent. Leave some places in nature to their beauty, 
 unharassed, for the mere sake of their beauty. Nothing 
 could tempt us to spend an hour here in fishing ; — all 
 the more because there is not a single trout in the whole 
 brook. Indeed, this is an extemporaneous affair. Come 
 
 
A RIDE. 159 
 
 here next week and there will be scarcely a drop of 
 water. It is a mere piece of amusement which storms 
 get up for the occasion. After hea/y rains you may 
 find it worth seeing, never else. 
 
 Let us return. Now, well-rested Charley, let us put 
 at that grand ascent. Nothing loath, he canters up with 
 such right good will that we must run too, over stones, 
 up' this bank, down that gully, bearing to the right 
 over that ledge, close up to the left from that gully, 
 round that point ; and, yonder is the top — not of the 
 mountain, but of our journey. Now get in, and we will 
 take the left fork of the road, leaving that log cabin, 
 locked-up, to its solitude, that stands by the other (and 
 regular) mountain road. We now wind pleasantly 
 round the side of the mountain's upper cone, having 
 a deep, gorge-like valley on our left, at the bottom of 
 which roars one of the most romantic of all mountain 
 streams — Sage's Brook, by name. Trotting along your 
 leaf-covered" path, turning out, as best you may, for the 
 heavy charcoal carts, whose home you have invaded, 
 we will stop about two miles up, and leaving our horse 
 to his oats in a rude stable, we will take our lunch, and 
 go afoot along the road, till it crosses the upper part of 
 Sage's Brook. Now rig out your rod. Among the 
 bushes on the right see that stagnant stretch of water. 
 It is the last place one would think of approaching for 
 trout. Let us try. Here comes one ; there is another ; 
 another, and another. Well, at length let us count — 
 forty-two as sure as there is one — and that without 
 moving from one spot. However, a little below this. 
 
160 A RIDE. 
 
 a clerical friend, of this vicinity, took eighty trout out 
 of one pool ! To be sure they are small, but they are 
 trout, and can afford to be small, they are so sweet and 
 hard and every way good. Indeed, while we are up 
 here we conceive a great contempt for those fat pound 
 trout that feed in meadow brooks ! Who would wish 
 them that could have mountain trout? We always 
 prefer these small but superb fish — until we get down 
 to the meadows. A half-pound trout, at the end of 
 one's line, may produce a change in his mind. 
 
 By following down this stream till it begins its de- 
 scent on the east front of the mouutain, you will enter 
 a gorge, called Sage's Ravine, which, if you love soli- 
 tude, wildness, and beauty, will be worth all the pains 
 you may take to climb through it. If it were possible, 
 we should love to make the passage once in every 
 month of the year. It is best entered from below. One 
 requires a good foot, a strong hand, and a cool head, 
 and then there is but little danger. It has been 
 attempted successfully by ladies, and not one who ever 
 explored it will regret the risk. And no one exploring 
 the scenery in the vicinity of Salisbury should leave 
 Sage's Ravine unvisited. 
 
IX. 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 
 
 Trouting in a mountain brook is an experience of life 
 so distinct from any other, that every man should enjoy 
 it once *at least. That being denied to most, the next 
 best that I can do for you, reader, is to describe it. So, 
 then, come on. 
 
 We have a rod made for the purpose, six feet long, 
 with only two joints, and a reel. We will walk up the 
 mountain road, listening as we go to the roar of the 
 brook on the left. In about a mile the road crosses it, 
 and begins to lift itself up along the mountain side, 
 leaving the stream at every step lower down on your 
 right. You no more see it flashing through the leaves ; 
 but its softened rush is audible at any moment you may 
 choose to pause and listen. When the wind moves 
 through the whole mountain side of trees, you think it 
 to be the rush of the brook down some rock. But, 
 when you stand to look down through some more open 
 glade, and see the misty current, far down, changing 
 like a wild dream, through woods the most strange and 
 contrary, it seems to you as if its sound was the voice 
 of all the woods sunk down to the bottom of the valley, 
 and murmuring up to you, in soft and sad complaint. 
 
 But you must see one thing before you wet the soles 
 of your feet in the brook. Select a point from which 
 you may look three miles down through the vast hollow, 
 
162 THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 
 
 whose sides are mountains clad with forests. These 
 huge trees you look down upon as if they were grass. 
 When the winds move them, to the eye the swaying is 
 like the shadowy roll of winds over a wheat field. The 
 trees around us, handled by winds, have a slow and 
 majestic swaying. Can it be that so grave a movement 
 here, is represented far down yonder by that mere 
 shivering and silvery trembling of the leaves ? Can yoii 
 look upon this gorgeous summer richness and imagine 
 a winter storm raging at the gorge ? Clouds scowling 
 down, snow let loose from them, and whirled through 
 the bare-branched trees, and then eddying down into 
 dark clefts and frozen corners? Who can look at the 
 one scene, winter or summer, and fully think of the 
 other? Yet both reign alternately here. They who 
 have come forth from towns and cities only in summer, 
 to see the country, know little of the grandeur of 
 mountains in winter. 
 
 But we must return from this dream. A hot August 
 day inclines one to reflect upon ice and snow. 
 
 We will put into the brook just below a smart foamy 
 fall. We have on cow-hide shoes, and other rig suitable. 
 Selecting an entrance, we step in, and the swift stream 
 attacks our legs with immense earnestness, threatening 
 to take us off from them. A few minutes will settle all 
 that, and make us quite at home. The bottom of the 
 brook is not sand or gravel, but rocks of every shape, 
 every position, of all sizes, bare or moss-covered. The 
 stream goes over them at the rate of ten miles an hour. 
 The descent is great. At every few rods cascades break 
 
THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 163 
 
 over ledges, and boil up in miniature pools below. 
 The trees on either side shut out all direct rays of the 
 sun, and for the most part the bushes line the banks so 
 closely, and cast their arms over so widely, that they 
 create a twilight — not a gray twilight, as of light losing 
 its luster, but a transparently black twilight, which 
 softens nothing, but gives more ruggedness to the 
 rocks, and a somber aspect even to the shrubs and 
 fairest flowers. 
 
 It is a great matter to take a trout early in your 
 trial. It gives one more heart. It serves to keep one 
 about his business. Otherwise, you are apt to fall off into 
 unprofitable reverie ; you wake up and find yourself 
 standing in a dream, half-seeing, half-imagining, under 
 some covert of over-arching branches, where the stream 
 flows black and broad among rocks, with moss green 
 above the water and dark below it. 
 
 But let us begin. Standing in the middle of the 
 stream, your short rod in hand, let out twelve to twenty 
 feet of line, varying its length according to the nature 
 of the stream, and, as far as it can be done, keeping its 
 position and general conduct under anxious scrutiny. 
 Just here the water is mid-leg deep. Experimenting at 
 each forward reach for a firm foot-hold, slipping, stum- 
 bling over some uncouth stone, sliding on the moss of 
 another, reeling and staggering, you will have a fine 
 opportunity of testing the old philosophical dictum, that 
 you can think of but one thing at a time. You must 
 think of half a dozen ; — of your feet, or you will be 
 sprawling in the brook; of your eyes and face, or 
 
164 THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 
 
 the branches will scratch them ; of your line, or it will 
 tangle at every step ; of your far-distant hook and 
 dimly-seen bait, or you will lose the end of all your 
 fishing. At first, it is a puzzling business. A little 
 practice sets things all right. 
 
 Do you see that reach of shallow water gathered to a 
 head by a cross-bar of sunken rocks ? The water splits 
 in going over upon a slab of rock below, and forms an 
 eddy to the right and one to the left. Let us try a 
 grasshopper there. Casting it in above, and guiding it 
 by a motion of your rod, over it goes, and whirls out 
 of the myriad bubbles into the edge of the eddy, when, 
 quick as a wink, the water breaks open, a tail flashes in 
 the air and disappears, but re-appears to the instant 
 backward motion of your hand, and the victim comes 
 sklittering up the stream, whirling over and over, till 
 your hand grasps him, extricates the hook, and slips 
 him into the basket. Poor fellow! you want to be 
 sorry for him, but every time you try you are glad 
 instead. Standing still, you bait again, and try the 
 other side of the stream, where the water, wiping off the 
 bubbles from its face, is taking toward that d^ep spot 
 under a side rock. There ! you've got him ! Still 
 tempting these two shores, you take five in all, and 
 then the tribes below grow cautious. Letting your line 
 run before you, you wade along, holding on by one 
 branch and another, fumbling with your feet, along the 
 jagged channel, changing hands to a bough on the left 
 side, leaning on this rock, stepping over that stranded 
 log. Kipping a generous hole in your «kirt as you 
 
THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 165 
 
 leave it, you come to the edge of the petty fall. You 
 step down, thinking only how to keep your balance, 
 and not at all of the probable depth of water, till you 
 splash and plunge down into a basin waist-deep. The 
 first sensations of a man up to his vest pockets in water" 
 are peculiarly foolish, and his first laugh rather faint. 
 He is afterward a little ashamed of the alacrity with 
 which he scrambles for the bank. A step or two brings 
 him to a sand-bank and to himself. But while you are 
 in a scrape at one end of your line, a trout has got into 
 a worse one at the other. A little flurried with surprise 
 at both experiences, you come near losing him in the 
 injudicious haste with which you overhaul him. 
 
 But see what a stately aster has ventured in hither 
 In these black shades, through which the sun seldom 
 penetrates, there is yet the light of flowers. What 
 place is so dark that there is no light, if you only wait ' 
 till the eye is used to its minute quantity ? and what 
 place is so rugged and so homely that there is no beauty, 
 if you only have a sensibility to beauty ? Bflt, by this 
 flower, and by more which I dimly see through the 
 bushes, and lower down, I judge that the forest is thin, 
 and that we are coming to a more open space. The 
 stream sweeps grandly' about an angle, and we open 
 upon a bright, half-sunlighted reach of water. 
 
 You emerge from a long shadowy archway of leaves 
 and trees, and stand in the mouth of its darkness to 
 look down upon that illuminated spot. The leaves, 
 struck with light from above, are translucent in all 
 their softer parts, while their opaque frame-work seems 
 
166 THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 
 
 like pencil lines finely drawn upon their surface. The 
 sunlight comes checkering through the leaves. They, 
 moving to a gentle wind, seem to shake it off from 
 themselves. It falls upon the uncovered surface of the 
 whirling brook, and flashes back in inconstant and 
 fragmentary glances. The very gravel glows beneath 
 the lucid water. The moss upon the upheaved stones 
 has a golden greenness as if it exhaled about itself an 
 atmosphere of color. The rocks that creep down to the 
 bank, covered too with moss-plush, take, in spots, a 
 stray reflected light, and seem to be luminous rather 
 than illuminated. A hemlock tree by the bank is 
 covered to its top with a grape-vine, from among whose 
 broad palms it shoots out its arms and finely cut foliage 
 in vivid contrast. It is a green tent : a hollow spire. 
 I would that it stood in my door-yard, close by that 
 cottage which shines in the edge of that grove of old 
 trees that I see in my imaginary grounds. This stream, 
 too, ought to flow just behind that grove; and that 
 gigantic grandly unshaped rock, which has been heaved 
 out of its bed at some far distant day, and cast down 
 here, crashing like a thunderbolt, — yes, I must have 
 that in my grounds too ; — but, just here my foot slipped 
 from the unsteady stone, and the vision burst like one 
 of the bubbles at my feet, — as fair and as fragile. 
 
 But look down below, through this sapphire and 
 emerald atmosphere, and see the dark arches into which 
 the stream presses headlong. The descent is greater 
 there. And the water makes haste into the shadows 
 while the trees frown upon it, and, as it wheels for 
 
THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 167 
 
 a plunge, casts up pearl-drops that even in that gloom 
 seem to emit a pale light. One could stand here by 
 the hour. This rush of wild waters about your feet ; 
 this utter lawlessness of power and beauty, so solitary, 
 with such instant contrasts, with the sound of waters 
 beneath and of leaves above, and you, alone and 
 solitary, standing in the fascination until you seem to 
 become a part of the scene. A strange sensation steals 
 over you, as if you were exhaling, as if you were pass- 
 ing out of yourself, and going into diffusive alliance 
 with the whole scene ! You reel and start and wake 
 up, saying, Well ! well ! this is not trouting ; and 
 start off, forgetful of stones, crevices, slippery moss, and 
 snags, as if you were in a level road. You are brought 
 to a consciousness at your third step by a slip, a plunge, 
 a full tumble, and find yourself, in the most natural 
 manner, upon your hands and knees, making one more 
 water-fall. You cannot help laughing at your ludi- 
 crous posture, the water damming itself up upon you as 
 unceremoniously as if you were a log, and making a 
 pet eddy in the neighborhood of your breeches pocket. 
 You even stop to sup up a mouthful of drink, and wish 
 that somebody that knew you could only be peeping 
 through the bushes at your predicament, they would 
 get a great deal of innocent happiness at your expense, 
 but not at your damage. 
 
 Gathering up your awkward body you go dripping 
 along down the stream, through the radiant spots into 
 the dark, up to the falls, over which you peer, and, 
 learning discretion from experience, you deem it best to 
 
168 THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 
 
 take the shore and walk around the fall. You are 
 repaid for the trouble by three trout, neatly slipped out 
 of their aqueous nest into your willow basket. Step- 
 ping in again, you pursue your way with various 
 experience for a quarter of a mile, when you enter a 
 narrow gorge. The rocks come down in a body to the 
 stieam on either side. There are no side bushes. The 
 way opens up through the air, far above you, to the 
 receding mountain sides, upon which stand yet a few 
 pines, spared of the axe, memorials of a vast brother- 
 hood long since chopped away by the inexorable char- 
 coalers. The very stream seems to take something of 
 dignity from its surroundings. It gathers its forces, 
 contracts its channels, darkens its surface, and moves 
 down to a succession of falls, over which one feels no 
 disposition to plunge. And so, climbing along the 
 edges of the rock, prying into each crevice with your 
 toes, grasping twig and root, bush or stem, you perch 
 yourself mid-way, where you may see the fall above 
 you, and the fall below you. Here you dream for a 
 half hour — a waking, gazing dream. You study each 
 shoot and indentation of the water — its bursts of crystal 
 drops — ever changing, yet always the same. On the far 
 side come down sheaves of water-stems. Nowhere is the 
 water visible, and if you did not see the twinkling drops 
 cast out their flash, you would think it a long harvest- 
 shock, in some fairy field where grain bore diamonds 
 transparent and colorless; from side to side, from top 
 to bottom, within and without, it is struck through and 
 through with air-mixed drops, so that it shoots down 
 from top to bottom like a flow of pearls ana crystals 
 
THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 169 
 
 The gulf beneath is ragged and ugly. Freshets in 
 spring carrying the winter out of the mountains, ice 
 and half-dissolved snow, surging white in black and 
 furious waters, tear up, and carry over these cliffs, 
 mighty trees. They plunge headlong, sticking fast 
 where they strike, gaunt, upright, till time and the ele- 
 ments strip them of bark and make them spectral and 
 shadowy to all who look down upon them in that 
 cavernous hollow, as I do now. 
 
 How rich and various are the mosses in this ravine. 
 You sit down upon their moist plush, and find minia- 
 ture palms and fern-like branches, and all manner of 
 real or fanciful resemblances. The flowers too, those 
 humble friends, have not forsaken this wild glen. 
 They have crept up to drink at the very edge of the 
 water ; they hang secure and fearless from crevices on 
 the face of the perpendicular rocks, and everywhere 
 different species are retreating to their seed-forms or 
 advancing to their bud, or are shaking their blossoms 
 to the wind which comes up from the gorge below. 
 
 Here indeed is good companionship — here is space 
 for deep and strange joy. If the -thought of the city 
 intrudes it seems like a dream ; it can hardly be real 
 that there can be stacked houses, burning streets, reek- 
 ing gutters, everlasting din of wheels, and outcry of 
 voices, or that you were ever hustled along the up- 
 roarious streets ! In this cool twilight, without a voice 
 except of wind and waters, where all is primeval, 
 solitary, and rudely beautiful, you seem to come out of 
 yourself. Your life lifts itself up from its interior 
 8 
 
170 THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 
 
 recesses, and comes forth. Your own nature — your 
 longings — your hope and love — your faith and trust, 
 seem to live with quiet and unshrinking life ; neither 
 ruffled nor driven back, nor overlaid by all the contacts 
 and burdens of multitudinous life in the city. O ! 
 why may not one carry hence that freshness which he 
 feels — that simplicity, that truthfulness to what is real, 
 and that repugnance to all that is sham? Why may 
 not one always find the way to heaven and to spiritual 
 converse, as short and as facile as it is in these lonely 
 mountains ? 
 
 It was in such places that Christ loved to stray. It 
 was in such places that he spent nights in prayer. I 
 never linger long in such scenes without a thought of 
 his example, and a sympathetic understanding of why 
 it should be so. Christ's love of nature, his constant 
 allusions to flowers, his evident familiarity with soli- 
 tudes, as if he was never so little alone as when 
 separated from all men, mark any degree of the same 
 relish in us as-a, true and divine taste. \ 
 
 But we must hasten on. A few more spotted spoils 
 are awaiting us below. We make at the brook again. 
 We pierce the hollow of over-hanging bushes, we 
 strike across the patches of sun-light, which grow more 
 frequent as we get lower down toward the plain; we 
 take our share of tumbles and slips; we patiently 
 extricate our entangled line, again and again, as it is 
 sucked down under some log, or whirled around some 
 network of beechen roots protruding from the shore. 
 Here and there, we half forget our errand as we break 
 
THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 171 
 
 in upon some cove of moss, where our dainty feet halt 
 upon green velvet, more beautiful a thousand times than 
 ever sprung from looms at Brussels or Kidderminster. 
 
 At length we hear the distant clatter of mills. "We 
 have finished the brook. Farewell — wild, wayward, 
 simple stream ! As many as are all the drops that 
 have flowed in your channels since we came, so many 
 thoughts and joys have flowed down through our soul ! 
 In a few moments you will be grown to a huge mill- 
 pond ; then at work upon its wheel ; then, prim and 
 proper, with ruffles of willow and aquatic bushes on 
 each side, you will trip through the meadows, clatter 
 across the road, and mingle with the More-brook, flow 
 on toward the Housatonic — and be lost in its depths 
 and breadths. For who will know thy mountain-drops 
 in that promiscuous flood? Or who, standing on its 
 banks, Avill dream from what scenes thou hast flowed, 
 through what beauty — thyself the most beautiful ? 
 
X. 
 
 A COUNTRY RIDE. 
 
 Men never will see the country who fly through it at 
 the rate of thirty or forty miles an hour. The usual 
 path of railroads never lies through the most interest- 
 ing portions. The very best method of traveling is upon 
 horseback. Next best, if you are strong and hearty, or 
 if you wish to become so, is foot-traveling. The pedes- 
 trian is, in all respects, the most independent, and the 
 best prepared to explore in detail. 
 
 If you are on horseback, you can do more in a 
 shorter period. You abbreviate the time and labor of 
 passing over the intermediate space between you and 
 the points of interest. Besides, there is more company 
 in a spirited horse a thousand times than in a foolish 
 man. You sit in your saddle at ease, giving him his 
 own way, the bridle loose, while you search on either 
 side the various features of the way. Your nag becom- 
 ing used to you and you to him, a sympathetic connec- 
 tion is established, and he always seems to do, of his 
 own reflection, just what you w r ish him to do. Now a 
 leisurely swinging walk, now a smart trot, then a spir- 
 ited bit of a canter, which imperceptibly dies out into 
 an amble, a pace, and then a walk again. When you rise 
 a hill to overlook a bold prospect, Can anybody per- 
 suade you that your horse does not enjoy the sight too? 
 His ears go forward, his eve lights up with a large and 
 
A COUNTRY RIDE. 173 
 
 bright look, and he gazes for a moment with equine en- 
 thusiasm, till some succulent bough or grassy tuft con- 
 verts his taste into a physical form. A good horse is a 
 perfect gentleman. He meets you in the morning with 
 unmistakable pleasure ; if you are near the grain-bin, 
 he will give you the most cordial invitation, if not to 
 breakfast with him, at least to wait upon him in that 
 interesting ceremony. His drinking is particularly 
 nice. He always loves running water, in the clearest 
 brook, at the most sparkling place in it. No man shall 
 make me believe that he does not observe and quietly 
 enjoy the sun-flash on the gravel beneath, and on the 
 wavy surface above. He arches down his neck to the 
 surface, his mane falls gracefully over his head, he 
 drinks with hearty earnestness, and the throbbing swal- 
 lows pulsate so audibly and musically that you feel a 
 sympathetic thirst. Now he lifts his head, and looks 
 first up the road to see who is coming, and then down 
 the road, at those work-horses, turned loose, affecting 
 gayety with their old stiff legs and hooped bellies, and 
 then, with a long breath, he takes the after-drink. 
 Once more lifting his head, but now only a few inches 
 above the surface, the drops trickle from his lips back 
 to the brook. Finally, he cleanses his mouth, and 
 chews his bit, and plays with the surface of the water 
 with his lithe lip, and begins to paw the stream. 
 
 Guiding him out, you propose to yourself a real 
 boy's drink. Selecting a favorable place, on a dry 
 bank, where the stones give you a suitable rest, you lie 
 flat down, at full length, and begin. Your luck will 
 
 •* 
 
174 A COUNTRY RIDE. 
 
 depend upon your judgment of places and skill of per- 
 formance. Should you be too dignified to lie down, 
 you will probably compromise and kneel, awkwardly 
 protruding your head to the edge, where a little pool 
 breaks over a rim of rock ; thus you will be sure to send 
 the first drops down the wrong way. Musical as is 
 crystal water softly flowing over silver gravel, between 
 fringed banks, its passage down the breathing tubes is 
 anything but musical or graceful ; and you will have 
 an episode with your handkerchief behind the bushes 
 — coughing, crying, being greatly exercised in various 
 ways. But if you are willing to be a real boy (and no 
 one is a real man after he has lost out all the boy), then 
 you must lie level with the stream, careless of grass or 
 gravel, and apply your lips gently, just above the point 
 of the ripple, where it breaks over the gravel, and you 
 shall quietly and relishfully quench your thirst. If you 
 be handsome, or think yourself so, you can regale your 
 eyes, too, with a fair face, seen in that original mirror 
 in which, long before quicksilver or polished metal, 
 Adam and Eve made their toilet. There is yet an- 
 other mode : with both your hands form a cup, by lap- 
 ping the little finger of the left hand upon the corre- 
 sponding part of the right, and then curving the whole 
 in a bowl-form. A little practice will enable you to lift 
 and drink from this ruby goblet with great ease, where 
 the ground does not permit recumbency. A good pair 
 of hands, such as ours, ought to hold two large and one 
 small mouthfuls. But that will depend somewhat on 
 the size of the mouth. 
 
A COUNTRY RIDE. 175 
 
 But it was not to tell you how to drink, nor how our 
 good and companionable horse drinks, that this sheet 
 was begun ; but to urge those who can command lei- 
 sure in September or October, avoiding all beaten paths 
 of pleasure, to make a tour through the mountain 
 country of western Connecticut and Massachusetts. If 
 you are young, and not abundant in means, and can 
 get a friend to accompany you, go afoot. If you are 
 able, go on horseback. If you wish to take your wife, 
 your mother, or a sister, then a light, four-wheeled, 
 covered buggy is to be elected. If there be three or 
 four of you, take two horses and a two-seat light car- 
 riage, with a movable top. 
 
 Limit your articles of dress to a few, and those not 
 easily torn or soiled ; for it is good and most morally 
 wholesome for Americans once in a while to dress and 
 to act, not upon the rule of " What will people think ?" 
 but according to their own real necessities and conve- 
 nience. And, above all, let every woman have a 
 bloomer dress, for the sake of foot-excursions. In the 
 city or town, our eye is yet in bondage to the old 
 forms. But in the country, where the fields are to be 
 traveled, the rocks climbed, brooks crossed and re- 
 crossed, fences scaled, bushes and weeds navigsted, a 
 woman in a long dress and multitudinous petticoats is 
 a ridiculous or a pitia ble ob ject. Something is always 
 catching; the party is detained till each woman can 
 gather up her flowing robes, and clutch them in her 
 left hand, while a shawl, parasol and bonnet-strings fill 
 up the right hand. Thus she is engineered over and 
 
176 A COUNTRY RIDE. 
 
 around the rocks or logs; and, in spite of all pains and 
 gallantry, returns home bedrabbled and ragged. A 
 bloomer costume leaves the motion free, dispenses 
 with half the help from without, and avoids needless 
 exposure of one's person. If, ignorant of what is best, 
 a fair friend is caught in the country without such suit- 
 able dress, she is to be pitied, not blamed. But where 
 one may have them, and rejects them for field-excur- 
 sions as unbecoming and ridiculous, let me assure such 
 foolish persons that it is the only dress that is really 
 decent. I should think less of one's judgment and 
 delicacy who, after a fair trial of both dresses, in an ex- 
 cursion requiring much field- walking, was not heartily 
 converted to the theory of Bloomerism and to its prac- 
 tice in the country. 
 
 Having dispatched preliminaries, we are now ready 
 for our tour. If one has not leisure for detailed explo- 
 rations, and can spend but a week, let him begin, say 
 at Sharon, or Salisbury, both in Connecticut, and both 
 accessible" from the Harlem railroad. On either side, 
 to the east and to the west, ever-varying mountain- 
 forms frame the horizon. There is a constant .succes- 
 sion of hills swelling into mountains, and of mountains 
 flowing down into hills. The hues of green in trees, in 
 grasses, and in various harvests, are endlessly con- 
 trasted. There are no forests so beautiful as those 
 made up of both evergreen and deciduous trees. 
 
 At Salisbury, you come under the shadow of the 
 Taconic range. Here you may well spend a week,. for 
 the sake of the rides and the objects of curiosity. Four 
 
A COUNTRY RIDE. 177 
 
 miles to the east are the Falls of the Housatonic, called 
 Canaan Falls, very beautiful, and worthy of much 
 longer study than they usually get. Prospect Hill, 
 not far from Falls Village, affords altogether the most 
 beautiful view of any of the many peaks with which 
 this neighborhood abounds. Many mountain-tops of 
 far greater celebrity afford less various and beautiful 
 views. Near to it is the Wolf's Den, a savage cleft in 
 the rocks, through which you grope as if you had for- 
 saken light and hope for ever. On the west of Salis- 
 bury you ascend Mount Riga to Bald Peak, thence to. 
 Brace Mountain, thence to the Dome, thence to that 
 grand ravine and its wild water, Bash-Bish — a ride, in 
 all, of about eighteen miles, and wholly along the 
 mountain-bowl. On the eastern side of this range, and 
 about four miles from Norton's house, in Salisbury 
 (where you will of course put up), is Sage's Ravine, 
 which is the antithesis of Bash-Bish. Sage's Ravine, 
 not without grandeur, has its principal attractions in its 
 beauty ; Bash-Bish, far from destitute of beauty, is yet 
 most remarkable for grandeur. Both are solitary, rug- 
 ged, full of rocks, cascades, grand waterfalls, and a 
 savage rudeness tempered to beauty and softness by 
 various and abundant mosses, lichens, flowers and 
 vines. I would willingly make the journey once a 
 month from New York to see either of them. Just 
 beyond Sage's Ravine, very beautiful falls may be 
 seen, after heavy rains, which have been named Nor- 
 ton's Falls. 
 
 Besides these and other mountain scenery — to which, 
 8* 
 
178 A COUNTRY RIDE. 
 
 if described, we must give a separate letter — there are 
 the Twin Lakes on the north of Salisbury, and the two 
 lakes on the south, around which the rides are ex- 
 tremely beautiful. But they should always be after- 
 noon rides; for these discreet lakes do not choose to 
 give out their full charms except at about an hour 
 before sunset. The rides in all this neighborhood are 
 very fine, and a week at Salisbury (if the weather be 
 fine and your disposition reasonable) will be apt to 
 , tempt you back, again and again. 
 
 From Salisbury to Great Barington the road lies 
 along the base of the mountains, and, indeed, is called 
 the under-mountain road. Great Barington is one of 
 those places which one never enters without wishing 
 never to leave. It rests beneath the branches of great 
 numbers of the stateliest elms. It is a place to be de- 
 sired as a, summer residence. 
 
 Next, to the north, is Stockbridge, famed for its mea- 
 dow-elms, for the picturesque scenery adjacent, for the 
 quiet beauty of a village which sleeps along a level 
 plain, just under the rim of hills. If you wish to be 
 filled and satisfied with the serenest delight, ride to the 
 summit of this encircling hill-ridge, in a summer's 
 afternoon, while the sun is but an hour high. The 
 Housatonic winds, in great circuits, all through the 
 valley, carrying willows and alders with it wherever it 
 goes. The horizon, on every side, is piled and ter- 
 raced with mountains. Abrupt and isolated mountains 
 bolt up here and there over the whole stretch of plain, 
 covered with evergreens. Upon the northern ridge, 
 
A COUNTRY RIDE. 1 , i? 
 
 lived the worthy Dr. West, known and honored among 
 New England theologians. It is . but recently that his 
 old house was demolished. And this very spot we 
 came near purchasing for a summer house. 
 
 But Stockbridge is memorable to us, chiefly, as the 
 residence of Jonathan Edwards, once a missionary 
 among the Indians. The colonial government, with 
 singular wisdom, established among the Indians a desi- 
 rable system of culture. Families of the utmost integ- 
 rity were selected to live among them and teach them 
 in mechanic arts, husbandry, and various social civili- 
 zation. A religious teacher was also put in charge of 
 their moral and, spiritual interests. And among these 
 missionaries, Jonathan Edwards, after his dismission 
 from Northampton, as a man too progressive in his 
 tendencies, was by far the most remarkable. The 
 house, where he lived, and in which he wrote his 
 world-renowned treatise on the Will, still stands strong, 
 and fair for another hundred years' existence. The 
 very place where he sat to write this work — then a lit- 
 tle writing closet, now a portion of the parlor — is to be 
 seen by all who have curiosity in such matters. We 
 often ride through this beautiful village in summer, 
 and never, without driving down to the Edwards house, 
 and going back in imagination to the simplicity and 
 the humble devotedness of this man, in a field appa- 
 rently the least fitted for one of his philosophic tastes. 
 He seemed unconscious of greatness. He was not 
 pestered, as smaller men are, with great solicitude lest 
 they should be found in a field too small for the emi- 
 
180 A COUNTRY RIDK. 
 
 nence of their gifts. Around about Stockbridge are 
 many charming rides, and places of curiosity for all to 
 visit. An excellent hotel is kept, and is usually well 
 filled in summer with refugees from the arid city. 
 
 Going north four or five miles, we come to Lenox, 
 known for the singular purity and exhilarating effects 
 of its air, and for the beauty of its mountain scenery. 
 As it is to be hereafter our summer home, we shall be 
 regarded as a partial witness in its favor. But, if one 
 spends July or October in Lenox, they will hardly 
 seek another home for summer. The church stands 
 upon the highest point in the village, and if, in sum- 
 mer, one stands in the door, and gazes upon the vast 
 panorama, he might, without half of the Psalmist's 
 devotion, prefer to stand in the door of the Lord's 
 house, to a dwelling in tent, tabernacle, or mansion. 
 Close by, and equally eminent, and rich in prospect, 
 lies the village graveyard. No dark and sickly fogs 
 ever gather at evening about it. It lies nearer heaven 
 than any place about. It is good to have our mortal 
 remains go upward for their burial, and catch the 
 earliest sounds of that trumpet which shall raise the 
 dead! 
 
 Some talk has been made of rebuilding the church 
 lower down in the village. Long may the day be dis- 
 tant when it shall be done I The brightest thing in 
 the village is the church upon the hill ! It was in the 
 adjacent burial-ground that Mrs. Fanny Kemble Butler 
 desired to rest when her work on earth was over. " I 
 will not rise to trouble any one if they will let me 
 
A COUNTRY RIDE. 181 
 
 sleep there. I will ask only to be permitted, once in a 
 while, to raise my head, and look out upon this glori 
 ous scene !" May she behold one so much fairer, that 
 this scenic beauty shall fade to a shadow ! 
 
 From Salisbury to Williamstown, and then to Ben- 
 ington in Vermont, there stretches a county of valleys, 
 lakes and mountains, that is yet to be as celebrated as 
 the lake-district of England and the hill-country of 
 Palestine. 
 
XL 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE COUNTRY. 
 
 Salisbury, Conn., Sept. 16, 1858. 
 
 During two summers we have found a home in this 
 hill-country. We have explored its localities in every 
 direction. The outlines of its horizon, its peaks and 
 headlands, its mountains and gorges, its streams and 
 valleys, have become familiar to us. It is a sad feeling 
 that we have in going away. 
 
 Nature makes so many overtures to those who love 
 her, and stamps so many remembrances of herself upon 
 their affections, and draws forth to her bosom so much 
 of our very self, that, at length, the fields, the hills, the 
 trees, and the various waters, become a journal of our 
 life. In riding over from Millerton to Salisbury (six 
 miles), for the last time, probably, for years, we could 
 not but remark what a hold the face of the country had 
 got upon us. This round hill on the left, as we draw 
 near the lakes, it is our hill ! Hundreds of times we 
 have greeted it, and been greeted ; we have bounded 
 over it; in imagination we have built under those trees, 
 and welcomed friends to our air-cottage. How often, 
 at sunset, have we looked forth north, east, south and 
 west, and harvested from each direction great stores of 
 beauty and of joy. As we wound axound its base, a 
 three-quarter's moon shining full and bright, the two 
 lakes began to appear in silver spots through the trees. 
 
FAREWELL TO THE COUNTRY. 183 
 
 When we reached the summit of the road, they opened 
 in full, and glimmered and shone like molten silver. 
 For more beautiful sheets of water, and more beautiful 
 sites from which to look at them, one may search far 
 without finding. 
 
 During a few days' absence the first frost has fallen 
 The Reaper then has come! And this is the sharp 
 sickle whose unwhetted edge will cut all before it! 
 We had, before this, noticed the blood-red dogwood in 
 the forests, and a few vines that blushed at full length, 
 with here and there a maple in swamp-lands, that were 
 prematurely taking bright colors. But now all things 
 will hasten. Two weeks, and less, will bring October. 
 That is the painted month. Every green thing loves 
 to die in bright colors. The vegetable cohorts march 
 glowing out of the year in flaming dresses, as if to 
 leave this earth were a triumph and not a sadness. It 
 is never Nature that is sad, but only we, that dare 
 not look back on the past, and that have not its pro- 
 phesy of the future in our bosoms. Men will sit down 
 beneath the shower of golden leaves that every puff of 
 wind will soon cast down in field and forest, and re- 
 member the days of first summer and the vigor of 
 young leaves ; will mark the boughs growing bare, and 
 the increasing spaces among the thickest trees, through 
 which the heavens every day do more and more ap- 
 pear, as their leaves grow fewer and none spring again 
 to repair the waste — and sigh that the summer passeth 
 and the winter cometh. How many suggestions of his 
 own life and decay will one find ! 
 
184 FAEEWELL TO THE COUNTRY. 
 
 But there is as much of life in autumn as of death, and 
 as much of creation and of growth as of passing away, 
 Every flower has left its house full of seeds. No leaf 
 has dropped until a bad was born to it. Already, 
 another year is hidden along the bougns ; another sum- 
 mer is secure among the declining flowers. Along the 
 banks the green heart-shaped leaves of the violet tell 
 me that it is all well at the root ; and in turning the soil 
 I find those spring beauties that died, to be only sleep- 
 ing. Heart, take courage ! What the heart has once 
 owned and had, it shall never lose. There is resurrec- 
 tion-hope not alone in the garden-sepulchre of Christ. 
 Every flower and every tree and every root are annual 
 prophets sent to affirm the future and cheer the way. 
 Thus, as birds, to teach their little ones to fly, do fly 
 first themselves and show the way ; and as guides, that 
 would bring the timid to venture into the dark-faced 
 ford, do first go back and forth through it, so the yeai 
 and all its 'mighty multitudes of growths walk in and 
 out before us, to encourage our faith of life by death ,• 
 of decaying for the sake of better growth. Every seed 
 and every bud whispers to us to secure, while the leaf 
 is yet green, that germ which shall live when frosts 
 have destroyed leaf and flower. 
 
 Is there any thing that the heart needs more than 
 this ? Is there any thing that can comfort the heart out 
 of which dear ones have fled, as birds flying out of and 
 forsaking the trees where they were wonted to sit and 
 sing, but the assurance of their speedy re-coming ? 
 They are not silent eA^erywhere because they do not 
 
FAREWELL TO THE COUNTRY. 185 
 
 speak to us here. Their feet still walk, though no 
 footfall may be in our houses. Thine, O Death, was 
 the furrow; we cast therein our precious seed. Now 
 let us wait and see what God shall bring forth for us. 
 A single leaf falls — the bud at its axil will shoot forth 
 many leaves. The husbandman bargains with the year 
 to give back a hundred grains for each one buried. 
 Shall God be less generous ? Yet, when we sow, our 
 hearts think that beauty is gone out, that all is lost. 
 But when God shall bring again to our eyes the 
 hundred-fold beauty and sweetness of that which we 
 planted, how shall we shame over that dim faith, that 
 having eyes saw not, and ears heard not, though all 
 heaven and all the earth appeared and spake, to com- 
 fort those who mourn. And yet! and yet! — something 
 sinks heavily down and weighs the heart too hardly. 
 The future is bright enough ; but, the Now I 
 
 This glorious vision, this hope and everlasting surety 
 of the future, how shallow were life without it, and 
 how deep beyond all fathoming with it ! The threads 
 that broke in the loom here shall be taken up there. 
 The veins of gold, that penetrate this mighty mountain 
 of Time and Earth, shall then have forsaken the. rock 
 and dirt, and shine in a sevenfold purity. All those 
 wrongly estranged and separated, and all who, with 
 great hearts, seeking good for men, do yet fall out and 
 contend, and all they who bear about hearts of earnest 
 purpose, longing to love, and to do, but hindered and 
 baulked, and made to carry hidden fire in their souls 
 that warms no one, but only burns the censer, and all 
 
186 FAREWELL TO THE COUNTRY. 
 
 they who are united for mutual discomfort, and all who 
 are separated that should have walked together, and all 
 that inwardly or outwardly live in a dream all their 
 days, longing for the dawn and the waking, — to all 
 such how blessed is the dawn of the Resurrection ! 
 The stone is rolled away, and angels sit upon it; and 
 all who go groping toward the grave to search for that 
 which is lost, shall hear their voices teaching them that 
 Heaven harvests and keeps whatever of good the earth 
 loses. 
 
 But we began to write for the sake of saying farewell 
 to old Salisbury and to all its beautiful scenery. The 
 enjoyment which one receives in an eight weeks' com- 
 munion with such objects as abound here can not be 
 measured in words. We are not ashamed to acknowl- 
 edge that our last ride through the familiar places was 
 attended with an overflow of gratitude, as intelligent 
 and distinct as ever we experienced toward a living 
 person. Why not? Did not God create the heavens 
 and the earth full of benefactions? Did he not set 
 forth all enchantments of morning and evening, all 
 processes of the seasons, to be almoners of His own 
 bounty ? God walks through the earth with ten thou- 
 sand gifts which he finds no one willing to receive. 
 Men live in poverty, in sadness and dissatisfaction, 
 yearning and wishing for joy, while above them and 
 about them, upon the grandest scale, with variations 
 beyond record, are stores of pleasure beyond all ex- 
 haustion, and incapable of palling upon the taste. 
 When our heart has dwelt for a long time in these 
 
FAREWELL TO THE COUNTRY. 187 
 
 rc^alties, and has been made rich with a wealth that 
 brings no care, nor burden, nor corruption, and that 
 wastes only to burst forth with new treasures and 
 sweeter surprises, we can not forbear thanksgiving and 
 gratitude which fills the eye rather than moves the 
 tongue. It is not alone thanks to God. By a natural 
 process the mind gives sentient life to His messengers, 
 and regards them as the cheerful and conscious stew- 
 ards of divine mercy, and thanks them heartily for 
 doing what God sent them to do. Nor can we forbear 
 a sense of sorrow that that which was meant for so 
 great a blessing to all men should be~wasted, upon the 
 greatest number of men, either because they lack edu- 
 cation toward such things, or lack a sensibility which 
 produces enjoyment without an education. 
 
 If there were an artist to come among us who could 
 stand in Metropolitan Hall in the presence of a living 
 assemblage, and work with such marvelous celerity and 
 genius, that in a half-hour there should glow from his 
 canvas a gorgeous sunset, such as flushes the west in 
 an October day ; and then, when the spectators had 
 gazed their fill, should rub it hastily out, and overlay 
 it, in a twenty minutes' work, with another picture, 
 such as God paints rapidly after sunset — its silver 
 white, its faint apple-green, its pink, its yellow, its 
 orange hues, imperceptibly mingling into grays and 
 the black-blue of the upper arch of the heavens, to be 
 rubbed out again, and succeeded by pictures of clouds 
 — all, or any, of those extraordinary combinations of 
 grandeur, in form and in color, that make one tremble 
 
188 FAREWELL TO THE COUNTRY. 
 
 to stand and look up; these again to be followed by 
 vivid portraitures of more calm atmospheric conditions 
 of the heavens, without form or vapor; and so on 
 endlessly, — such a man would be followed by eager 
 crowds, his works lauded, and he called a gou. He 
 would be a god. Such is God. So he fills the heavens 
 with pictures, strikes through them with effacement 
 that he may find room for the expression of the endless 
 riches of the divine ideas of beauty and majesty. "The 
 heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament 
 showeth his handiwork." The Psalmist then boldly 
 personifies days and nights, as if they were sentinels 
 and spectators, each as it passes from his watch re- 
 hearsing what it had seen: "Day unto day uttereth 
 speech, and night unto night showeth knowledge." 
 
 We are thankful that our incarceration in the city, 
 though, it shuts out all these things, can not efface the 
 memory of a summer's happiness. That glows and 
 lives again, and will be a sweet twilight on our path, 
 till another season and another vacation. 
 
XII. 
 
 SCHOOL REMINISCENCE. 
 
 It was our misfortune, in boyhood, to go to a Dis- 
 trict School. A little, square, pine building, blazing 
 in the sun, stood upon the highway, without a tree for 
 shade or shadow near it; without bush, yard, fence 
 or circumstance to take off its bare, cold, hard, hateful 
 look. Before the door, in winter, was the pile of wood 
 for fuel; and there, in summer, were all the chips of 
 the winter's wood. 
 
 In winter we were squeezed into the recess of the 
 furthest corner, among little boys, who seemed to be 
 sent to school merely to fill up the chinks between the 
 bigger boys. Certainly we were never sent for any 
 such absurd purpose as an education. There were the 
 great scholars ; the school in winter was for them, not 
 for us piccaninies. We were read and spelled twice a 
 day, unless something happened to prevent, which did 
 happen about every other day. For the rest of the 
 time we were busy in keeping still. And a time we 
 always had of it. Our shoes always would be scraping 
 on the floor, or knocking the shins of urchins who 
 were also being "educated." AH of our little legs 
 together (poor, tired, nervous, restless legs, with no- 
 thing to do!) would fill up the corner with such a 
 noise, that every ten or fifteen minutes the master 
 
190 SCHOOL REMINISCENCE. 
 
 would bring down his two-foot hickory ferule on the 
 desk with a clap that sent shivers through our hearts 
 to think how that would have felt if it had fallen 
 somewhere else ; and then, with a look that swept us 
 all into utter extremity of stillness, he would cry, " Si- 
 lence! in that corner!" Stillness would last for a few 
 minutes ; but, little boys' memories are not capacious. 
 Moreover, some of the boys had great gifts of mischief, 
 and some of mirthfulness, and some had both together. 
 The consequence was, that just when we were the most 
 afraid to laugh, we saw the most comical things to laugh 
 at. Temptations which we could have vanquished with 
 a smile out in the free air, were irresistible in our little 
 corner where a laugh and a stinging slap were very apt 
 to woo each other. So, we would hold on, and fill up ; 
 and others would hold on and fill up too ; till, by and 
 by, the weakest would let go a mere whiffet of a laugh, 
 and, then, down went all the precautions, and one went 
 off, and another, and another, touching off the others 
 like a pack of fire-crackers ! It was in vain to deny it. 
 But, as the process of snapping our heads and pulling 
 our ears went on with primitive sobriety, we each in 
 turn, with tearful eyes and blubbering lips, declared 
 "we didn't mean to," and that was true; and that "we 
 wouldn't do so any more," and that was a fib, however 
 unintentional; for we never failed to do just so again, 
 and that about once an hour all day long. 
 
 Besides this, our principal business was to shake and 
 shiver at the beginning of the school for very cold; 
 and to sweat ami stew for the rest of the time, before 
 
SCHOOL REMINISCENCE. 191 
 
 the fervid glances of a great box iron stove, red hot. 
 There was one event of great horror and two of pleas- 
 ure; the first was the act of going to school, in which is 
 to be comprised the leaving off play, the face-washing 
 and clothes-inspecting, the temporary play-spell before 
 the master came, the outcry, "There he is — the master 
 is coming," the hurly-burly rush, and the noisy clatter- 
 ing to our seats. The other two events of pleasure 
 were the play-spell and the dismission. O, dear ! can 
 there be any thing worse for a lively, mercurial, mirth- 
 ful, active little boy, than going to a winter district- 
 school ? Yes. Going to a summer district-school ! 
 There is no comparison. The last is the Miltonic 
 depth below the deepest depth. 
 
 A woman kept the summer school, sharp, precise, 
 unsympathetic, keen and untiring. Of all ingenious 
 ways of fretting little boys, doubtless her waj^s were 
 the most expert. Not a tree was there to shelter the 
 house. The sun beat down on the shingles and clap- 
 boards till the pine knots shed pitchy tears, and the 
 air was redolent of warm pine-wood smell. The 
 benches were slabs with legs in them. The desks were 
 slabs at an angle, cut, hacked, scratched, each year's 
 edition of jack-knife literature overlaying its predeces- 
 sor, until in our day it already wore cuttings and car- 
 vings two or three inches deep. But if we cut a morsel, 
 or stuck in pins, or pinched off splinters, the little sharp- 
 eyed mistress was on hand, and one look of her eye was 
 worse than a sliver in our foot, and one nip of her fin- 
 gers was equal to a jab of a pin ; — for we had tried both. 
 
192 SCHOOL REMINISCENCE. 
 
 We envied the flies — merry fellows, bouncing about, 
 tasting that apple skin, patting away at that crumb of 
 bread ; now out the window, then in again ; on j^our 
 nose, on your neighbor's cheek, off to the very school- 
 ma'am's lips, dodging her slap, and then letting off a 
 real round and round buzz, up, down, this way, that 
 way, and every way. O, we envied the flies more 
 than any thing, except the birds. The windows were 
 so high that we could not see the grassy meadows ; but 
 we could see the tops of distant trees, and the far, deep, 
 bounteous blue sky. There flew the robins; there 
 went the bluebirds, and there went we. We followed 
 that old Polyglott, the skunk-blackbird, and heard him 
 describe the way they talked at the winding up of the 
 Tower of Babel. We thanked every meadow-lark that 
 sung on, rejoicing as it flew. Now and then a " chip- 
 ping-bird" would flutter on the very window-sill, turn 
 its little head sidewise, and peer in on the medley of 
 boys and girls. Long before we knew that it was in 
 Scripture, we sighed — 0, that we had the wings of a 
 bird — we would fly away and be out of this hateful 
 school. As for learning, the sum of all that we ever 
 got at a district-school would scarcely cover the first 
 ten letters of the alphabet. One good, kind, story-tell- 
 ing, Bible-rehearsing aunt at home, with apples and 
 gingerbread premiums, is worth all the school-ma'ams 
 that ever stood by to see poor little fellows roast in 
 those boy-traps called district-schools. 
 
 But this was thirty-five years ago. Doubtless it is 
 all changed long since then. We mean inside; for 
 
SCHOOL REMINISCENCE. 193 
 
 certainly there are but few school-houses that we have 
 seen in New England whose outside has much changed. 
 There is a beautiful house here in Salisbury, Conn., 
 just on the edge of the woods. It is worth going miles 
 to see how a school-house ought to look. But generally 
 the barrenest spot is chosen, the most utterly homely 
 building is erected, without a tree or shrub ; and there 
 those that can do no better, pass the pilgrimage of their 
 childhood education. 
 
 "We are prejudiced, of course. Oui views and feel- 
 ings are not to be trusted. They are good for nothing 
 except to show what an effect our school-days left upon 
 us. We abhor the thought of a school. We do not 
 go into them if we can avoid it. Our boyhood expe- 
 rience has pervaded our memory with such images as 
 breed a private repugnance to district-schools, which 
 we fear we shall not lay aside until we lay aside every- 
 thing into the grave. We are sincerely glad that it ia 
 not so with everybody. There are thousands who re- 
 vert with pleasure to those days. We are glad of it. 
 But we look on such persons with astonishment. 
 9 
 
XIII, 
 
 THE VALUE OF BIRDS. 
 
 Sporstmen, Beware. — The last Legislature enacted that it shall not 
 be lawful in the State of New Jersey for any person to shoot, or in 
 any other manner to kill or destroy, except upon his own premises, any 
 of the following description of birds: the night or mosquito hawk, 
 chimney swallow, martin or swift, whippoorwill, cuckoo, kingbird or 
 bee martin, woodpecker, claip or highhole, catbird, wren, bluebird, 
 meadow lark, brown thresher, dove, fire-bird or summer redbird, 
 hanging bird, ground robin or chewink, boblink or rice bird, robin, 
 snow or chipping bird, sparrow, Carolina lit, warbler, blackbird, 
 bluejay, and the small owl. The penalty is five dollars for each 
 offence, or for the destruction of the eggs of such birds. — Tribune. 
 
 What is a bird good for? What dainty sentimen- 
 talism has set a stupid Legislature at such enactments ? 
 
 Not so fast. Although we should greatly respect a 
 Legislature that had the humanity to think of birds 
 among other constituent bipeds, yet experience has 
 taught farmers and gardeners the economic value of 
 birds. 
 
 There are no such indefatigable entomologists as 
 birds. Audubon and Wilson never hunted for speci- 
 men birds with such perseverance as birds themselves 
 exhibit in their researches. They depasture the air, 
 they penetrate every nook and corner of thicket, hedge 
 and shrubbery, they search the bark, pierce the dead 
 wood, glean the surface of the soil, watch for the spade- 
 trench, and follow the furrow for worms and larvae. A 
 
THE VALUE OF BIRDS. 195 
 
 single bird in one season destroys millions of insects for 
 its own food and for the supply of its nest. No com- 
 putation can be made of the insects which birds devour. 
 We do not think of another scene more inspiriting 
 than the plowing season, in this respect. Bluebirds 
 are in the tops of trees practicing the scales, crows are 
 cawing as they lazily swing through the air toward 
 their companions in the tops of distant dead and dry 
 trees ; robins and blackbirds are wide awake, searching 
 every clod that the plow turns, and venturesome al- 
 most to the farmer's heels. Even boys relent, and 
 seem touched by the birds' appeal to their confidence, 
 and, until small fruits come, spare the birds. Bob'o'links 
 begin to appear — the buffoon among birds, and half 
 sing and half fizzle. How our young blood sparkled 
 amid such scenes, we could not tell why ; neither why 
 we cried without sorrow or laughed without mirth, but 
 only from a vague sympathy with that which was 
 Deautiful and joyous. 
 
 Were there ever such neat scavengers ? Were there 
 ever such nimble hunters? Were there ever such 
 adroit butchers? No Grahamitic scruples agitate this 
 seed-loving and bug-loving tribe. They do not show 
 their teeth to prove that they were designed for meat 
 They eat what they like, wipe their mouths on a limb, 
 return thanks in a song, and wing away to a quiet 
 nook to doze or meditate, snug from the hawk that 
 spheres about far up in the ether. 
 
 To be sure, birds, like men, have a relish for variety. 
 There are no better pomologists. If we believed in 
 
196 THE VALUE OF BIRDS. 
 
 transmigration we shouM be sure that our distinguished 
 fruit-culturists could be traced' home. Longworth was 
 a brown-thresher; Downing a lark, sometimes in the 
 dew and sometimes just below the sun ; Thomas was a 
 plain and sensible robin ; junior Prince was a bob'o'link, 
 irreverently called skunk-blackbird ; Ernst a dove ; 
 Parsons a woodpecker ; Wilder a kingbird. We could 
 put our finger, too, upon the human blackbird, wren, 
 bluejay, and small owl, but prudence forbids ; as it also 
 does the mention of a certain clerical mocking-bird 
 that makes game of his betters ! 
 
 But we wander from the point. We charge every 
 man with positive dishonesty who drives birds from his 
 garden in fruit-time. The fruit is theirs as well as 
 yours. They took care of it as much as you did. If 
 they had not eaten egg, worm, and bug, your fruit 
 would have been pierced and ruined. They only come 
 for wages. No honest man will cheat a bird of his 
 spring and summer's work. 
 
XIV. 
 
 A ROUGH PICTURE FROM LIFE. 
 
 It is a fine thing to be a conservative of the benevo- 
 lent class. Inheriting a fine old mansion, amid orchards, 
 and gardens, and lawns, and surrounded by old trees, 
 whose mighty arms waved joyfully when he was born, 
 and have discoursed noble music to his ear ever since 
 — the happy, kind, even-minded dreamer dreads all 
 change. His' nest is snug, and he is afraid to lose a 
 single egg by the hand of thievish innovation. In the 
 sunny parlor he reads his daily conservative journal, 
 ratifies its curses, and thinks he hates all whom it stig- 
 matizes. His sides grow fat, his face grows round, his 
 head grows bald, his heart grows mellow to all who 
 know its sunny side. 
 
 Meanwhile, the schools must be supported — yes, 
 schools are ancient institutions, and he patronizes 
 schools. The academy must be built — and there are 
 century-old precedents for academies — so he approves 
 of them. All the boys are exhorted to go to school, 
 and all the maidens are there to keep the boys out of 
 mischief. Now it will never do to educate Yankee 
 lads and lasses, if it is a sin to think, and if thinking 
 errs when it leads to action. Accordingly, so many 
 girls are growing up who, finding themselves able to 
 govern their parents, aspire to be teachers of schools ; 
 and so many inventive, thinking boys are brewing 
 
198 A ROUGH PICTURE FROM LIFE. 
 
 schemes and improvements, that, in a half-score of 
 years, our kind old conservative finds much mysterious 
 mischief abroad. Where it could have come from, he 
 can not imagine. There are new fashions and new 
 architecture, new halls and new churches, new minis- 
 ters and new lawyers. 
 
 Meanwhile, the neighboring valley, child of a moun- 
 tain-gorge a little back, and borrowing its brook, has 
 shown signs of evil. A dam has raised the brook to 
 an ominous pond, which trout scorn and frogs love. 
 Gaunt mills go up, shanties abound, Irish fairies are 
 digging under ground and over ground, in the water 
 and out of the water, powder drilled into rocks is split- 
 ting them open with surprise. Alas ! there is no more 
 quiet for our kind old heart; his walks are circum- 
 scribed, his influence wanes, his prejudices grow, his 
 quails and his partridges, his spring blackbirds, his 
 bluebirds and robins, are driven into close quarters or 
 utterly dispersed. 
 
 Ten thousand daily feelings vex his soul. The fac- 
 tory-village eats up his quiet. Its roughness, its va- 
 rious impertinences, its night and day clatter, all offend 
 him. He retreats more desperately to his paper, and 
 holds back with all his might. 
 
 But time has a temptation for him that he did not 
 estimate. His own grounds are wanted. Through 
 that exquisite dell which skirts along the northern 
 side of his estates, where he has wandered, book in 
 hand, a thousand times, monarch of squirrels, bluejays 
 and partridges, his only companions and subjects — are 
 
A ROUGH PICTURE FROM LIFE. 199 
 
 seen peering and spying those execrable men that turn 
 the world upside down, civil engineers and most uncivil 
 speculators. Alas! the plague has broken out. His 
 ground is wanted — is taken — is denied — is daily smoked 
 by the passage of that modern thunder-dragon, drag- 
 ging its long tail of cars. A jury of his own towns- 
 men, after gravely estimating the case and considering 
 his demand for ten thousand dollars damages, frankly 
 admit the claim, but offset it with a judgment that hL 
 property is increased in value at least twenty thousand. 
 But that will never pay for his robins, his quails, his 
 autumnal quiet, his evening strolls and his trout brook. 
 They have spoiled one of God's grandest pictures by 
 slashing it with a railroad, but declare that the frame 
 has been enough improved to make up for the picture. 
 
 Who that has a spark of nature or the love of nature 
 in him, would not be a conservative ? After this we 
 quite enjoy to hear him drub the world in general and 
 all modern improvements in particular. Nevertheless 
 his sturdy son, stealing upon paternal pride, and very 
 quietly and reverently governing his governor, has per- 
 suaded the sale of a few lots. You know the rest. A 
 man may, peradventure, withstand an Eve in Paradise; 
 an Abdiel may be found; but a man proof against 
 speculations in town lots, which to-day are worth a, 
 hundred dollars and to-morrow a thousand, you may 
 search the earth through and you shall not find. 
 
 And so this place is gone. The old mansion, driven 
 up more sharply every } r ear, has lost its orchard, has 
 lost its meadows, has lost that long slope, has a rail 
 
200 A ROUGH PICTURE FROM LIFE. 
 
 fence crooking like a serpent through the middle of its 
 gardens, with a hundred Irish imps whooping in and 
 out of shanties on the other side, where the old mul- 
 berry tree stood and the best currant bushes grew that 
 ever hung with fruit like drops of blood. At last, the 
 poor stately old house, standing askew by reason of 
 the streets that have cut in on every side, goes, like its 
 master, to ruin. 
 
 For such conservatives we have a genuine sympathy. 
 There is something very natural in the whole process ; 
 and the appeal is rather to our pity than our censure. 
 
XV. 
 
 A RIDE TO FORT HAMILTON". 
 
 It is difficult to choose between the scenery of the 
 ocean side and inland scenery, if one were to have the 
 liberty of but one of them. Both of them take hold of 
 the imagination with great power ; both are stimulating 
 and yet soothing. But they act upon the mind in very 
 different ways. 
 
 The power of the mind to animate natural objects 
 with its own emotions, and gradually to clothe external 
 objects with the attributes and experiences of the soul, 
 is well known. The place where any event in our his- 
 tory has occurred becomes a memorial of the feelings 
 which that event excited in us. The walk which for 
 years our feet have trod in hours of meditation, is no 
 longer a dry path, half leaf-covered, obscure among the 
 underbrush, or sinuous along the summit of the over- 
 looking bluff. It has become intrusted with our deep- 
 est sensations. It speaks to us, and we talk with it. 
 It is a journal of our gradual experiences. A rock, 
 under whose sides we have been wont to commune 
 with God, and dream of the future, can never assume 
 a merry face or an irreverent demeanor. The home- 
 trees, under which we sit with daily friends, become 
 social and familiar ; those which our solitude seeks out, 
 and under which we take refuge from men, whose 
 whispering boughs charm our cares, or whose silence 
 9* 
 
202 ' A RIDE TO FORT HAMILTON. 
 
 descends from far-up branches, to quiet our fears or 
 sorrows — become sacred companions. Thus, too, cer- 
 tain places — bends in a river, nooks in a mountain side, 
 clefts in rocks, sequestered dells — have their imputed 
 life. Whenever we come back to these places it is as 
 when one reads old letters, or a journal of old experi- 
 ences, or meets old friends, that bring thronging back 
 with them innumerable memories and renewed sensa- 
 tions of pleasure or sadness. 
 
 The ocean can not produce such effects. Whatever 
 may be the sources of its power, it does not depend 
 upon association. The ocean has no permanent objects. 
 The waves of yesterday are gone to-day ; and the calm 
 of to-day will be tumultuous to-morrow. The very 
 effect of the sea, in part, depends upon its exceeding 
 changeableness. Upon what can we hang our associa- 
 tions ? The line of coast supplies a partial resource, 
 but the sea none. It has no nooks, or dells, or caves, 
 or overhanging rocks, which, once formed, abide for 
 ever. It has no perpetual boughs or enduring forests. 
 Its mountains are liquid, and flow down in the very 
 same moment that they lift themselves up. The wide 
 and whole sea, as a great One, to be sure, comes to us 
 always the same ; but its individual features are always 
 strangers. Its waves are always new waves; its rip- 
 ples are always formed before us; its broad and un- 
 crested undulations are fresh and momently produced. 
 If we go down to the shore to mourn for those who 
 shall not come forth from the deep till the archangel's 
 trump shall bring forth its dead, though we shed 
 
A RIDE TO FORT HAMILTON. 208 
 
 daily tears for weary months, they treasure up no asso- 
 ciations in the rolling waters or bright-glancing calms. 
 If the place becomes sacred, it is the shore, the sur- 
 rounding rocks or sand-hills, and not the ever-born, 
 ever-dying waves. 
 
 The operation of these causes extends to level coun- 
 try scenery. The mind seldom wishes to trust much 
 to a level and insipid country. The inhabitants of 
 such plains form but feeble local attachments. But 
 those who are mountain-born become so intensely 
 attached to their familiar places, that when removed 
 from them, home-sickness becomes a disease, and preys 
 upon the frame like a fever or a consumption. 
 
 The scenery of the sea addresses itself to a different 
 part of our being. It speaks more to the imagination \ 
 than to the affections\giving fewer objects for analysis 
 or examination ; for ever throwing off the eye by revo- 
 lutions of form and changeableness, and refusing to 
 become familiar in those patient and gentle ways of 
 companionship that venerable forests and benignant 
 mountains assume. The sea is not a lover and friend, 
 but an inspirer and an austere teacher. Trees soothe 
 us and comfort us by sympathy. We still stand in our 
 sorrows, or yearnings, or sadness ; but they speak to us 
 with ten thousand airy voices or melodious whisper- 
 ings, and, mingling better thoughts and faith with our 
 fretful experience, they sweeten the heart without 
 washing away its thoughts with utter forgetful ness. 
 
 But the sea forces life away from us. We stand 
 upon its shore as if a new life were opening upon us, 
 
204 A RIDE TO FORT HAMILTON. 
 
 and we were in the act of forgetting the things that are 
 behind, and reaching forth unto those which are before 
 and beyond. The unobstructed distance, the far hori- 
 zon line, on which the eye only stops, but over which 
 -the imagination bounds, and then first perceives plainly 
 where the eye grows dim ; the restless change, the 
 sense of endless creative power, the daily and some- 
 times hourly change of countenance, that makes you 
 think that the ocean revolves deep experiences in its 
 bosom, and reveals distinctly upon its mutable face 
 expressions of its peace, or sorrow, or joy, or struggle 
 and rage, or victory and joyfulness; — these are pheno- 
 mena that excite us, and carry us away from life, away 
 from hackneyed experiences. When we retire from 
 the seaside we come back to life as if from a voyage, 
 and familiar things have grown strange. 
 
 A frequent and favorite ride, with us, is to Fort 
 Hamilton. It lies, in part, upon the Long Island side 
 of New York Bay and the Narrows, and terminates a 
 little beyond the Fort, where, between the dim sand- 
 points of Coney Island on the left, and the Hook on 
 the right, the ocean stretches out itself. 
 
 It is an autumnal day ; the leaves are changed, but 
 not fallen. The air is mild and genial. The carriage 
 stands at the door ; the mother is ready, the friends are 
 waiting, and Charley paws impatiently. Away we go 
 rattling over the noisy pavement, enduring rather than 
 enjoying, till we reach the toll-gate. • This passed, the 
 fresh sea-smell comes across the Bay, and we look out 
 upon heaps of seaweed on our right, odorous in its pe- 
 
A RIDE TO FORT HAMILTON. 205 
 
 culiar and not disagreeable way. The bay is specked 
 with sails. Staten Island stands boldly up on the far 
 side, a noble frame to so beautiful a picture as New- 
 York Bay. 
 
 The Avheels roll softly over the smooth causeway till 
 we enter the street of Gowanus, when again we quake 
 and shake for a long mile over execrable pavements, 
 poorly laid at first, and through daily use, grown daily 
 worse. For, O my friends, this is Death's highway. 
 Here, through almost every hour of the day, he holds 
 his black processions to Greenwood. And now we 
 reach the corner which leads to the Funeral Gate ; this 
 is the corner guarded with oysters, liquor and cakes, 
 on one side, and a thriving marble-cutting, monument- 
 making business, on the other. It is quite American. 
 One reflects with peculiar emotions upon these happy 
 national conjunctions of dissipation, commerce, and 
 death-rest. But, after all, is not this an unconscious 
 type of life? Is there not every day, if we would see 
 it, just as terrible a mingling of things sacred and pro- 
 fane ? And yet it is painful always and increasingly, 
 that there is not in the public mind enough of taste, 
 or of sentiment, or of superstition, to keep the sor- 
 did hucksters from shoving their bar and booth up to 
 the very cheeks of death and the grave ! Or, must the 
 last sounds that smite the dead man's coffin bear wit- 
 ness of the spirit, of that great, sordid den from which 
 he has departed and is departing? 
 
 Cut away, then, mason, as the mother follows hex- 
 babe to its peaceful bed; tempt her with your marble 
 
206 A RIDE TO FORT HAMILTON. 
 
 cherubs, set your lambs in inviting array, and coax her 
 sorrow to buy an angel, or a marble mourner ! How 
 grateful to a sorrowful heart to see that you have been 
 expecting him, that you have reckoned that it would 
 come to this soon ! You are all ready for a bargain, 
 just as the undertaker was before you. The undertaker 
 has his ostentatious coffins, his show-windows, brilliant 
 with decorated coffins, where a man is tempted to stop 
 and examine the latest fashion of a coffin — a perfect 
 gem of a thing. One can refresh himself at a hundred 
 places in the city with such agreeable sights, and have 
 explanations thrown in for nothing. If your vanity is 
 susceptible, it will be gratifying to know that a connois- 
 seur of coffins thinks and assures you that you would 
 make one of the most genteel corpses. Pah ! the clink 
 of hammers on marble is harsh discord. This money- 
 making out of sorrow and death ; this driving a trade 
 upon the occasions of others' misery, over griefs that 
 dissolve the very heart, how it adds an element of 
 horror to all the other pangs of bereavement ! 
 
 Neither will we turn in at the second entrance, 
 which is for company who come to gaze. It is 
 Death's ground. AJ1 over it he has set up his ban- 
 ners of Victory. What has the heart to do there ? 
 Why should we wish to see the weakness, the dis- 
 honor of our mortal bodies? Was it not enough to 
 pray with vain anguish for their life ; to struggle with 
 both oars against the stream that was sweeping them 
 clown toward death, and be yet borne downward ? 
 Was not the darkness, the stillness, the burden of lone- 
 
A RIDE TO FORT HAMILTON. 207 
 
 someness, the changed aspect of men and the world, the 
 thrusting in upon us by invisible power of huge and 
 dark distresses, enough? "Why should we go in to 
 weep afresh ? to wish that we were dead ? to hear the 
 trees sigh, and the song of birds changed, so that their 
 very glee is sad to the ear? How morbid is life when 
 the light is black,, and flowers are mockers, and leaves 
 are hoarse, and birds and every living thing and the 
 whole atmosphere are but a brooding of sorrow ! Then 
 let us hasten past the great bosom of Greenwood and 
 leave her alone to nurse the dead. 
 
 "We are for other scenes ; for now we come to a little 
 rustic church on the right, around which we turn and 
 hasten toward the water. The way is narrow, the road 
 smooth, the sides hedged with trees and bushes, and 
 many evergreens intermixed. We emerge. There lies 
 the narrowing Bay. Up through the Narrows come 
 the weary ships that have struggled bravely with the 
 ocean, and are come home to rest. They look grateful . 
 Their sails are loosely furled. They submit themselves 
 to steam-tugs with a resigned air, as if it was fit, after 
 so great a voyage, that they should rest from toil. 
 Down come ships from the city, some with sails and 
 some towed, but all eager, fresh painted, vigorous in 
 aspect, and ready to pitch into storm and spray. Little 
 boats skip about like insects. Sloops and schooners, 
 with snow-white sails, are busying themselves with just 
 as much self-respect and look of usefulness as if they 
 had the tunnage of the hugest ship ! 
 
 As we draw near the Fort, the lower bay opens. 
 
208 A RIDE TO FORT HAMILTON. 
 
 Shadows divide the light into sections along the sur- 
 face. The whole expanse is full of little undulations 
 that quiver and gleam, as if from beneath the water 
 myriads of fire-fish flashed their light. But all these 
 things we see the more thoroughly when we return. 
 
 Now the eye searches the horizon. There are the 
 faint ships dying out of sight, outward bound. That 
 speck yonder, far in the horizon, is not a ship — but a 
 mote such as dances before the eye strained to penetrate 
 an empty distance. Yet a little while, and it has the 
 semblance of a cloud. It gathers substance before you, 
 and, ere long, swells its airy proportions into the un- 
 doubted form of a ship carrying every bit of sail that 
 can be made to cling to the spars ! 
 
 We turn the carriage from the road ; we grow silent 
 and thoughtful ; we gaze and think. We fly away 
 from the eye, and see the world beyond the horizon ; 
 we hover over ships upon the equator, we outrun the 
 Indiaman, and double the Horn ; we dart away west- 
 ward and overlook that garden of islands, the Pacific ! 
 If one speaks, the charm breaks, the fairies fly, the 
 vision is gone, and we are back, again ! Now you may 
 see that noblest of all ocean sights, for beauty, a full- 
 rigged ship under full sail ! A man that can look upon 
 that and feel nothing <stir within him, no glow, or 
 imagination, or sense of beauty, may be sure that some- 
 thing important was left out in his making. 
 
 If you come down here a hundred times, it is never 
 twice alike. The diversity is endless. Its population 
 of sails changes ; every veering of the wind, every 
 
A RIDE TO FORT HAMILTON. 209 
 
 mood of the atmosphere, every mutation of clouds, 
 every changing hour of the sun, give new aspects. It 
 arouses in you an idea of infinity. As you look, the 
 serene ocean of ether and the tremulous ocean of water, 
 both and alike, give inspirations. You forget ; you let 
 go of care; you drop sorrows; all threads of thought 
 snap in the loom, and the shuttle carries a new yarn, 
 and the fabric stretches out a new pattern. God's truths, 
 that came near to fading out among the clang of men 
 and the fictions of the real, gain form and power. The 
 Invisible grows more real than the substantial. Nothing 
 seems so wild and extravagant as human life ; nothing 
 so sweet as flying away from it. The soul hears itself 
 called from the other world. Nor does it require that 
 supremest architect, the imagination, to fashion forth the 
 illustrious gate and the blessed City ; — not, if your ride 
 be at evening, and the sun sets enthroned among high- 
 piled and multitudinous clouds. Then the eye beholds 
 things unutterable to the tongue. 
 
 How restful is all this ! Irritableness and impatience 
 are gone. The woes and frets of life are not then hard 
 to be borne. To live for the things which occupy God ; 
 to lift up our fellow-men, through all the round of 
 human infirmities ; to build the substantial foundations 
 of life, to enrich the conditions of society, to inspire 
 better thoughts, to fashion a noble character, to stand 
 with Gospel trumpet and banner, and see flocking 
 toward it troops of regenerated men, who, ere long, 
 shall throng about our Lord, the Christ of God ; — these 
 seem, then, neither unsubstantial ambitions nor imprac- 
 i cable works At other times, among giddy excite 
 
210 A RIDE TO FORT HAMILTON. 
 
 merits, nothing seems so unsubstantial and visionary as 
 the impress of your labor upon human hearts. But 
 now, and here, nothing seems so real as that which 
 God gives the soul power to do upon the soul. 
 
 The tide that came down with us is returning. Ships 
 that dashed out toward the sea are slowly coming up 
 to their anchor, and swinging around toward the city. 
 Let us return, for we have flowers to gather along the 
 banks, and crimson leaves, and branches of cedar clus- 
 tered full of pale blue berries, and creeping strawberry 
 vines. We must clamber down, too, to the rocks, and 
 let the water lick our feet; and gather a few choice 
 pebbles, which our children, at least, will think pretty. 
 
 Slowly, and reluctantly, we travel homeward. We 
 approach that sweet and restful ground of Greenwood. 
 We fain now would draw near and enter in. It is no 
 longer repugnant. AVe have sacred rights there, and 
 anticipations of our own bodies slumbering there. That 
 which we have committed in its mortal part to the 
 earth, God will guard with sacred vigilance till the 
 Time comes. All the trees, rustling their leaves, are 
 prophesying to our ears of the trees of life ; and all the 
 birds and flowers are witnesses of God's guardianship. 
 "Shall not He, who careth for us, care for your chil- 
 dren, which were, and are, his own children?" they say. 
 "Yea," our hearts respond; "God hath them. No 
 black wolf of Death shall break into that fold to ravish 
 them again. God shall keep them till our coming." 
 And with faith and hope, and serene content, we wend 
 our way back to life and to work, now not burdensome, 
 or hopeless. 
 
XVI. 
 
 SIGHTS FROM MY WINDOW. 
 
 Upon what the window opens — whether upon a nar- 
 row, paved street of red houses, a back yard, a land- 
 scape, or upon such a noble sheet of water as always 
 awaits my eyes from my rear windows — will make a 
 great difference in the thoughts which spring up. It is 
 a sad thing to look upon the life of the street in a city. 
 The poor, the worse than poor, the degraded; unquiet 
 faces of toiling women ; ragged children ; the feeble 
 valetudinarian ; — all these are human beings as much 
 as the hearty, the prosperous, the gay and sanguine 
 throng among whom they mix. Health has its near 
 contrast ; poverty is the shadow of wealth ; and happi- 
 ness and gayety are only golden spots upon toil and 
 trouble — like sunbeams that reach through the gloom 
 of thick forests, and checker the ground with unaccus- 
 tomed light. 
 
 The problem of life and earthly destiny are painful, 
 and draw out the weary thoughts through many a maze 
 of questionings, from which they return without a 
 sheaf, or a flower, and more in doubt than ever. I do 
 not love the front windows. 
 
 But there lies New York Bay, spread wide abroad 
 from my back windows. I sit in my window, and my 
 thoughts fly over and bathe in the forever changing 
 water, just as I daily see the gulls clip down into it and 
 come up unwet. I walk on it, I hover over it ; I go all 
 
212 SIGHTS FROM MY WINDOW. 
 
 about its rim — beginning with the far Jersey shore, 
 right across the Battery down to Staten Island, and 
 round again to my window. I have great times with 
 those blue hills in the distance. They are moody fel- 
 lows. Sometimes they sulk, and darken themselves, 
 and hide in a smoky-obscure, so that whether they be 
 clouds, or mountains, or only a forest, you can scarcely 
 tell. Peradventure, the very next day they have dusted 
 themselves, and swept down all the films, and stand 
 right up to your eye, frank, apparent, and not ashamed 
 of your gaze. Always, the first thing is to see what 
 the hills are about. 
 
 To see the sun go down over those hills is a sight to 
 make one's soul cry out to God ! What else on earth 
 is done as the sun performs his work ? His highway 
 is without an obstruction. Where grow the vines, O 
 Vintner, from which stars hang and from whence light 
 is pressed ? He fills the whole heavens with light from 
 his clusters as if it were a goblet. He casts forth his 
 brightness upon the earth as if he were sowing it with 
 seed, and spreading it double-handed, profuse, inexhaus- 
 tible. In. the morning he sends sheaves of light, as 
 first-fruits of his coming, long before the sun-rising, and 
 on retiring he leaves his way full of fruits for the even- 
 ing to glean. Stars that come timidly out to see what 
 he does, catch the inspiration, and themselves grow 
 good and kind, sending forth a blessing to all that look 
 for their coming. 
 
 Those blue hills know all these things, and gambol 
 in the solar flood as dolphins in the deep — flushed with 
 
SIGHTS FROM MY WINDOW. 213 
 
 as many fabulous colors as they. Before the sun goes 
 down, you can hardly look at them, as the hazy atmos- 
 phere, struck through with intense gold, flames about 
 them, and only lets them be seen dimly as if standing 
 in a blazing furnace. 
 
 But they are not harmed. For when the sun gets 
 behind them, they stand forth against the sky, large, 
 full, bold, and unconsumed. They are the last sights 
 that die out of the heavens as night deepens and darkens. 
 
 Such sights as these do not rest in the eye alone. They 
 enter the soul. They arouse thoughts that heal heart- 
 sickness. Even before the light forsakes the horizon, 
 you are already cleansed of life's daily grime and dust. 
 That great round horizon ! — it is whatever your imagi- 
 nation requires it to be. It is a zone belting the earth. 
 Or it is a lucid rampart, a battlement of transparent 
 stones. Or it is an ocean full of purple islands, whose 
 near waters are crimson, but take orange hues as they 
 recede, then sapphire, amid white and gray, and are 
 carried up toward the vault with spangled blue and 
 black. Upon such a ground as this Nature sets up and 
 takes down her temple of clouds with wondrously facile 
 architecture. There is no footstep left along that hori- 
 zon, and no visible hand. But can any one look and 
 not know that there is an enshrined spirit there ? Is it 
 not from out of such passes as these that angels come 
 to guard our night watch ? From those cliffs are there 
 no slumberless eyes that gaze after us ? Behind them 
 dwell the unnumbered dead. Death ? Translated into 
 the heavenly tongue, that word means Life ! 
 
214 SIGHTS FEOM MY WINDOW. 
 
 Therefore there are some hours in which we feel 
 called to pierce these outguards of heaven, and see that 
 City beyond, from which the sun himself borrows his 
 light. For, the moon borrows of a greater borrower — 
 she, of the sun, and the sun of Grod ! "Why should we 
 stand upon this side the entrance, falling down, like 
 poor Mercy in Pilgrim's Progress, before the gate? 
 Thought may enter, faith does : but the body, like an 
 anchor, sticks fast to the earth, and brings back again 
 the reluctant soul to her moorings. 
 
 Ten thousand stars stand meekly now in the heavens. 
 Ten thousand sparkling stars are lit from beneath and 
 rock themselves silently in the trembling waters. Yon- 
 der, too, lies that great city with a thousand shining 
 eyes, couched down, but always watching, always mur- 
 muring, night and day, like some huge, muttering be- 
 hemoth, waiting for its prey in the reeds by the sea- 
 shore. 
 
 One who had lived within sound of the surf upon 
 Long Island south shore, would think, if he sat for the 
 first time by my window, in the night, and heard the 
 dull, low, muffled roar of the city, that he was close 
 upon the ocean. If I shut my eyes, I can imagine in 
 this sound the sullen plunge of Niagara as it came 
 through the night-air to my room in the hotel. Nor 
 does the resemblance cease with the sound. It is the 
 united roll of single wheels, crushing and jarring 
 through all the streets of the vast city, that form this 
 bass; just as it is but the singing of single drops in the 
 choir of waves that makes the thunder of the ocean. 
 
SIGHTS FROM MY WINDOW. 215 
 
 Morning, noon, night and midnight, you have still 
 this continuous roar ; distant and soft when the wind 
 is from the east; near, and rushing right toward you, 
 when the winds are from the west. But there is a rest 
 even for New York. From midnight of Saturday till 
 three o'clock of Monday morning, the Sabbath charms 
 and hallows the air. The city sleeps like a laboring 
 man after his toil. It is very impressive to stand upon 
 a radiant Sabbath morning and feel the hush and soli- 
 tude of a great motionless city ! Silence always speaks 
 of God. The gilded cross on the spire of Trinity, 
 catching the earliest glow, shines like a star, as if, like 
 that of Bethlehem, it would lead men to where the 
 Saviour dwelt. 
 
 But, on other days, nothing can quiet the great voice 
 of the city. All day and all night it sounds on. It is 
 the cry of grief, the hearty shout of labor, laughter, 
 rage and yells, sighs and whisperings, the tramp of 
 feet, the clang of bells, the roar of wheels, all mingled 
 into one deep vast sound, in which single sounds are 
 lost, like so many drops in the ocean. 
 
 Then, there are the deep, measured strokes of the 
 ponderous fire-bell, answered and echoed from bell to 
 bell, all over the city. Now and then a beam of light 
 shoots up upon the sky, and the city glows in its con- 
 flagration. Usually, fires would come and go unknown 
 except to lookers on, were it not for the bells. They 
 are smothered before they can break out. And all that 
 the bell tells you is that, somewhere, in that great som- 
 ber space, an army of men are fighting with flames. 
 
216 SIGHTS FROM MY WINDOW. 
 
 Then the bell ceases, and you know that the flame is 
 quenched, but the eye has seen nothing. 
 
 One sits at night and looks out upon that mysterious 
 space, marked to the eye only by lights, gleaming 
 singly, or in files, and imagines what scenes are trans- 
 piring before him. Should I pierce to that distant 
 lamp, I should land in a wedding group — for it shines 
 from a joyful mansion ! Should I overleap that one, 
 and go on to the chamber from which the next shines, 
 there a child is dying, a mother is wailing. Should I 
 strike through the shell to the living kernel, in one 
 place, crimes would spring up disclosed ; another line 
 would reveal vices of unimagined grossness. I say to 
 myself, as I look forth : — there, a mother sings her child 
 lo sleep ; there, a virgin draws angels to her prayers ; 
 there, a wife waits for footsteps, which once were music, 
 but which ere long will tread down her joys like 
 trampled flowers ; there, sorrow and want and despair 
 work; there, the poor and failing seamstress draws the 
 thread whose breaking will drop her into hopeless 
 shame. In that great shadow are now working griefs 
 and shames and joys, crimes and cruelties, virtues and 
 secret heroism. Yonder is patience, and faith, and hope ; 
 there are laughing faces, frivolous hearts, tearless joys. 
 There, too, are devout hearts, deep meditations, holy 
 aspirations. Good and evil angels fly athwart that rack 
 of smoke and vapor on errands of grace or mischief. 
 Up through that pathless air are passing every hour 
 scores of departing souls. And yet, I gaze upon the 
 certainty and perceive nothing! I know, too, that 
 
SIGHTS FROM MY WINDOW. 21 i 
 
 there are in the depths of yonder obscure city sharp 
 outcries, eager implorations, piercing shrieks, life-strug- 
 gles; — but I hear not a lisp of them ! I know that the 
 tremendous drama of life is playing in every act, from 
 beginning to exit, and I, the solitary spectator, sitting 
 here, can see nothing, hear nothing; yet assuredly I 
 know that it is all passing there ! 
 
 But there is an eye from which darkness hides no- 
 thing. There is an ear to which every whisper of the 
 Universe goes. Over the great city God watches. It 
 is neither tangled nor confused to Him. To his pierc- 
 ing gaze stone and brick are transparent as crystal. 
 Yea, the silence of the soul is audible. The secret in- 
 tents of the heart are before him. The Lord shall 
 watch the city, and when all other keepers fail, lie 
 shall keep it. 
 10 
 
XVII. 
 
 THE DEATH OF OUR ALMANAC. 
 1853. 
 
 He died without a groan. He seemed as vigorous, 
 only the day before, as the first day of his life ; and 
 held his own to the last moment. Were it not that 
 another child of the same family, bearing the same 
 general features, and apparently of the same temper, is 
 ready to take his place, we should be inconsolable. 
 For, no other friend have we to whom we can go for 
 advice, as we could to him. He was, doubtless, some- 
 what of an Oriental turn of mind, and spoke mostly in 
 figures. Yet his knowledge in various things was not 
 small and was exceedingly practical. He held converse 
 with the stars, and seemed to know what was going on 
 among all the planets. He had a habit' of looking after 
 the sun, and had become so well acquainted with his 
 favorite resorts that he could tell you what he would 
 do and where he could be found for years to come. 
 He knew all the coquettings of the sun and moon ; and 
 all the seasons at which the stars would play bo-peep 
 with each other ; and all the caprices of the moon, from 
 her slyest glance to the fullest gaze of her maidenly face. 
 
 Although his thoughts seemed much on high, he also 
 had much earthly lore. He was particularly fond of 
 looking after the tides ; he kept a calendar of various 
 
THE DEATH OF OUR ALMANAC. 219 
 
 events and days, and notched the whole year upon his 
 table. 
 
 "We seldom took in hand an important matter with- 
 out consulting him. We never found his judgment of 
 events wrong. And now, his face and sides bear the 
 marks of our regard. 
 
 These economical uses were but the " exterior knowl- 
 edges" of our departed friend. Nothing pleased him 
 better than, on some winter night, to be drawn forth, 
 and held before the glowing fire, and persuaded into a 
 spiritual converse. How many discourses has he thus 
 uttered ! Sometimes he would liken the year to human 
 life, and draw the analogies of each month to corre- 
 sponding periods in man's development and experience. 
 At other times, he would divide the world's life into 
 periods, and he always declared that the world was 
 revolving through a vast year of its own — a period as 
 long as the earth's whole existence — and that we were 
 living the world's great month of March, — full of bluster 
 and storm. You can no more know, said he once to us, 
 the glory of the world as it shall be, from what it has 
 been, than, from the scenes of February and March, you 
 can suspect the contents of June and October. 
 
 On one occasion, our Almanac seemed unusually 
 oracular. Laid on the shelf with several imaginative 
 authors, he seemed to have felt their influence. 
 
 We were sitting in our scarlet chair, our feet upborne 
 upon another, and pointed toward the fire, like artillery. 
 We passed into an " impressible" state. The wind was 
 rattling the windows on the back of the house, and 
 
220 THE DEATH OF OUR ALMANAC. 
 
 whistling wild tones through the crevices ; and, occa- 
 sionally, we could hear the tide below rushing past the 
 piers in the East Kiver, and splashing sullenly against 
 them. "Come," said we, "speak out. Under these 
 names, January, February, March, April, how much is 
 hid that the eye can not see ? Uncover the months and 
 interpret them." We touched the very chord. In a 
 low and sweet way, he began to speak as if he were a 
 harp, and as if the spirit of the year like a gentle wind 
 was breathing through it. 
 
 "January ! Darkness and light reign alike. Snow 
 is on the ground. Cold is in the air. The winter is 
 blossoming in frost-flowers. Why is the ground hid- 
 den ? Wiry is the earth white ? So hath God wiped 
 out the past ; so hath he spread the earth like an un- 
 written page, for a new year ! Old sounds are silent in 
 the forest, and in the air. ' Insects are dead, birds are 
 gone, leaves have perished, and all the foundations of 
 soil remain. Upon this lies, white and tranquil, the 
 emblem of newness and purity, the virgin robes of the 
 yet unstained year ! 
 
 " February ! The day gains upon the night. The 
 strife of heat and cold is scarce begun. The winds that 
 come from the desolate north wander through forests 
 of frost-cracking boughs, and shout in the air the wierd 
 cries of the northern bergs and ice-resounding oceans. 
 Yet, as the month wears on, the silent work begins, 
 though storms rage. The earth is hidden yet, but not 
 dead. The sun is drawing near. The storms cry out. 
 But the sun is not heard in all the heavens. Yet he 
 
THE DEATH OF OUR ALMANAC. 221 
 
 whispers words of deliverance into the ears of every 
 sleeping seed and root that lies beneath the snow. The 
 day opens, but the night shuts the earth with its frost- 
 lock. They strive together, but the Darkness and the 
 Cold are growing weaker. On some nights they forget 
 to work. 
 
 " March ! The conflict is more turbulent, but the 
 victory is gained. The world awakes. There come 
 voices from long-hidden birds. The smell of the soil is 
 in .the air. The sullen ice retreating from open field, 
 and all sunny places, has slunk to the north of every 
 fence and rock. The knolls and banks that face the 
 east or south sigh for release, and begin to lift up a 
 thousand tiny palms. 
 
 " April ! The singing month. Many voices of many 
 birds call for resurrection over the graves of flowers, 
 and they come forth. Go, see what they have lost. 
 "What have ice, and snow, and storm, done unto them ? 
 How did they fall into the earth, stripped and bare? 
 How do they come forth opening and glorified ? Is it, 
 then, so fearful a thing to lie in the grave ? 
 
 In its wild career, shaking and scourged of storms 
 through its orbit, the earth has scattered away no treas- 
 ures. The Hand that governs in April governed in 
 January. You have not lost what God has only hidden. 
 You lose nothing in struggle, in trial, in bitter distress. 
 If called to shed thy joys as trees their leaves ; if the 
 affections be driven back into the heart, as the life of 
 flowers to their roots, yet be patient. Thou shalt lift 
 up thy leaf-covered boughs again. Thou shalt shoot 
 
222 THE DEATH OF OUR ALMANAC. 
 
 forth from thy roots new flowers. Be patient. "Wait. 
 When it is February, April is not far off. Secretly the 
 plants love each other. 
 
 " May ! Flower-Month, perfect the harvests of 
 flowers ! Be not niggardly. Search out the cold and 
 resentful nooks that refused the sun casting back its 
 rays from disdainful ice, and plant flowers even there. 
 There is goodness in the worst. There is warmth in 
 the coldness. The silent, hopeful, unbreathing sun, 
 that will not fret or despond, but carries a placid brow 
 through the unwrinkled heavens, at length conquers 
 the very rocks, and lichens grow and inconspicuously 
 blossom. What shall not Time do, that carries in its 
 bosom Love ? 
 
 " June ! Best ! This is the year's bower. Sit down 
 within it. Wipe from thy brow the toil. The elements 
 are thy servants. The clews bring thee jewels. The 
 winds bring perfume. The earth shows thee all her 
 treasure. The forests sing to thee. The air is all 
 sweetness, as if all the angels of God had gone through 
 it, bearing spices homeward. The storms are but as 
 flocks of mighty birds that spread their wings and sing 
 in the high heaven ! Speak to God, now, and say, ' 0, 
 Father, where art thou ?' And out of every flower, 
 and tree, and silver pool, and twined thicket, a voice 
 will come, 'God is in me.' The earth cries to the 
 heavens, ' God is here.' And the heavens cry to the 
 earth, 'God is here.' The sea claims Him. The land 
 hath Him. His footsteps are upon the deep ! He sitteth 
 upon the Circle of the Earth ! 
 
THE DEATH OF OUR ALMANAC. 22o 
 
 " sunny joys of the sunny month, yet soft and 
 temperate, how soon will the eager months that come 
 burning from the equator, scorch you ! 
 
 " July ! Rouse up ! The temperate heats that filled 
 the air are raging forward to glow and overfill the earth 
 with hotness. Must it be thus in every thing, that June 
 shall rush toward August ? Or, is it not that there are 
 deep and unreached places for whose sake the probing 
 sun pierces down its glowing hands ? There is a deeper 
 work than June can perform. The earth shall drink 
 of the heat before she knows her nature or her strength. 
 Then shall she bring forth to the uttermost the treasures 
 of her bosom. For, there are things hidden far down, 
 and the deep things of life are not known till the fire 
 reveals them. 
 
 " August ! Eeign, thou Fire-Month ! What canst 
 thou do? Neither shalt thou destroy the earth, whom 
 frosts and ice could not destroy. The vines droop, the 
 trees stagger, the broad-palmed leaves give thee theii 
 moisture, and hang down. But every night the dew 
 pities them. Yet, there are flowers that look thee in 
 the eye, fierce Sun, all day long, and wink not. This 
 is the rejoicing month for joyful insects. If our unself- 
 ish eye would behold it, it is the most populous and 
 the happiest month. The herds plash in the sedge ; 
 fish seek the deeper pools ; forest-fowl lead out their 
 young ; the air is resonant of insect orchestras, each 
 one carrying his part in Nature's grand harmony. 
 August, thou art the ripeness of the year ! Thou art 
 the glowing center of the circle ! 
 
224 THE DEATH OF OUR ALMANAC. 
 
 " September ! There are thoughts in thy heart of 
 death. Thou art doing a secret work, and heaping up 
 treasures for another year. The unborn infant-buds 
 which thou art tending are more than all the living 
 leaves. Thy robes are luxuriant, but worn with soft- 
 ened -pride. More dear, less beautiful than June, thou 
 art the heart's month. Not till the heats of summer 
 are gone, while all its growths remain, do we know the 
 fullness of life. Thy hands are stretched out, and clasp 
 the glowing palm of August, and the fruit-smelling 
 hand of October. Thou dividest them asunder, and art 
 thyself molded of them both. 
 
 " October ! Orchard of the year 1 Bend thy boughs 
 to the earth, redolent of glowing fruit ! Ripened seeds 
 shake in their pods. Apples drop in the stillest hours. 
 Leaves begin to let go when no wind is out, and swing 
 in long waverings to the earth, which they touch with- 
 out sound, and lie looking up, till winds rake them, and 
 heap them in fence corners. When the gales come 
 through the trees, the yellow leaves trail, like sparks at 
 night behind the flying engine. The woods are thinner, 
 so that we can see the heavens plainer, as we lie dream- 
 ing on the yet warm moss by the singing spring. The 
 days are calm. The nights are tranquil. The year's 
 work is done. She walks in gorgeous apparel, looking 
 upon her long labor, and her serene eye saith, ' It is 
 good.' 
 
 " November ! Patient watcher, thou art asking to 
 lay down thy tasks. Life, to thee, now, is only a task 
 accomplished. In the night-time thou liest down, and 
 
THE DEATH OF OUR ALMANAC. 225 
 
 the messengers of winter deck thee with hoarfrosts for 
 thy burial. The morning looks upon thy jewels, and 
 they perish while it gazes. Wilt thou not come, O 
 December ? 
 
 " December ! Silently the month advances. There 
 is nothing to destroy, but much to bury. Bury, then, 
 thou snow, that slumberously fallest through the still 
 air, the hedge-rows of leaves ! Muffle thy cold wool 
 about the feet of shivering trees ! Bury all that the 
 year hath known, and let thy brilliant stars, that never 
 shine as they do in thy frostiest nights, behold the 
 work ! But know, month of destruction, that in thy 
 constellation is set that Star, whose rising is the sign, 
 for evermore, that there is life in death ! Thou art the 
 month of resurrection. In thee, the Christ came. Every 
 star, that looks down upon thy labor and toil of burial, 
 knows that all things shall come forth again. Storms 
 shall sob themselves to sleep. Silence shall find a 
 voice. Death shall live, Life shall rejoice, Winter shall 
 break forth and blossom into Spring, Spring shall put 
 on her glorious apparel and be called Summer. It is 
 life ! it is life ! through the whole year !" 
 
 We know not the temper of our Almanac for 1854. 
 As yet, it is taciturn. But we have hopes that in the 
 loss of our old friend, now silent and laid to rest, we 
 shall not be left without a companion, as wise, as genial, 
 and as instructive. 
 10* 
 
XVIII. 
 
 • FOG IN THE HAEBOR. 
 
 Late in the fall, especially if the season be mild, we 
 are visited by dense fogs. Not such as Londoners 
 boast, in which men lose their way in the streets at 
 mid-day, and shopmen light their gas — fogs that might 
 almost be weighed and measured, or shoveled like 
 snow. But we have fogs that serve every purpose of 
 a new country. 
 
 The gay and the idle do not venture out. Only ne- 
 cessity draws men forth on such a day. People of 
 leisure look listlessly out of the windows into the gray 
 haze. As they look, the mist seems to darken into a 
 form, and a man emerges, passes by, and disappears at 
 a few steps into the cloud that broods the street. You 
 hear footsteps across the way of invisible walkers. 
 There goes one with a decisive plat, plat, plat, but 
 not the shadowy film of a man can you see. A heavy 
 and muffled footfall comes next, a fat woman in India- 
 rubbers undoubtedly. A little child is coming now; 
 pit, pat, pit, pat ; it stops, perhaps to change the basket 
 to the other arm. Away go the sightless feet again, pit, 
 pat, quickening every step, and now running, clat, clat, 
 clat, clat, till they are brought up with a smothered 
 bunt and scuffle, telling you that somebody has been 
 run into. There will he a dolorous story when some- 
 body gets home, without doubt, and relates with great 
 
FOG IN THE HARBOR. • 227 
 
 indignation how a dirty beggar boy almost knocked 
 the breath out of him ! And the beggar boy will re- 
 gale his young friends with the amazement and vexa- 
 tion of the nicely dressed gentleman into whom he ran 
 headlong ! 
 
 Now and then, the mist holds up its skirts and the 
 street for a minute is cleared; but soon the robe drops 
 again, and the cloud trails its fleece along the very 
 ground. People come in with hat and coat seeded all 
 over with minute dew-drops. Everybody feels moist 
 and clammy. The horses that go past in the middle of 
 the streets are spectral, like outline pencil-drawings, not 
 yet filled up and shaded. 
 
 But there are grander things than these; for, like 
 every thing else in a pent up city, mist becomes insig- 
 'nificant and mean in the defiles of the streets. 
 
 Mists imbosom the whole great city yonder, which 
 grinds and roars from out of it like a huge factory con- 
 cealed by its own smoke. 
 
 Upon the bay it lays an embargo. Lighters and 
 row-boats creep timidly along the wharves. Ships, ready 
 for sea, lie still. Craft, great and small, hug the water 
 in silence, and dare not stir. • Ships and steamers come 
 up from the ocean to the mouth of the harbor and dare 
 not enter. Sea-sick and home-sick passengers sigh for 
 cleansing winds. Pilots are as blind as other men. 
 There are no stars, no sun, no headlands, no buoys. 
 Tow-boats, having given the outward-bound ships a 
 wide berth, are returning from their ponderous tasks, 
 and timidly creeping homeward with slow wheels, re- 
 
228 • FOG IN THE HARBOR. 
 
 volving at half-stroke, probing the channel with sound- 
 ing-lead, and often bewildered in their way. 
 
 It is the day for the Liverpool steamers. But they 
 do not leave their pier. No storm could stay them, no 
 violence of wind or force of wave. But this silent, 
 formless, motionless mist, without weight, without 
 power, lays its hands upon them and they are still. 
 There is rest upon all the bay. Ships that should be 
 on their way toward India, or the Horn, catch the re- 
 fluent tide upon their bows, and listen to its gurgling 
 as it splits and drives bubbling past on either side. 
 Labor slackens along the wharves. Idle gangs of men 
 may be heard in the distance, as if their laugh, were 
 just under your window. Noises are no longer swal- 
 lowed up in a general clangor, but have individuality. 
 A plank falls, and resounds like the explosion of a 
 cannon. A shout rings through the air like a weird 
 and ghostly thing. These sounds in the air, in broad 
 daylight, made by persons near at hand, but invisible, 
 produce a strange effect upon you. 
 
 Ferry-boats alone are doomed to ply their wonted 
 tasks. Two great cities .like New York and Brooklyn, 
 which are the first and third in size in the Union, can 
 not afford to have this liquid street stopped up by a 
 fog. The boats must grope and creep. It is not among 
 the least of New York sights to take a fog-trip upon a 
 ferry-boat. The boats are loaded down with passengers 
 who huddle together like sheep in a cold rain. The 
 boat pushes boldly out, but is lost before it gets its 
 length from the slip. The pilot knows the tide ; he 
 
FOG IN THE HARBOR. 229 
 
 knows what crafts are anchored in the stream ; but he 
 does not know how the tide is placing him in reference 
 to them. The hands are all on the alert. The pilots 
 and extra officers are on the top, peering and watching, 
 and seeking, like metaphysicians, to penetrate the misty- 
 obscure. "There she is," suddenly cries one, "stop 
 her, back her." There is a rumbling down below, as 
 the engineer stops and reverses the engine. The white 
 foam begins to sweep past the bow, showing that the 
 wheels are revolving in an opposite direction. By this 
 time, common eyes can see a spectral ship, with filmy 
 masts, looming up right in the track of the boat. We 
 are close upon her before the headway is checked, and 
 we begin to draw off. Taking a new start, the boat 
 aims again with her ears for the slip, and soon the gray 
 masts of other craft shoot up from out of the white 
 mist-bank. Again the engine stops. We creep up 
 cautiously. We can hear voices, but see no forms. 
 We have run two piers too far up, and must back out; 
 then we run as far below; we must back again, and 
 creep stealthily along, and at length we hit the mark. 
 
 In the night, when dense fogs prevail, the whole 
 night long you hear the signal-bells tolling, and the 
 steam-whistles of the boats calling to each other shrilly, 
 like whistling quails in a forest. Now and then a sin- 
 gle stroke upon a large triangle used upon the boats, tells 
 you that they are signaling each other. Our dwelling, 
 on the Heights, brings these night sounds drearily up to 
 us. One can hardly help imagining that these are 
 living beings, wandering about in the harbor, crying 
 
230 FOG IN THE HARBOR. 
 
 out to each other with wild implorations, all night, as 
 if they were lost and called for help. Sometimes a 
 trip, which usually requires five minutes, will be moro 
 than an hour long, and boats have sometimes got en- 
 tirely lost, and landed their passengers half a mile from 
 the proper place. One can not be familiar with such 
 scenes without many suggestions of moral analogy. 
 How many men of great strength and power are made 
 helpless by ignorance, and spend their time in running 
 in toward, and backing out from, their aims ; how many 
 men reason upon great questions of the Past and of the 
 Future, in a mist as profound as that which bewilders 
 these pilots, and find themselves running due south 
 when they thought they were going north ! 
 
 How nearly do all of us, in some respects, resemble 
 these befogged coursers ! The stream of life hides its 
 further bank. We steer across it, scarcely knowing 
 where we go. If the vapor lifts occasionally, to give 
 an assurance to our faith, it soon lets down its robe 
 again, and we run drowsily and unseeing upon the 
 shores. 
 
XIX. 
 
 THE MORALS OF FISHING. 
 
 June 22, 1854. 
 
 The following note came to us some weeks ago. But 
 so grave a matter could not be digested as hastily as 
 if it were a mere state paper or the programme of a 
 revolution. It required, and has received, judicious 
 reflection. 
 
 "New York, May 31, 1854. 
 
 "Respected Sir: — I was arguing against fishing, for pleasure, with 
 some young men, saying that they (fishes) were permitted to be 
 caught only for food, and that they ought to have the liberty of the 
 sea as much as they (the young men) the road, and further declared 
 it kidnapping to catch them ; — when they cited your example of 
 catching fish. I could say not one word. What could I say against 
 such authority ? 
 
 " Sorrowfully, for the fishes, but taking this occasion to express my 
 affection for you, I am, etc." 
 
 The writer argues against fishing for only pleasure. 
 Of course, he exonerates all fishermen who fish for the 
 New York and Boston markets, all fishermen on the 
 British Coast and off Newfoundland, since they can 
 hardly be presumed to fish for " pleasure." To stand 
 for hours hauling up cod for market is sport nearly 
 equal to drawing water at a fire out of a well fifty feet 
 deep, with an old-fashioned well-sweep, or with a frozen 
 rope. We presume, however, that when one is catch- 
 ing fish under a sense of duty, there will be no sin if 
 he takes pleasure in it. 
 
232 THE MORALS OF FISHING. 
 
 Neither will any blame attach to those luckless wights 
 who have what is termed " fisherman's luck," which 
 may be explained to be a whole day's tramp, in dismal 
 weather, with very wet clothes, after fish that won't 
 bite, with tackling that seems predetermined to vex 
 you by breaking or snarling ; a state of things which 
 hunger and weariness seldom mend. In a hot day, 
 after a misty morning has cleared up, and let the sun 
 out to do his best, this experience may be varied by 
 sitting in a boat upon a lake, sunk down between so 
 many hills that not a breath of wind ever gets down to 
 it. If you are a man of piscatory perseverance, you 
 can philosophize upon the probable sensations of mar- 
 tyrs with whom slow fires are set to reason, for instance, 
 upon the folly of dissent and heresy. No breadth of 
 straw-brim can save you from the upward glances of 
 the sun reflected from the water. Hands and wrists, 
 face and neck, will furnish memorials of the sincerity 
 of your pursuit. But, after such experience, is the man 
 to have superadded the charge of inhumanity ? Is 
 it possible to treat a fish worse than he is treating 
 himself? 
 
 These considerations aside, we will answer the ques- 
 tion as it is usually put by the non-fishing philanthro- 
 pist. It is not right to make up our enjoyment out of 
 the suffering of any creature. If the pleasure of hunt- 
 ing or of fishing were in the excitement furnished by 
 the creatures suffering, then it could no more be justi- 
 fied than any other form of torturing, as practiced 
 hitherto, upon moral principles, for the good of men's 
 
THE MORALS OF FISHING. 233 
 
 souls. A benevolent man should find no pleasure in 
 mere animal suffering. 
 
 But Isaac Walton would not accept the case thus put, 
 as truly representing the facts. He would say, and all 
 true sportsmen are scrupulously at agreement with him, 
 that no man should take a single fish, or bag a single 
 bird, beyond the number which can be used for food by 
 himself or his friends. To fish all day in solitary lakes, 
 or in the streams of the wilderness, when it is certain 
 that not one in twenty of the trout taken can be used, 
 is not any more a violation of humanity than it is of 
 the public sentiment of all true sportsmen. A man who 
 would stand at a pigeon-roost and fire by the hour into 
 the dense mass of fluttering birds, only to kill them, is 
 a butcher and a brute. We shall let him off from the 
 severity of this sentence only by a confession that he is 
 a fool, expressed by that universal formula of folly, " I 
 did it without thinking." 11 
 
 Nothing is more clearly received as common-law 
 among gentlemen, than that the suffering of the victim 
 is not to be allowed to give pleasure. It is to be 
 abridged in every way. And prolonged suffering, or 
 needless suffering, is a fundamental violation of good 
 rules. We fear that we must make an exception against 
 those who follow hare or fox hunting. 
 
 The true source of enjoyment in field-sports is to be 
 found in the exertion of one's own faculties, and espe- 
 cially in such a carriage of one's self as to be superior 
 in sagacity and caution to the most wary and sharp- 
 sighted of creatures. It is a contest between instinct 
 
234 THE MORALS OF FISHING. 
 
 and reason. And reason has, often, little to be proud 
 of in the result. 
 
 But, aside from the pleasure which arises in connec- 
 tion with seeking or taking one's prey, we suspect that 
 the collateral enjoyments amount, often, to a greater 
 sum than all the rest. The early rising, the freshness 
 of those morning hours preceding the sun, which few 
 anti-piscatory critics know anything about ; that won- 
 drous early-morning singing of birds, compared to which 
 all after-day songs are mere ejaculations ; — -for, such is 
 the tumult and superabundance of sweet noise soon after 
 four o'clock in summer mornings, that one would think 
 that, if ever^ dew-drop were a musical note, and the 
 birds had drank them all, and were deliciously exhaling 
 each drop as a silvery sound, they could not have been 
 more multitudinous or delicious. Then, there is that 
 incomparable sense of freedom which one has in remote 
 fields, in forests, and along the streams. His heart, 
 trained in life to play by jets, like an artificial fountain, 
 to flow along the rigid banks of prescribed custom, 
 seems, as he wanders along the streams, to resume its 
 own liberty, and like a meadow-brook, to wind and 
 turn, amid flowers and fringing shrubs, at its own un- 
 molested pleasure. 
 
 One who believes that God made the world, and clearly 
 developed to us his own tastes and thoughts in the mak- 
 ing, can hot express what feelings those are which speak 
 music through his heart, in solitary communions with 
 Nature. Nature becomes to the soul a perpetual letter 
 from God, freshlj written every day and each hour. 
 
THE MORALS OF FISHING. 235 
 
 A little plant, growing in silent simplicity in some 
 covert spot, or looking down from out of a rift in some 
 rock uplifted high above his reach or climbing — what 
 has it said to him, that he stops, and gazes as if he saw 
 more than material forms ? What is that rush of feeling 
 in his heart, and that strange opening up of thoughts, 
 as if a revelation had been made to him ? Who, that 
 has only a literal eye, could see anything but that 
 solitary flower casting a linear shadow on the side of 
 the gray rock ? — a shadow that loves to quiver, and nod, 
 and dance, to every step which the wind-blown flower 
 takes ? But this floral preacher up in that pulpit has 
 many a time preached tears into my eyes, and told me 
 more than L was ever able to tell again. 
 
 Indeed, in many and many a tramp, the best sporting 
 has been done on my back. Flat under a tree I lay, 
 a vast Brobdignag, upon whom grasshoppers mounted, 
 and glossy crickets crept, harmless and unharmed, with 
 evident speculation upon what such a phenomenon 
 could portend. Along the stems creep aspiring ants, 
 searching with fiery zeal for no one can even guess 
 what. They race up that they may race down again. 
 They are full of mysterious signs to each other. They 
 knock heads, touch antennae, and then off they rush 
 fuller of minute zeal than ever. 
 
 The blue-jay is in the tree above you. The wood- 
 pecker screws round and round the trunk, hammering 
 at every place like an auscult-doctor sounding a pa 
 tient's lungs. Little birds fly in and out gibbering to 
 each other in sweet detached sentences, confidentially 
 
236 THE MORALS OF FISHING. 
 
 talking over their family secrets, and expressing those 
 delicate sentiments which one never speaks except in 
 a whisper, and in twilight. When you rise, the birds 
 flutter and fly, and clouds of insects flash off from you 
 like sparks from a fire when a log rolls over. 
 
 The brook that gurgles past the tree, feeding its roots, 
 and taking its pay in summer shadows, varied every 
 hour, receives a portion of the off-jumping fry. For a 
 grasshopper, unlike a bomb, goes off without calcula- 
 ting where it shall fall. Far off its coming shines. 
 Before it had even touched the water, that bold trout 
 sprung sparkling from the surface and sunk as soon, 
 leaving only a few bubbles to float away. There ! if 
 the trout has a right to his grasshopper, have I not a 
 right to the trout ? I'll have him ! After several 
 throws, I find that it takes two to make a bargain. 
 
 At length one must go home. I never turn from the 
 silence of the underbrush, or the solitude of the fields, 
 or the rustlings of the forest, without a certain sadness 
 as if I were going away from friends. 
 
 But we shall be deemed superficial if we leave it to 
 be believed that this is a fair exposure of the joys of 
 fishing. What have we said of mountain brooks, and 
 the grandeur of dark gorges, where one is well nigh in 
 a trance, and almost forgets to drop his bait ; or does it 
 mechanically, and draws forth a fish as if it were a very 
 solemn deed. What have we said of sea-fishing, a snug 
 boat, a smart breeze, a long and strong line ending with 
 a squid. We sweep along the flashing waters as if ra- 
 cing. A blue-fish strikes the glittering, whirling squid, 
 
THE MORALS OF FISHING. 237 
 
 with a stroke that sends electricity along the line into 
 the hands of him that holds it, as you would believe if 
 you saw the sprightliness with which he hauls in his 
 line. Back and forth you sweep the waters, your boat 
 apparently as much alive as you are, and enjoying as 
 much ! 
 
 Then you lie under some fragment of a boat, or upon 
 some dry seaweeds, while your distant dinner is sput- 
 tering and reeking in the kitchen of the rude hotel, 
 used only in summer, by people seeking health or 
 amusement, in out-of-the-way fishing places. O, how 
 the heavens swell roundly out, and lift themselves up, 
 with a wild attraction, that makes you gasp, as one 
 sighs and gasps who is deeply thinking of some pro- 
 found horror! The sea is running out in fiery lines, 
 crossed by the sun, on every wave-swell ; white sails lie 
 cloudily against the distant horizon, and dim and spec- 
 tre-like, as they are, how they open the whole world of 
 islands and continents to the imagination, whence they 
 come, or whither they are going. But the dinner-horn 
 sounds, and sea, heavens, islands and continents, ships 
 with homesick voyagers, sink down like a dream in the 
 morning, and we make haste to the universally re- 
 spected duty of eating. There is no prejudice against 
 that. Sober men, careful, earnest men, yea, all of them 
 eat, and as zealously as the flippant and the careless-. 
 
 Then comes the going down of the sun. The boat puts 
 us across to the main land. The wind has gone down. 
 The surface is clear and level. Shadows from the land 
 tall far over on the bay, and the light that yet plays 
 
238 THE MORALS OF FISHING. 
 
 upon the surface is ruddy and mellow. The oar is 
 thoughtful, and dips and rises gently. At each pull the 
 oarsmen pause, and musical drops, through which the 
 light flashes, trickle back to the deep whence they had 
 risen. Each drop is a sphere, and in each sphere 
 might have arisen the mother of beauty, liquid Venus 
 Anadyomene. And so came we into life, and. so sink 
 away from it, into the great Eternal Sea. 
 
 The day is over. The cars have received us. Our 
 thoughts have dismissed all their fanciful forms. AVe 
 talk of failures, of brilliant strokes of policy, of banks, 
 and ships, of what this man is worth, and what his 
 neighbor was worth just before he became worth no- 
 thing. In short, we are sensible again ; fit to plod in 
 the streets, so as to have good, sound, prudent men call 
 us a safe and discreet man ! 
 
 But to return to our correspondent. Will he be 
 pleased to say to all disputants who quote our example, 
 that we never fish except with a remote culinary inspi- 
 ration ; that we never catch more than will supply the 
 reasonable wants of the family, and that, too often, un- 
 fortunately, we stop far short of that. 
 
 The gentle gurgling of the brook, what is it to a 
 thoroughly practical man but a remembrancer of the 
 savory simmering of the frying-pan? It couples the 
 practical and domestic end of fishing with the physical 
 and poetic excitement of the operatic:: ' Alas ! that a 
 world should be so barbarous as to condemn piscatory 
 sports so long as they contribute to exercise taste, senti- 
 ment, and moral enjoyment; and that all objection 
 
THE MORALS OF FISHING. 239 
 
 ceases when a man can prove that he labored for his 
 mouth alone. It is all right, if it was eating that he 
 had in mind. The frying-pan is in universal favor. 
 This is the modern image that fell down from heaven, 
 which all men hold in reverence ! 
 
 Inform your friends, if you please, that our skill in 
 fishing is principally displayed upon paper ; and that 
 our excursions usually turn out to be a little of fishing, 
 a good deal of wandering dreamily about, yet more of 
 lying under trees, or of being perched up in some notch 
 of a rock, or of silent sittings on the edge of ravines 
 and trumpeting waterfalls. And, finally, inform them 
 that we are guiltless of shooting, and seldom feel an im- 
 pulse to explode powder, except when we see respectable 
 city stupidities killing little singing-birds. We some- 
 times feel an inclination then to shoot the unmannerly 
 fowler. No gentleman would shoot a singing-bird. 
 And now, if our correspondent's friends will, in spite 
 of his excellent dissuasions, still go a-fishing, our only 
 wish is that after two seasons of fishing they may do 
 what we have not done — catch so many fish as would, 
 if sold at a fair price, pay the expense of their tackle. 
 
XX. 
 
 THE WANDERINGS OF A STAR. 
 
 Jult 6, 1854. 
 
 We reached Albany at 9 o'clock, and waited, incon- 
 veniently, till half-past ten, for the night express-train 
 to start. We took a lonely walk along the streets, saw 
 men as if they had been trees, looked upon glittering 
 windows as a vain show, and speculated upon the sen- 
 sations of a man in the midst of all the impulses of 
 busy life but not affected by them, walking unmoved 
 amid things which, move others. 
 
 As the hour drew near for starting, we hastened back 
 to the cars, took possession of the whole seat, meditat- 
 ing methods of extracting sleep out of a long night- 
 ride. Every one seemed doing the same thing, namely, 
 keeping people out of their seat. The cars on the 
 night line were far from comfortable. There was no 
 such amplitude of space as one gets upon the Erie 
 road, no soft-embracing backs, enticing the spine and 
 its terminal knob to rest; but narrow, pent-up seats, 
 and backs invented to fit the wrong place. After all 
 our goings out and comings in, we publicly declare it 
 to be our faith, unbought by free ticket, or any privi- 
 lege whatever, that the good broad-gauge Erie road is 
 the only one on which comfort is indigenous. On all 
 others it is a mere imitation. But, of narrow gauges, 
 first in comfort is the Hudson River, on an express- 
 
THE WANDERINGS OF A STAR. 241 
 
 train ; for, the speed and the river prospect excite yon 
 beyond the notice of inconvenience. But to return. 
 
 We left Albany at half-past ten o'clock. At about 
 eleven, the hum of conversation died away. Every one 
 was busy with the unnatural problem of sleep. In the 
 cars, stretching one's self out ' for . balmy sleep, means, 
 curling one's self up like a cat in a corner. Short limbs 
 are a luxury when a man sleeps by the square inch. 
 First, you lie down by the right side, against the window, 
 till a stitch in your side, worming its way through }^our 
 uneasy dream, like an awl, leads' you to reverse your 
 position. As yon- lean on the inside end of your seat, 
 the conductor knocks your hat off, or uses your head as 
 a support to his steps as he sways along the rocking 
 passage. At length, with a groan which expresses the 
 very feeling of- every bone and muscle and individual 
 organ in your body, you try to sit upright, and to sleep 
 erect. But erect sleep is perilous, even when it is pos- 
 sible. You nod and pitch, you collapse and condense, 
 and finally settle down in a promiscuous heap, wishing 
 that you were a squirrel, or a kitten, and curiously re- 
 membering dogs that could convolute on a mat, and 
 birds that could tuck their head under their wings, and 
 draw their feet and legs up under their feathers. O ! 
 that I were round like a marble, and could be rid of 
 protruding members ! But such slumberous philosophy 
 and somnolent yearnings for circular shapes die out as 
 you sink again into a lethargy, until the scream of the 
 whistle, the grinding of the brakes, the concussions and 
 jerks, arouse you to the fact that you are stopping to 
 11 
 
242 THE WANDERINGS OF A STAR. 
 
 wood and water, and that some surely insane person 
 has come in at this station, and wishes a part of your 
 seat ! " No, sir ! I am a sovereign squatter here. I 
 claim a pre-emption right. I have staked off this seat, 
 and after all that I have suffered, I shall not give it up 
 to any body." So the wheezing obesity, at least 300 
 avoirdupois, goes on. A faint smile plays on my lips 
 to think what a time somebody will have who takes 
 that continent of flesh into his seat ; for, in his despair, 
 he will soon plunge into somebody's seat, like an over- 
 setting load of hay. But the incomers walk disconso- 
 lately along, examining each side for a spot. It is 
 quite easy to defend yourself against the pert and 
 knowing. But that poor, pale, faint-looking woman, 
 carrying a sleeping babe, that fears to disturb any one, 
 — " Here, madam, sit down here — room enough — sit 
 down, if you please." "But- 1 fear, sir, I shall, with 
 my babe — " " No, madam — no trouble — not if there 
 were ten more children." Poor little thing, it sleeps 
 amidst the night, and all this inconvenience and weari- 
 ness of trouble, as a sea-bird sleeps in some grassy cove, 
 on the swing of the black waters. By and by, you shall 
 not sleep so. You shall grow up to bear your own 
 troubles, and the storms that blow shall not be broken 
 by a mother's bosom, but strike right into your own. 
 You offer a part of your, shawl ; you insist that the 
 child shall be divided, or the care of it, and by a quiet 
 way you gradually get the little fellow wholly into your 
 own lap, and press him to your heart, and drop down 
 tears on him, God knows why ! How it rests you to 
 
THE WANDERINGS OF A STAR. 243 
 
 feel his sweet burdensomeness. The mother knows hei 
 child's safety, and drops asleep. It is a face with which 
 sorrow has been busy. Perhaps she seeks her father's 
 house again, from the grave of a buried husband. Or 
 she may have gone eager to meet her young returning 
 husband, from Californian adventure, only to learn that 
 he died on the Isthmus — that mountain graveyard of 
 so many thousands. But you ask no questions. About 
 three of the morning she leaves. You carry the child, 
 and give it to her ; and as she turns and disappears into 
 the somber-gray night, you hear the little fellow's voice 
 chirruping, like a bird's startled note, as it dreams in 
 the still night, and speaks in its sleep from out of leaves 
 and darkness. 
 
 You return, and look for a moment at the grotesque 
 appearance of a car fall of sleeping and sleepless 
 wretches. What persuasion could induce that pompous 
 little man, bald-headed, round-faced, and rubicund, to 
 put himself into such a ludicrous attitude, if he were 
 awake ? His feet sprawled forth, his body half sunk 
 sideways, his head lolling back, his mouth wide open 
 like a cannon ! His good dame by his side looks like 
 a bag of clothes, thrown loosely into a corner till the 
 next morning. There sits a sandy-haired man, thin- 
 visaged, keen-eyed, as still as if he were asleep, but as 
 wide awake and perpendicular as if he were a light- 
 house. By contrast everybody looks ten times sleepier 
 than before, after you have looked at him. At length, 
 the long nightmare wears itself out. Color begins to 
 come into the cheeks of the morning. The air smells 
 
244 THE WANDERINGS OF A STAR. 
 
 fresher. Birds are seen-, and might be heard, if the 
 huge Bird of Speed that whirls you along were not so 
 noisy. 
 
 But, while thus speeding along, you suddenly cheek 
 your headway, stop, switch off upon a side-track : the 
 conductor walks through the cars, " Engine has burst a 
 flue ; stop here one hour, till we can get another from 
 Rochester." Every body starts up, the cars swarm like 
 bee-hives in a hot day, every body goes out and looks 
 at the engine, and the grand fellow stands patiently to 
 be looked at. I feel like taking off my hat in the pres- 
 ence of these monarchs of the road. It is at Palmyra. 
 The village is half a mile back. I question the con- 
 ductor, look at my watch, and march off in search of a 
 breakfast. The first tavern has a specimen on the steps 
 that discourages me ; go on to the second, new, coldly 
 clean, and desolate. Nothing is round, soft, cosy; the 
 angles are sharp as razors ; the colors are cold, and every 
 thing is proper and stiff. They promise to get me a hasty 
 breakfast. Three young fellows slyly slip into a room 
 below, the landlord following. Hear a churning in the 
 tumblers. They come up wiping their mouths, and look- 
 ing happy. Table ready, cold meat left from yesterday, 
 tasted it, and knew why they left it. Good tea, good but- 
 ter and bread, and that is good enough for any body. Felt 
 better. Angles not quite so sharp after all. The colors 
 of the house warmed up a little. Walked back. Thanked 
 the birds, thanked the grass, the bushes, and the river. 
 Thanked the trees and the clouds. Sat down under the 
 bridge and thanked God. Saw the waters move softly by. 
 
THE WANDERINGS OF A STAR. 245 
 
 Felt alone. Wished I had company. Concluded that 
 nothing could be seen properly with less than four eyes. 
 The willows swayed to the moving stream. The stream 
 sped noiselessly over the rocky bottom. My thoughts 
 swayed like the willow, and my feelings glided like the 
 stream. At last the engine came. Had to wait yet for 
 another train to pass, as there was but a single track. 
 Off we went at freight-train speed. Being out of 
 time, we were irregular, and had to wait for every thing 
 on the road. There stood the grand express train, and 
 the vast engine, waiting for freight trains and cattle 
 trains, and peddling way trains to go by, just as many 
 a noble man stands upon the path of life, silent and 
 waiting, until the cumbrous baggage of life clears the 
 track and lets him m. At length, at about two o'clock, 
 we reached Buffalo, tired, dusty, sweaty, and eminently 
 patient. Amid sentiments, high-soaring thoughts, and 
 back-reaching remembrances and affections, there arose 
 stern thoughts of dinner. These appetites are very 
 humiliating weaknesses. That our grace depends so 
 largely upon animal conditions is not quite flattering to 
 those who are hyper-spiritual. 
 
 At half-past three we start for Erie, thinking, as we 
 roared along the borders of the lake, towards Ohio, of 
 the days of our childhood, when emigration first began, 
 towards this, then, new wilderness. We thought of 
 the terror with which our childish eyes saw the long 
 string of movers' wagons filing through Litchfield, 
 " going to Ohio," and of our oft retreat under the bed, 
 and into dark cupboards, that we might not be pilfered 
 
246 THE WANDERINGS OF. A STAR. 
 
 and carried off to the West. In those days the church 
 had special meetings when a family of their number 
 was going to Ohio. The town took notice of their de- 
 parture. Farewells were uttered as if the separation 
 were eternal. The journey was one of months. Now , 
 Clcaveland is as near to Albany, as then Litchfield was 
 to Ilartford or New Ilavcn. 
 
 Arrived at Erie, we put up at Brown's, but true to 
 her reputation, Erie served us with a mob that night. 
 Learning that several railroad men were staying at the 
 hotel, the rioters gathered, with hootings and deceased 
 eggs. But the room which they pelted proved to be 
 the lodging of a gentleman from St. Louis, who was 
 stopping over night with a sick wife. The landlord 
 seemed greatly stirred, and said that he had never taken 
 sides before in any of these difficulties, but he knew 
 hereafter which side he was on. If he and other good 
 citizens had known which side they were on much ear- 
 lier, there would have soon been but one side to it. We 
 left for Meadville, Pennsylvania, before breakfast, in a 
 buggy. Pleasant road, fine weather, and a poor horse. 
 We wound around among the Pennsylvanian hills, ad- 
 miring the fertile farms, and feeling the force of the 
 trees, and never before so much impressed with the 
 endless resources of beauty to be found in mere foliage. 
 The various hues of green in nature are so many and 
 so shaded and contrasted, that a carpet might be woven 
 of green alone, and yet range through a long scale al- 
 most from black to white. 
 
 About half way upon our journey, we struck upon 
 
THE WANDERINGS OF A STAR. 247 
 
 the edge of one of those ponds of the hill-country full 
 of pickerels and white lilies. The first we could not 
 see. But the last flittered like stars all. over the edges 
 of the pond. We were somewhat in haste. But what 
 was time compared with lilies? There they lay hold- 
 ing up their exquisite cups — silver without and gold 
 within — the gold embossed in white, and the white set 
 in green. We grew zealous. But they were some- 
 what out of reach. The water was full of trunks of 
 trees, roots, and decaying branches. The trunks would 
 not bear up our weight. We stepped, and drew back. 
 We ventured on to this larger log, and ventured off 
 again in half the time. Difficulty whetted determination. 
 AVe became lily-enthusiastic. We got rails down to 
 the edge of the water, and by laying them across 
 several contiguous logs, hoped their united floating 
 power would buoy us up. Alas! no. We had no 
 thought before of our weight in life. We were satisfied 
 too, that walking on water was a thing most easily done 
 in imagination; and if done well, to be tried in January 
 rather than June. Having neither faith enough, nor . 
 any miracle, we were at our wits' end, and became 
 more firmly convinced, every moment that it was our 
 duty to have those pond-lilies ; all the more, because it 
 seemed impossible, and because we were in a hurry and 
 could not well afford the time necessary. Now in all 
 such cases fanaticism is the only match for impossibility, 
 and we were seized with floral fanaticism. 
 
 We pulled down logs, we packed, more rails, we 
 searched out more practicable places, we engineered, 
 
248 THE WANDERINGS OF A STAR. 
 
 and by using a long pole, to relieve the trembling rails 
 and sub-incumbent logs, of part of our weight, we 
 reached the fleet of snowy blossoms, no longer to waste 
 their sweetness on the aqueous air. Each flower 
 meekly said, "Take me." With divided effort, to 
 keep our trembling feet, to hold fast our pole slowly 
 sinking in the ooze, we stooped over the darlings and 
 one by one drew up the long stems, snapped by gentle 
 pulling, till we had gathered a store of broadly open 
 flowers, perfect and full ; another abundance of half 
 open flowers, beautiful, and to be more so ; and yet an- 
 other multitude of buds, that are but the promises that 
 flowers make. As we drove on, we found a small boat 
 lying near the edge, from which we could have gathered 
 easily our treasures. But we were agreed that we would 
 not have touched the boat even if we had known its 
 presence, and that the sweet faces that we were bearing 
 off were worth all the enterprise which we had put 
 forth. Our errand was to Meadville Theological Semi- 
 nary, whose president, Dr. Stebbins, was a college class- 
 "mate. A pleasant day we had, and early departed for 
 our home journey. 
 
 Thursday night saw us safely arrived at Painesville, 
 Ohio, and in the hospitable mansion of our friend and 
 parishioner, Mr. Charles Avery, who has taken unto 
 himself this beautiful spot as a summer resort. And 
 surely, a more quiet, tree-singing, restful spot could not 
 well be found. The grounds are full of trees, the 
 trees full of birds, and we that walk under them full 
 of joj and gentle remembrances and yearnings. The 
 
THE WANDERINGS OF A STAR. 249 
 
 house itself is a model of an old twenty- inch walled 
 house, with deep windows, large rooms, and a hall 
 through which a regiment of soldiers might march 
 without touching. One wishes a summer-house to 
 have a certain largeness — a sense of space, a feeling as 
 if you lived in an out-of-doors with a roof on. And 
 under these rustling, sighing leaves, where the light 
 comes and goes to the opening and shutting of a thou- 
 sand boughs, among which the wind wanders, we do 
 now write, and cease from writing, this prolix epistle. 
 11* 
 
XXI. 
 
 BOOK-STORES, BOOKS. 
 
 Mat 25. 
 
 Nothing marks the increasing wealth of our times 
 and the growth of the public mind toward refinement 
 more than the demand for books. Within ten years 
 the sale of common books has increased probably two 
 hundred per cent., and it is daily increasing. But the 
 sale of expensive works, and of library-editions of stand- 
 ard authors in costly bindings, is yet more noticeable. 
 Ten years ago, such a display of magnificent works 
 as is to be found at the Appletons' would have been a 
 precursor of bankruptcy. There was no demand for 
 them. A few dozen, in one little show-case, was the 
 prudent whole. Now, one whole side of an immense 
 store is not only filled with most admirably bound 
 library-books, but from some inexhaustible source the 
 void continually made in the shelves is at once refilled. 
 A reserve of heroic books supply the places of those 
 that fall. Alas ! Where is human nature so weak as in 
 a book-store ! Speak of the appetite for drink ; or of a 
 bon-vivani 's relish for a dinner ! What are these mere 
 animal throes and ragings compared with those fantasies 
 of taste, of those yearnings of the imagination, of those 
 insatiable appetites of intellect, which bewilder a student 
 in a great bookseller's temptation-hall ? 
 
 How easily one may distinguish a genuine lover of 
 books from the worldly man ! With what subdued 
 
BOOK-STORES, BOOKS. 251 
 
 and yet glowing enthusiasm does he gaze upon the 
 costly front of a thousand embattled volumes ! How 
 gently he draws them down, as if they were little chil- 
 dren; how tenderly he handles them! He peers at the 
 title-page, at the text, or the notes, with the nicety of a 
 bird examining a flower. He studies the binding : the 
 leather, — Eussia, English calf, morocco; the lettering, 
 the gilding, the edging, the hinge of the cover ! Ho 
 opens it, and shuts it, he holds it off, and brings it nigh. 
 It suffuses his whole body with book-magnetism. He 
 walks up and down, in a maze, at the mysterious allot- 
 ments of Providence that gives so much money to men 
 who spend it upon their appetites, and so little to men 
 who would spend it in benevolence, or upon their re- 
 fined tastes! It is astonishing, too, .how one's neces- 
 sities multiply in the presence of the supply. One 
 never knows how many things it is impossible to do 
 without till he goes to Windle's or Smith's house- 
 furnishing stores. One is surprised to perceive, at 
 some bazaar, or fancy and variety store, how many 
 conveniences he needs. He is satisfied that his life must 
 haver been utterly inconvenient aforetime. And thus, 
 too, one is inwardly convicted, at Appleton's, of having 
 lived for years without books which he is now satis- 
 fied that one can not live without ! 
 
 Then, too, the subtle process by which the man con- 
 vinces himself that he can afford to buy. No subtle 
 manager or broker ever saw through a maze of financial 
 embarrassments half so quick as a poor book-buyer sees 
 his way clear to pay for what he must have. He promises 
 
252 BOOK-STORES, BOOKS. 
 
 with himself marvels of retrenchment; he will eat less, or 
 less costly viands, that he may buy more food for the 
 mind. He will take an extra patch, and go on with his 
 raiment another year, and buy books instead of coats. 
 Yea, he will write books, that he may buy books. He 
 will lecture, teach, trade ; he will do any honest thing 
 for money to buy books! The appetite is insatiable. 
 Feeding does not satisfy it. It rages by the fuel which 
 is put upon it. As a hungry man eats first, and pays 
 afterward, so the book-buyer purchases, and then works 
 at the debt afterward. This paying is rather medicinal. 
 It cures for a time. But a relapse takes place. The 
 same longing, the same promises of self-denial. He 
 promises himself to put spurs on both heels of his in- 
 dustry ; and then, besides all this, he will somehow get 
 along when the time for payment comes ! Ah ! this 
 Somehow ! That word is as big as a whole world, and 
 is stuffed with all the vagaries and fantasies that Fancy 
 ever bred upon Hope. And yet, is there not some 
 comfort in buying books, to be paid for? We have 
 heard of a sot, who wished his neck as long as the 
 worm of a still, that he might so much the longer enjoy 
 the flavor of the draught ! Thus, it is a prolonged 
 excitement of purchase, if you feel for six months in a 
 slight doubt whether the book is honestly your own or 
 not. Had you paid down, that would have been the 
 end of it. There would have been no affectionate and 
 beseeching look of your books at you, every time you 
 saw them, saying, as plain as a book's eyes can say, 
 " Do not let me be taken from you." 
 
BOOK-STORES, BOOKS. 253 
 
 Moreover, buying books before you can pay for them, 
 promotes caution. You do not feel quite at liberty to 
 take them home. You are married. Your wife keeps 
 an account-book. She knows to a penny what you can 
 and what you can not afford. She has no "specula- 
 tion" in her eyes. Plain figures make desperate work 
 with airy u somehows." It is a matter of no small skill 
 and experience to get your books home, and into their 
 proper places, undiscovered. Perhaps the blundering 
 Express brings them to the door just at evening. 
 " What is it, my dear ?" she says to you. " Oh ! noth- 
 ing — a few books that I can not do without." That 
 smile ! A true housewife that loves her husband, can 
 smile a whole arithmetic at him in one look! Of 
 course she insists, in the kindest way, in sympathizing 
 with you in your literary acquisition. She cuts the 
 strings of the bundle, (and of your heart,) and out 
 comes the whole story. You have bought a complete 
 set of costly English books, full bound in calf, extra 
 gilt ! You are caught, and feel very much as if bound 
 in calf yourself, and admirably lettered. 
 
 Now, this must not happen frequently. The books 
 must be smuggled home. Let them be sent to some 
 near place. Then, when your wife has a headache, or 
 is out making a call, or has lain down, run the books 
 across the frontier and threshold, hastily undo them, 
 stop only for one loving glance as you put them away 
 in the closet, or behind other books on the shelf, or on 
 the topmost shelf. Clear away the twine and wrapping- 
 paper, and every suspicious circumstance. Be very 
 
254 BOOK-STORES, BOOKS. 
 
 careful not to be too kind. That often brings on detec- 
 tion. Only the other day we heard it said, somewhere, 
 "Why, how good you have been, lately. I am really 
 afraid that you have been carrying on mischief secretly." 
 Our heart smote us. It was a fact. That very clay we 
 had bought a few books which " we could not do with- 
 out." After a while, you can bring out one volume, 
 accidentally, and leave it on the table. "Why, my 
 dear, what a beautiful book! Where did you borrow 
 it ?" You glance over the newspaper, with the quietest 
 tone you can command: ' That! oh! that is mine. 
 Have you not seen it before? It has been in the house 
 these two months ;" and you rush on with anecdote and 
 incident, and point out the binding, and that peculiar 
 trick of gilding, and every thing else you can think of; 
 but it all will not do ; you can not rub out that roguish, 
 arithmetical smile. People may talk about the equality 
 of the sexes ! They are not equal. The silent smile 
 of a sensible, loving woman, will vanquish ten men. 
 Of course you repent, and in time form a habit of re- 
 penting. 
 
 Another method which will be found peculiarly 
 effective, is, to make a present of some fine work, to 
 your wife. Of course, whether she or you have the 
 name of buying it, it will go into your collection and 
 be yours to all intents and purposes. But, it stops re- 
 mark in the presentation. A wife could not reprove 
 you for so kindly thinking of her. No matter what 
 she suspects, she will say nothing. And then if there 
 are three or four more works, which have come home 
 
BOOK-STORES, BOOKS 25" 
 
 with Lie gift-book — they will pass through the favor of 
 the other. 
 
 These are pleasures denied to wealth and old 
 bachelors. Indeed, one cannot imagine the peculiar 
 pleasure of buying books, if one is rich and stupid. 
 There must be some pleasure, or so many would not do 
 it. But the full flavor, the whole relish of delight only 
 comes to those who are so poor that they must engineer 
 for every book. They set down before them, and be- 
 siege them. They are captured. Each book has a 
 secret history of ways and means. It reminds you of 
 subtle devices by which you insured and made it yours, 
 in spite of poverty 1 
 
XXII. 
 
 GONE TO' THE COUNTRY. 
 
 Lenox, Mass., July, 1854. 
 
 At length the joyful day was come ! Eagerly we 
 escaped from the glow and rage of the town-heat, as if 
 we had been flying from a burning city. We shut the 
 door, and turned the key upon all our cares. For we 
 always arrange to leave our burdensome affairs behind, 
 and take nothing to the country with us but hilarious 
 hearts, contentment, and eyes that never tire of the 
 heavens, or the earth, that do indeed and forevermore 
 show forth the glory of God ! 
 
 The stalwart engine could not rush fast enough for 
 our impatience. And when, at Bridgeport, we branched 
 off upon the Housatonic Eailway, and set our faces full 
 toward the north, where the "hill-country" lay, and 
 flitting through fields and patches of forest, our spirits 
 rose at every mile. 
 
 The film fell from our eyes ; no ceaseless tasks stood 
 between us and nature; no prospective discourse, in- 
 wardly working, drew back our outward sight. We 
 let go our whole routine .of duties, and they sank down 
 and faded away as dreams do from the face of the 
 morning. It was all youth with us now. At Newtown 
 our heart prompted us to get out, and take a first and 
 loving look of the hills that here begin to show moun- 
 tainous symptoms. They were doing extremely well. 
 We gazed as long as the impatient engine would allow 
 
GONE TO THE COUNTRY. 257 
 
 at their tree-tufted tops, their long green slopes, at the 
 quiet intervales, in which were snugged away many 
 dear homes and houses, and inhaled the new and per- 
 fumed air with a full recognition of its virtues. The 
 very movement of the air upon our skin was plea- 
 surable, as if spirits breathed upon us. 
 
 It was a day for traveling, cloudy but not sullen. 
 The heaven was full of those spirit-like films and evan- 
 escent wreaths that go sailing about in an aimless way. 
 Deeper in the vault lay those mysterious banks of 
 vapor, brilliantly white upon their rounded outer edges, 
 and shaded to gray and leaden black in the interior. 
 They slowly changed from thrones to battlements ; and 
 from battlements to mountains. Such mountains .are 
 round about the city of our God I Besides these, there 
 were shoals of flecks that rayed out like fans, or lay 
 stretching away like long unrolled scarfs. It was as if 
 some air-fish were shooting forth, clothed with brilliant 
 scales. In some places the clouds lay in long lines, 
 compact and broad like a mighty highway, cast up for 
 heavenly chariots to run upon. Through the occasional 
 spaces the sun cast forth his fierce light, sometimes 
 straight downward, with unquenehed heat, and at other 
 times his beams fell, with long side-way stroke, upon 
 some distant hill, or carried down an atmosphere of 
 light into some stream-fed valley. 
 
 Thus we sped on from station to station, the hills 
 growing larger all the way, until, at three o'clock, we 
 reached Lenox. But the rain was there before us, and 
 merrily it played, beating each leaf with its musical 
 
258 GOK"E TO THE COUNTRY. 
 
 drops, like a tiny drum. Bat what is a summer ram 
 to a Berkshire farmer? especially when white rolling 
 clouds from the west, and clear, bright spots shining 
 through, tell us that fair weather is working its way 
 through all the tumult? Bright bay Charley was wait- 
 ing for his master; and our farm-horses and wagon 
 (think of that !) were waiting for the baggage, and soon 
 we were trotting away, and greeting, as we went, each 
 field, each stately elm, and round maple, and the num- 
 ber of- greetings required were not few. As we rose 
 along the ascending road, the hills began to emerge on 
 every side, and as we drew near our dwelling, up rose, 
 far in the north, old Grey-Lock, the patriarch of a wide 
 family of hills, happily settled down about him. As 
 far to the south, dim_ and blue, the dome of Mount 
 Washington stood, and still stands, the head and glory 
 of innumerable and unnamed hills. Between these 
 two great northern and southern landmarks, a distance 
 of more than sixty miles, lies the Berkshire valley. 
 Not such a valley as you think of along the Connec- 
 ticut, — wide meadows, fiat and fat ; but such a valley 
 as the ocean would be, if, when its waves were running 
 tumultuous and high, it were suddenly transfixed and 
 solidified. The most level portion of this region, if 
 removed to Illinois, would be an eminent hill. The 
 region is a valley only because the mountains on the 
 east and on the west are so much higher than the hills 
 in the intermediate space. The endless variety of such 
 a country never ceases to astonish and please. At 
 every ten steps the aspect changes; every variation of 
 
GONE TO THE COUNTRY. 259 
 
 atmosphere, and therefore every hour of the day, pro- 
 duces new effects. It is everlasting company to you. 
 It is, indeed, just like some choice companion, of rich 
 heart and genial imagination, never twice alike, in 
 mood, in conversation, in radiant sobriety, or half- 
 bright sadness ; bold, tender, deep, various I 
 
 Not yet having had leisure to build our farm-house, 
 that is to be, (for we have resolved that it should be a 
 farm-house, and" not a mansion,) we have rented the 
 very comfortable house of our neighbor Clark, next 
 adjoining our grounds. We mention this confidentially, 
 to save further inquiries. It was to this that we drove. 
 The rain continued diligent. All that trooping of white 
 slouds in the west; all that opening and shutting of 
 bright spaces, which pretended a clearing off — was, 
 after all, but some private arrangement among the 
 clouds for their own comfort. Here is to be no fair 
 weather, and no venturing out to-night! But there 
 were domestic reasons for remaining in-doors, in the 
 shape of eight trunks, four carpet-bags, and sundry 
 other items, to be opened and disposed of. Besides, the 
 boys, who had been here some weeks before-hand, came 
 tearing in to see us, and the brother's family were all 
 astir on the same errand. There was at least an hour 
 in which words rained down as copiously in the house 
 as did the cloud-drops without. Then came the first 
 tea, made the more piquant by all those little shifts 
 which precede a full settling down; the odd things; 
 the queer uses of strange things. Every body was 
 hunting for every thing, and each zealous to bring 
 
260 GONE TO THE COUNTRY. 
 
 something, so that we liked to have had the whole con- 
 tents of the house on the tea-table. There is something 
 very pleasant in the first meal which a family takes in 
 a new house. It should always be an evening meal. 
 The later hours of the day have a softening influence 
 upon us. Of course, the parents take the end seats, 
 then the children are to be appointed to their posts; 
 then all join with an unusual heartiness in the blessing 
 which is asked of God upon the food, and that heart 
 were strangely remiss that did not ask a blessing upon 
 the house, upon the household, and upon the whole 
 summer's hoped-for joy. 
 
 The meal proceeds. This butter is from our cows. 
 This is cheese which grandmother made. The bread is 
 so white, the currants are so red, the shaved-beef so 
 country like, the tea just as good as city tea. The 
 boys are bursting to narrate the wonders of their expe- 
 rience. The woodchucks, the squirrels, the hawks, 
 were all chronicled ; the rides, the accidents, the hen's 
 nests found, and a world of eager news, were duly set 
 forth. Each boy was eager to go forth and show us 
 all the wonders of the new place ; the barn, the wood- 
 house, the well, the great elm tree, the cellar, the gar- 
 ret, the orchard, and the garden. 
 
 The evening grows darker. The trees wave their 
 clammy leaves, dripping with wet, to each sighing of 
 the moist and fitful wind. Now it swells and beats the 
 window-frames with a slashing " sound ; then it dies 
 away, and leaves only the drowsy murmur of incessant 
 drops pattering upon innumerable leaves, filling' the air 
 
GONE TO THE COUNTRY. 261 
 
 with somnolence. At nine o'clock every yawning mor- 
 tal wends to bed. No crickets chirped, no dogs, near 
 or distant, barked ; no cows lowed, no wagons rolled 
 past, no foot-fall came from the road. It was all dark 
 out of doors, and nothing was heard but the droning 
 rain that hummed among the leaves, all night long, 
 and the modest clock that hardly dared to tick out loud. 
 This morning came up in clouds, the clouds grew to 
 mist, and the mist rolled out of the valley, and hung 
 ragged and wild upon the mountain side. All the trees 
 do clap their hands in the merry wind that now, un- 
 burdened of its moisture, runs nimbly through the 
 sunny air. We open the front door, and sit upon its 
 threshold. We look out under the maple trees that 
 shade the yard, over fields, across to the mountain 
 sides,, that now stand in the freshest, deepest green. We 
 take our book, and holding it with folded hands behind 
 us, we walk, with uncovered head, up and down the 
 road before the house, beneath the trembling shadows 
 which the maples cast westward — shadows that play 
 upon the ground in gold and dark, as the small wind 
 opens and shuts the spaces of the tree to the sunlight ! 
 This is perfect rest. The ear is full of birds' notes, of 
 insects' hum, of the barn-yard clack of hens and peep- 
 ing chickens; the eye is full of noble outlined hills, 
 of meadow-growing trees, of grass glancing with light 
 shot from a million dew-drops, and of the great heav- 
 enly arch, unstained with cloud, from side to side with- 
 out a mote or film: filled with silent, golden ether, 
 which surely descends on such a morning as this from 
 
262 GONE TO THE COUNTRY. 
 
 the very hills of heaven. Angels have flown through 
 it, and exhaled their joys, as flowers leave their per- 
 fumes in the evening air. Thus to walk, to read now 
 and then some noble passage of some great heart, to 
 fall off again to musing, to read again half aloud or in 
 a murmuring whisper some holy poetry, this it is to be 
 transcendently happy. I say holy poetry, for when 
 men speak of truth with their earthly thoughts, it is 
 but prose ; but when they speak truths from their 
 spiritual, and with such efflorescent words as shall be 
 to the thinking what dew-beads are to grass and 
 flowers, that is poetry. It is after long labor that such 
 periods of rest become doubly sweet. For unwearied 
 hours one drifts about among gentle, joyous sensations 
 or thoughts, as gossamers or downy seeds float about 
 in the air, moved only by the impulses of the coquet- 
 ting wind. Most happily planted here, we shall await 
 September. And if, in the spheres whence the months 
 issue, or along that airy way by which they travel, 
 there is such a thing as breaking down, or detention, 
 may September experience it, and be held back long 
 after her time 1 
 
XXIII. 
 
 DREAM-CULTURE. 
 
 Lenox, August, 10, 1854. 
 
 There is something in the owning of a piece of 
 ground, which affects me as did the old ruins of Eng- 
 land. I am free to confess that the value of a farm is 
 not chiefly in its crops of cereal grain, its orchards of 
 fruit, and in its herds; but in those larger and more 
 easily reapt harvests of associations, fancies, and dreamy 
 broodings which it begets. From boyhood I have 
 associated classical civic virtues and old heroic integrity 
 with the soil. No one who has peopled his young 
 brain with the fancies of Grecian nxythology, but comes 
 to feel a certain magical sanctity for the earth. The 
 very smell of fresh-turned earth brings up as many 
 dreams and visions of the country as sandal-wood does 
 of oriental scenes. At any rate, I feel, in walking 
 under these trees and about these slopes, something of 
 that enchantment of the vague and mysterious glimpses 
 of the past, which I once felt about the ruins of Kenil- 
 worth Castle. For thousands of years this piece of 
 ground hath wrought its tasks. Old slumberous forests 
 used to darken it; innumerable deer have trampled 
 across it; foxes have blinked through its bushes, and 
 wolves have howled and growled as they pattered 
 along its rustling leaves with empty maws. How many 
 birds ; how many flocks of pigeons, thousands of years 
 ago; how many hawks dashing wildly among them; 
 
264 DREAM-CULTURE. 
 
 how many insects, nocturnal and diurnal ; how many 
 mailed bugs, and limber serpents, gliding among moss}' 
 stones, have had possession here, before my day! It 
 will not be long before I too shall be as wasted and 
 recordless as they. 
 
 Doubtless the Indians made this a favorite resort. 
 Their sense of beauty in natural scenery is proverbial. 
 Where else, in all this region, could they find a more 
 glorious amphitheater? But thick-studded forests may 
 have hidden from them this scenic glory, and left it to 
 solace another race. I walk over the ground wonder- 
 ing what lore of wild history I should read if all that 
 ever lived upon this round and sloping hill had left an 
 invisible record, unreadable except by such eyes as 
 mine, that seeing, see not, and not seeing, do plainly 
 see. 
 
 Then, while I stand upon the crowning point of the 
 hill, from which I can behold every foot of the hundred 
 acres, and think what is going on, what gigantic powers 
 are silently working, I feel as if all the workmanship 
 that was stored in the Crystal Palace was not to be 
 compared with the subtle machinery all over this 
 round. What chemists could find solvents to liquefy 
 these rocks? But soft rains and roots small as threads 
 dissolve them and re-compose them into stems and 
 leaves. What an uproar, as if a hundred stone quarries 
 were being wrought, if one should attempt to crush 
 with hammers all the flint and quartz which the stroke 
 of the dew powders noiselessly ! All this turf is but a 
 camp of soldier-roots, that wage their battle upon the 
 
DREAM-CULTURE. 265 
 
 elements with endless victory. There is a greater 
 marvel in this defiant thistle, which wearies the farmer's 
 wits, taxed for its extermination, than in all the reposi- 
 tories of New York or London. And these mighty 
 trees, how easily do they pump up and sustain supplies 
 of moisture that it would require scores of rattling 
 engines to lift ! This farm, it is a vast laboratory, full 
 of expert chemists. It is a vast shop, full of noiseless 
 machinists. And all this is mine ! These rocks, that 
 lie in bulk under the pasture-trees, and all this moss 
 that loves to nestle in its crevices, and clasp the invisi- 
 ble projections with its little clinging hands, and all 
 these ferns and sumach, these springs and trickling 
 issues, are mine I 
 
 Let me not be puffed up with sudden wealth ! Let 
 me rule discreetly among my tenants. Let me see 
 what tribes are mine. There are the black and glossy 
 crickets, the gray crickets, the grasshoppers of every 
 shape and hue, the silent, prudent toad, type of con- 
 servative wisdom, wise-looking, but slow-hopping; the 
 butterflies by day, and the moth and millers by 
 night ; all birds — wrens, sparrows, king-birds, blue- 
 birds, robins, and those unnamed warblers that make 
 the forests sad with their melancholy whistle. Be- 
 sides these, who can register the sappers and miners 
 that are always at work in the soil : angle-worms, 
 white grubs, and bugs that carry pick and shovel in 
 the head? Who can muster all the mice that nest 
 in the barn or nibble in the stubble-field, and all the 
 beetles that sing base in the wood's edge to the shrill 
 12 
 
266 DKEAM-CULTURE. 
 
 treble of gnats and myriad musquitoes? These all 
 •are mine ! 
 
 Are they mine? Is it my eye and my hand that 
 mark their paths and circuits? Do they hold their life 
 from me, or do I give them their food in due season? 
 Vastly as my bulk is greater than theirs, am I so much 
 superior that I can despise, or even not admire? Where 
 is the strength of muscle by which I can spring fifty 
 times the length of my body? That grasshopper's 
 thigh lords it over mine. Spring up now in the eve- 
 ning air, and fly toward the lights that wink from 
 yonder hill-side ! Ten million wings of despised flies 
 and useless insects are mightier than hand or foot of 
 mine. Each mortal thing carries some quality of dis- 
 tinguishing excellence by which it may glory, and say, 
 "In this, I am first in all the world!" 
 
 Since the same hand made me that made them, and 
 the same care feeds them that spreads my board, let 
 there be fellowship between us. There is. I have 
 signed articles of peace even with the abdominal 
 spiders, who carry their fleece in their belly, and not 
 on their back. It is agreed that they shall not cross 
 the Danube of my doors, and I, on the other hand, will 
 let them camp down, without wanton disturbance, in 
 my whole domain beside ! I, too, am but an insect on 
 a larger scale. Are there not those who tread with 
 unsounding feet through the invisible air, of being so 
 vast, that I seem to them but a mite, a flitting insect? 
 And of capacities so noble and eminent, that all the 
 stores which I could bring of thought and feeling to 
 
DREAM-CULTURE. 267 
 
 tliem would be but as the communing of a grasshopper 
 "with me, or the chirp of a sparrow ? 
 
 No. It is not in the nature of true greatness to be 
 exclusive and arrogant. If such noble shadows fill the 
 realm, it is their nature to condescend and to spread 
 their power abroad for the loving protection of those 
 whose childhood is little, but whose immortal manhood 
 shall yet, through their kind teaching, stand unabashed, 
 and not ashamed, in the very royalty of heaven. Only 
 vulgar natures employ their superiority to task and 
 burden weaker natures. He whose genius and wisdom 
 are but instruments of oppression, however covered 
 and softened with lying names, is the beginning of a 
 monster. The line that divides between the animal 
 and the divine is the line of suffering. The animal, for 
 its own pleasure, inflicts suffering. The divine endures 
 suffering for another's pleasure. Not then when he 
 went up to the proportions of original glory was Christ 
 the greatest; but when he descended, and wore our 
 form, and bore our sins and sorrows, that by his stripes 
 we might be healed ! 
 
 I have no vicarious mission for these populous 
 insects. But I will at least not despise their littleness 
 nor trample upon their lives. Yet, how may I spare 
 them ? At every step I must needs crush scores, and 
 leave the wounded in my path ! Already I have lost my 
 patience with that intolerable fly, and slapped him out 
 of being, and breathed out fiery vengeance against 
 those mean conspirators that, night and day, suck my 
 blood, hypocritically singing a grace before their meal I 
 
268 DRKAM-CULTURE. 
 
 The chief use of a farm, if it be well selected, and 
 of a proper soil, is, to lie down upon. Mine is an 
 excellent farm for such uses, and I thus cultivate it 
 every day. Large crops are the consequence, of groat 
 delight and fancies more than the brain can hold. My 
 industry is exemplary. Though but a week here, I 
 have lain down more hours and in more places than 
 that hard-working brother of mine in the whole year 
 that he has dwelt here. Strange that industrious lying 
 down should come so naturally to" me, and standing up 
 and lazing about after the plow or behind his scythe, 
 so naturally to him I My eyes against his feet ! It 
 takes me but -a second to run down that eastern slope, 
 across the meadow, over the road, up to that long hill- 
 side, (which the benevolent Mr. Dorr is so beautifully 
 planting with shrubbery for my sake — blessings on 
 him !) but his feet could not perform the task in less 
 than ten minutes. I can spring from Grey Lock in the 
 north, through the hazy air, over the wide sixty miles 
 to the dome of the Taconic mountains in the south, by 
 a simple roll of the eye-ball, a mere contraction of a 
 few muscles. Now let any one try it with their feet, 
 and two days would scant suffice! With my head I 
 can sow the ground with glorious harvests ; I can build 
 barns, fill them with silky cows and nimble horses ; I 
 can pasture a thousand sheep, run innumerable furrows, 
 sow every sort of seed, rear up forests just wherever 
 the eye longs for them, build my house, like Solomon's 
 Temple, without the sound of a hammer. Ah ! mighty 
 worker is the head ! These farmers that use the foot 
 
DREAM-CULTURE. 269 
 
 and the hand, are much to be pitied. I can change my 
 structures every day, without expense. I can enlarge 
 that gem of a lake that lies yonder, twinkling and rip- 
 pling in the sunlight. I can pile up rocks where they 
 ought to have been found, for landscape effect, and 
 clothe them with the very vines that ought to grow 
 over them. I can transplant every tree that I meet in 
 my rides, and put it near my house without the droop- 
 ing of a leaf. 
 
 But of what use is all this fanciful using of the head ? 
 It is a mere waste of precious time ! 
 
 But, if it gives great delight, if it keeps the soul 
 awake, sweet thoughts alive and sordid thoughts dead, 
 if it brings one a little out of conceit with hard econo- 
 mies, and penurious reality, and stingy self-conceit ; if 
 it be like a bath to the soul, in which it washes away 
 the grime of human contacts, and the sweat and dust 
 of life among selfish, sordid men ; if it makes the 
 thoughts more supple to climb along the ways where 
 spiritual fruits do grow ; and especially, if it introduces 
 the soul to a fuller conviction of the Great Unseen, and 
 teaches it to esteem the visible as less real than things 
 which no eye can see, or hands handle, it will have 
 answered a purpose which is in vain sought among 
 stupid conventionalities. 
 
 At any rate, such a discourse of the thoughts with 
 things that are beautiful, and such an opening of the 
 soul to things which are sweet-breathed, will make one 
 joyful at the time and tranquil thereafter. And if one 
 fully believes that the earth is the Lord's, and that God 
 
270 DREAM-CULTURE. 
 
 yet walks among leaves, and trees, in the cool of the 
 day, he will not easily be persuaded to cast away the 
 belief that all these vagaries and wild communings are 
 but those of a child in his father's house, and that the 
 secret springs of joy which they open are touched of 
 God! 
 
XXIV. 
 
 A W ILK AMONG TKEES. 
 
 August 17, 1854. 
 
 Every one who has read the life of Sir Walter Scott 
 well remembers his love of trees. He used to saj that, 
 of all his compositions, he was the most proud of his 
 compositions — for making trees grow. There is yet at 
 East-Hampton, on Long Island, flourishing in a hearty 
 age, an orchard set out by the hands of my father 
 And he used often to say, that, after an absence 
 f^-om home, the first impulse, after greeting his own 
 family, was to go out and examine each tree in his 
 orchard, from root to top. No man that ever planted 
 a tree or loved one but knows how to sympathize with 
 this feeling. A tree that you have planted is born to you. 
 It becomes a member of your family, and looks to you 
 as a child for care and love. Oliver Wendell Holmes 
 spends his summer months upon a beautiful farm near 
 Pittsfield, on which are half a hundred acres of the 
 original forest-trees, some of them doubtless five hun- 
 dred years old; trees that heard the Revolutionary 
 cannon, (or heard of them,) that heard before that, the 
 crack of the rifle in early colonial Indian wars, when 
 Miahcomo, with his fugitive Pequots, took refuge in 
 the Berkshire hills. It is said that Dr. Holmes has 
 measured with a tape-line every tree on his place, and 
 knows each one of them with intimate personal ac- 
 quaintance. If he has not, he ought to do it. 
 
272 A WALK AMONG TREES. 
 
 To the great tree-loving fraternity we belong. "We love 
 trees with universal and unfeigned love, and all things 
 that do grow under them, or around them — the whole 
 leaf and root tribe ! Not alone when they are in their 
 s lory, but in whatever state they are — in leaf, or rimed 
 with frost, or powdered with snow, or crystal-sheathed 
 in ice, or in severe outline stripped and bare against a 
 November sky — we love them. Our heart warms at 
 the sight of even a board or a log. A lumber-yard is 
 better than nothing. The smell of wood, at least, is 
 there ; the savory fragrance of resin, as sweet as myrrh 
 and frankincense ever was to a Jew. If we can get 
 nothing better, we love to read over the names of trees 
 in a catalogue. Many an hour have we sat at night, 
 when, after exciting work, we needed to be quieted, 
 and read nurserymen's catalogues, and Loudon's Ency- 
 clopedias, and Arboretum, until the smell of the woods 
 exhaled from the page, and the sound of leaves was in 
 our ears, and sylvan glades opened to our eyes that 
 would have made old Chaucer laugh and indite a rap- 
 turous rush of lines. 
 
 But how much more do we love trees in all their 
 summer pomp and plenitude. Not for their names and 
 affinities, not for their secret physiology and as material 
 for science ; not for any reason that we can give, except 
 that when with them we are happy. The eye is full, 
 the ear is full, the whole sense and all the tastes 
 solaced, and our whole nature rejoices with that various 
 and full happiness which one has when the soul is sus- 
 pended in the midst of Beethoven's symphonies, and 
 
A WALK AMONG TREES. 273 
 
 is lifted hither and thither, as if blown bj sweet sounds 
 through the airy passages of a full heavenly dream. 
 
 Our first excursion in Lenox was one of salutation to 
 our notable trees. We had a nervous anxiety to see 
 that the ax had not hewn, nor the lightning struck 
 them ; that no worm, had gnawed at the root, or cattle 
 at the trunk ; that their branches were not broken, nor 
 their leaves failing from drought. We found them all 
 standing* in their uprightness. They lifted up their 
 heads toward heaven, and sent down to us from all 
 their boughs a leafy whisper of recognition and affec- 
 tion. Blessed be the dew that cools their evening 
 leaves, and the rains that quench their daily thirst! 
 May the storm be as merciful to them when, in winter, 
 it roars through their branches, as is a harper to his 
 harp ! Let the snow lie lightly on their boughs, and 
 long hence be the summer that shall find no leaves to 
 clothe these nobles of the pasture ! 
 
 First in our regard, as it is first in the whole nobility 
 of trees, stands the white elm, no less esteemed because 
 it is an American tree ; known abroad only by importa 
 tion, and never seen in all its magnificence, except in 
 our own valleys. The old oaks of England are very 
 excellent in their way, gnarled and rugged. The elm 
 has strength as significant as they, and a grace, a roy- 
 alty, which leaves the oak like a boor in comparison. 
 Had the elm been an English tree, and had Chaucer 
 Been and loved and sung it ; had Shakspeare, and every 
 English poet, hung some garlands upon it, it would 
 have lifted up its head now, not only the noblest of all 
 12* 
 
274 A WALK 'AMONG TREES. 
 
 growing things, but enshrined in a thousand rich asso- 
 ciations of history and literature. 
 
 Who ever sees a hawthorn or a sweet-brier (the 
 eglantine) that his thoughts do not, like a bolt of light, 
 burst through ranks of poets, and ranges of sparkling 
 conceits which have been born since England had a 
 written language, and of which the rose, the willow, 
 the eglantine, the hawthorn, and other scores of vines or 
 trees, have been the cause, as they are now and. for ever- 
 more the suggestions and remembrancers? Who ever 
 looks upon an oak, and does not think of navies ; of. 
 storms ; of battles on the ocean ; of the noble lyrics of 
 the sea; of English glades; of the fugitive Charles, 
 the tree-mounted monarch ; of the Heme oak ; of parks 
 and forests; of "Robin Hood and his merry men, Friar 
 Tuck not excepted ; of old baronial halls with mellow 
 light streaming through diamond-shaped panes upon 
 oaken floors, and of carved oaken wainscotings ? And 
 who that has ever traveled in English second-class 
 cushionless cars has not other and less genial remem- 
 brances of the enduring solidity of the impervious, 
 unelastic oak ? 
 
 One stalwart oak I have, and only one, yet dis- 
 covered. On my west line is a fringe of forest, through 
 which rushes in spring, trickles in early summer, and 
 dies out entirely in August, the issues of a noble spring 
 from the near hill-side. On the eastern eds;e of this 
 belt of trees stands the monarchical oak, wide-branching 
 on the east toward the open pasture and the free light, 
 but on its western side lean and branchless, from the 
 
A WALK AMONG TREES. 275 
 
 pressure of neighboring trees ; for trees, like men, can 
 not grow to the real nature that is in them when 
 crowded by too much society. Both need to be touched 
 on every side by sun and air, and by nothing else, if 
 they are to be rounded out into full symmetry. Grow- 
 ing right up by its side, and through its branches, is a 
 long wifely elm — beauty and grace imbosomed by 
 strength. Their leaves come and go together, and all . 
 the summer long they mingle their rustling harmonies. 
 Their roots pasture in the same soil ; nor could either 
 .of them be hewn down without tearing away the 
 branches and marring the beauty of the other. And a 
 tree, when thoroughly disbranched, may, by time and 
 care, regain its health again, but never its beauty. 
 
 Under this oak I love to sit and hear all the things 
 which its leaves have to tell. No printed leaves have 
 more treasures of history or of literature to those who 
 know how to listen. But, if clouds kindly shield us 
 from the sun, we love as well to couch down on the 
 grass some thirty yards off, and amidst the fragrant 
 smell of crushed herbs, to watch the fancies of the trees 
 and clouds. The roguish winds will never be done 
 teasing the leaves, that run away and come back, with 
 nimble playfulness. Now and then, a stronger puff 
 dashes up the leaves, showing the downy under-sur- 
 faces that flash white all along the up-blown and tremu- 
 lous forest-edge. Now the wind draws back his breath, 
 and all the woods are still. Then, some single leaf is 
 tickled, and quivers all alone. I am sure there is no 
 wind. The other leaves about it are still. Where it 
 
276 A WALK AMONG TREES. 
 
 gets its motion I can not tell, but there it goes fanning 
 itself, and restless among its sober fellows. By and by 
 one or two others catch the impulse. The rest hold out 
 a moment, but soon catching the contagious merriment, 
 away goes the whole tree and all its neighbors, the 
 leaves running in ripples all down the forest-side. I 
 expect almost to hear them laugh out loud. 
 
 A stroke of wind upon the forest, indolently swelling 
 and subsiding, is like a stroke upon a hive of bees, for 
 sound; and like stirring a fire full of sparks, for up- 
 springing thoughts and ideal suggestions. The melo: 
 dious whirl draws out a flitting swarm of sweet images 
 that play before the eye like those evening troops of 
 gauzy insects that hang in the air between you and the 
 sun, and pipe their own music, and flit in airy rounds 
 of mingled dance as if the whole errand of their lives 
 was to swing in mazes of sweet music. 
 
 Different species of trees move their leaves very dif- 
 ferently, so that one may sometimes tell by the motion 
 of shadows on the ground, if he be too indolent to look 
 up, under what kind of tree he is dozing. On the tulip- 
 tree — (which has the finest name that ever tree had, 
 making the very pronouncing of its name almost like 
 the utterance of a strain of music — liriodendron tulipi- 
 /era) — on the tulip tree, the aspen, and on all native 
 poplars, the leaves are apparently Anglo-Saxon, or Ger- 
 manic, having an intense individualism. Each one 
 moves to suit itself. Under the same wind one is trill- 
 ing up and down, another is whirling, another slowly 
 vibrating right and left, and others still, quieting them* 
 
A WALK AMONG TREES. 277 
 
 selves to sleep, as a mother gently pats her slumbering 
 child; and each one intent upon a motion of its own. 
 Sometimes other trees have single frisky leaves, but, 
 usually, the oaks, maples, beeches, have community of 
 motion. They are all acting together, or all are alike 
 still. 
 
 What is sweeter than a murmur of leaves, unless 
 it be the musical gurgling of water that runs secretly, 
 and cuts under the roots of these trees, and makes 
 little bubbling pools that laugh to see the drops stum- 
 ble over the root and plump down into its bosom 1 
 In such nooks could trout lie. Unless ye would 
 become mermaids, keep far from such places, all in- 
 nocent grasshoppers, and all ebony crickets! Do not 
 believe in appearances. You peer over and know 
 that there is no danger. You can see the radiant 
 gravel. You know that no enemy lurks in that fairy 
 pool. You can see every nook and corner of it, and it 
 is as sweet a bathing pool as ever was swum by long- 
 legged grasshoppers. Over the root comes a butterfly 
 with both sails a little drabbled, and quicker than light 
 he is plucked down, leaving three or four bubbles 
 behind him, fit emblems of a butterfly's life. There ! 
 did I not tell you? Now go away all maiden crickets 
 and grasshoppers! These fair surfaces, so pure, so 
 crystalline, so surely safe, have a trout somewhere in 
 them lying in wait for you ! 
 
 But what if one sits between both kinds of music, 
 leaves above and water below? What if birds are 
 among the leaves, sending out random calls, far-piercing 
 
278 A WALK AMONG TKEES. 
 
 and sweet, as if they were lovers, saying, " My dear, are 
 you there?" If you are half reclining upon a cushion 
 of fresh new moss, that swells up between the many- 
 plied and twisted roots of a huge beech tree, and if 
 you have been there half an hour without moving, and 
 if you will still keep motionless, you may see what 
 they who only walk through forests never see. 
 
 Yonder is a red squirrel on the ground, utterly with- 
 out fear, and prying about in that pert and nimble 
 way that always makes me laugh. They are so proud 
 of their tails too! They always hold them up, and 
 coquette with them as a lady twirls and flourishes her 
 fan. And though when running on the ground, or 
 peeping about for seeds, they trail them at full length, 
 yet they never sit down for a moment without closing 
 up this important member as if they feared that some- 
 thing would step on it. If you lie down, you may now 
 and then see gray squirrels in the tops of trees, play- 
 ing with great glee, and quite as supple as their smaller 
 kindred. They travel along a forest top, springing 
 from branch to branch almost as easily as a man 
 walks across a meadow. 
 
 But we must enjoy the sight of birds that come down 
 on to the ground, inquiring after their dinner. A bird 
 is the perfection of grace, of motion, of symmetry of 
 form, and of personal neatness. Their walk is so comical 
 when they do walk, and their hop, if hopping is their 
 preference, is so agile and pretty, their habit of prying 
 under leaves, of looking into crevices, of searching the 
 axils of leaves for a chance morsel that mav have 
 
A WALK AMONG TREES. 279 
 
 been put away there, keeps one that watches in a per- 
 petual smile. 
 
 But, to return to the leaves, our settled conviction is, 
 that it is best for every leaf to use its own stem in its 
 own way ; and for every tree to follow its own inward 
 impulse, upward, outward, in form and motion of leaf, 
 twig, bough, and trunk. Where trees can not help 
 themselves, we should advise them to grow in forests, 
 long-drawn and lean, with no side-branches, but only a 
 top, spread to the sun, far up. Thus growing, they 
 will hold each other up ; and, being shallow-rooted, 
 resist the storm by their common strength. Thus do 
 men in cities, and it will not injure trees any more 
 than it doth men. They will be good for timber, for 
 fuel, and for solitude of shades. But if it be given 
 to a tree to stand out where the east and the west, the 
 north and the soutli, do all look at it at once, each one 
 giving it gifts of beauty, rounding it up into a mighty 
 tower of strength, so let it stand to tell the world what 
 God thought of when he first thought of a tree ! 
 
 Thus do you stand, noble elms ! Lifted up so high 
 are your topmost boughs, that no indolent birds care to 
 seek you ; and only those of nimble wings, and they with 
 unwonted beat, that love exertion, and aspire to sing 
 where none sing higher. — Aspiration ! so Heaven gives 
 it pure as flames to the noble bosom. But debased 
 with passion and selfishness it comes to be only Am- 
 bition ! 
 
 It was in the presence of this pasture-elm, which we 
 name the Queen, that we first felt to our very marrow, 
 
280 A WALK AMONG TREES. 
 
 that we had indeed become owners of the soil ! It was 
 with a feeling of awe that we looked up into its face, 
 and when I whispered to myself, This is mine, there 
 was a shrinking as if there were sacrilege in the very 
 thought of property in such a creature of God as this 
 cathedral-topped tree ! Does a man bare his head in 
 some old church? So did I, standing in the shadow 
 of this regal tree, and looking up into that completed 
 glory, at which three hundred years have been at work 
 with noiseless fingers! What was I in its presence but 
 a grasshopper? My heart said, "I may not call thee 
 property, and that property mine ! Thou belongest to 
 the air. Thou art the child of summer. Thou art the' - 
 mighty temple where birds praise God. Thou be- 
 longest to no man's hand, but to all men's eyes that do 
 love beauty, and that have learned through beauty to 
 behold God ! Stand, then, in thine own beauty and 
 grandeur! I shall be a lover and a protector, to 
 keep drought from thy roots, and the ax from thy 
 trunk." 
 
 For, remorseless men there are crawling yet upon 
 the face of the earth, smitten blind and inwardly dead, 
 whose only thought of a tree of ages is, that it is food 
 for the ax and the saw ! These are the wretches of 
 whom the Scripture speaks : " A man was famous ac- 
 cording as he had lifted wp axes upon the thick trees." 
 
 Thus famous, or rather infamous, was the last owner 
 but one, before me, of this farm. Upon the crown of 
 the hill, just where an artist would have planted them, 
 had he wished to have them exactly in the right place, 
 
. A WALK AMONG TREES. 281 
 
 grew some two hundred stalworth and ancient maples, 
 beeches, ashes, and oaks, a narrow belt-like forest, form- 
 ing a screen from the northern and western winds in 
 winter, and a harp of endless music for the summer. 
 The wretched owner of this farm, tempted of the Devil, 
 cut down the whole blessed band and brotherhood of 
 trees, that he might fill his pocket with two pitiful 
 dollars a cord for the wood ! Well, his pocket was the 
 best part of him. The iron furnaces have devoured 
 my grove, and their huge stumps, that stood like grave- 
 stones, have been cleared away, that a grove may be 
 planted, in the same spot, for the next hundred years 
 to nourish into the stature and glory of that which is 
 gone. 
 
 In other places, I find the memorials of many noble 
 trees slain ; here, a hemlock that carried up its eternal 
 green a hundred feet into the winter air ; there, a huge 
 double-trunked chestnut, dear old grandfather of hun- 
 dreds of children that have for generations clubbed its 
 boughs, or shook its nut-laden top, and laughed and 
 shouted as bushels of chestnuts rattled down. Now, 
 the tree exists only in the form of loop-holed posts and 
 weather- browned rails. I do hope the fellow got a,sliver 
 in his finger every time he touched the hemlock plank, 
 or let down the bars made of those chestnut rails ! 
 
 What then, it will be said, must no one touch a 
 tree? must there be no fuel, no timber? Go to the 
 forest for both. There are no individual trees there, 
 only a forest. One trunk here, and one there, leaves 
 the forest just as perfect as before, and gives room for 
 
282 A WALK AMONG TREES. 
 
 young aspiring trees to come up in the world. But for 
 a man to cut down a large, well-formed, healthy tree 
 from the roadside, or from pastures or fields, is a piece 
 of unpardonable Yandalism. It is worse than Puritan 
 hammers upon painted windows and idolatrous statues. 
 Money can buy houses, build walls, dig and drain the 
 soil, cover the hills with grass, and the grass with herds 
 and flocks. But no money can buy the growth of trees. 
 They are born of Time. Years are the only coin in 
 which they can be paid for. Beside, so noble a thing 
 is a well-grown tree, that it is a treasure to the com- 
 munity, just as is a work of art. If a monarch were 
 to blot out Euben's Descent from the Cross, or Angelo's 
 Last Judgment, or batter to pieces the marbles of 
 Greece, the whole world would curse him, and for ever. 
 Trees are the only art-treasures which belong to our 
 villages. They should be precious as gold. 
 
 But let not the glory and grace of single trees lead 
 us to neglect the peculiar excellences of the forest. 
 We go from one to the other, needing both ; as in 
 music we wander from melody to harmony, and from 
 many- voiced and intertwined harmonies back to simple 
 melody again. 
 
 To most people a grove is a grove, and all groves are 
 alike. But no two groves are alike. There is as marked 
 a difference between different forests as between differ- 
 ent communities. A grove of pines without under- 
 brush, carpeted with the fine-fingered russet leaves of 
 the pine, and odorous of resinous gums, has scarcely a 
 trace of likeness to a maple woods, either in the insects, 
 
A WALK AMONG TREES. 283 
 
 the birds, the shrubs, the light and shade, or the sound 
 of its leaves. If we lived in olden times among young 
 mythologies, we should say that pines held the impris- 
 oned spirits of naiads and water-nymphs, and that their 
 sounds were of the waters for whose lucid depths they 
 always sighed. At any rate, the first pines must have 
 grown on the sea-shore, and learned their first accents 
 from the surf and the waves; and all their posterity 
 have inherited the sound, and borne it inland to the 
 mountains. 
 
 I like best a forest of mingled trees, ash, maple, oak, 
 beech, hickory, and evergreens, with birches growing 
 along the edges of the brook that carries itself through 
 the roots and stones, toward the willows that grow in 
 yonder meadow. It should be deep and somber in 
 some directions, running off into shadowy recesses and 
 coverts beyond all footsteps. In such a wood there is 
 endless variety. It will breathe as many voices to your 
 fancy as might be brought from any organ beneath the 
 pressure of some Handel's hands. By the way, Handel 
 and Beethoven always remind me of forests. So do 
 some poets, whose numbers are various as the infinity 
 of vegetation, fine as the choicest cut leaves, strong and 
 rugged in places as the unbarked trunk and gnarled 
 roots at the ground's surface. Is there any other place, 
 except the sea-side, where hours are so short and mo- 
 ments so swift as in a forest? Where else, except in 
 the rare communion of those friends much loved, do 
 we awake from pleasure, whose calm flow is without a 
 ripple, into surprise that whole hours are gone which 
 
284 A WALK AMONG TREES. 
 
 we thought but just begun — blossomed and dropped, 
 which we thought but just budding! It is no place 
 for busy men. Let not those resort thither who have 
 vocations of labor and care. Nay, rather, let those 
 who, too busy, need to be more away from strife and 
 overtasking labor, seek the forest. Let it sing to them, 
 and in its twilights let oblivious quiet steal over their 
 cares, as the tides, rising silently from, the ocean, creep 
 upon rude-visaged rocks and cover them down beneath 
 their placid depths. 
 
XXV. 
 
 BUILDING A HOUSE. 
 
 A house is the shape which a man's thoughts take 
 when he imagines how he should like to live. Its in- 
 terior is the measure of his social and domestic nature ; 
 its exterior, of his esthetic and artistic nature. It inter- 
 prets, in material forms, his ideas of home, of friendship, 
 and of comfort. 
 
 Every man is, in a small way, a creator. We seek 
 to embody our fancies and thoughts in some material 
 shape — to give them an incarnation. Born in our 
 spirit — invisible and intangible — we are always seeking 
 to thrust them forth, so that they shall return to us 
 through some of the physical senses. Thus speech 
 brings back our imaginings to the ear ; writing brings 
 them back to the eye ; painting brings out the thoughts 
 and feelings, in forms and colors, addressed, through 
 the eye, to several inward tastes ; and building presents 
 to our senses our thought of home-life. 
 
 But one's dwelling is not always to be taken as the 
 fair index of his mind, any more than the richness of 
 one's mind is judged by one's fluency in speech or skill 
 in writing. The conceiving power may be greater in 
 us than the creative or expressing power. But there are 
 other considerations which usually have more to do with 
 building, especially in America, than a man's inward 
 fancies. In fact, in the greatest number of instances, a 
 
286 BUILDING A HOUSE. 
 
 man's house may be regarded as simply the measure of 
 his purse. It is a compromise between his heart and 
 his pocket. It is a memorial of his ingenuity in procur- 
 ing the utmost possible convenience and room from the 
 least possible, means ; for our young men — ninety-nine 
 in a hundred — are happily born ; that is, born poor, but 
 determined to be rich. This gives birth to industry, 
 frugality, ingenuity, perseverance, and success, inward 
 and outward; for, while making his fortune, the man 
 is making himself. He is extracting manly qualities 
 out of those very labors or endurances by which he 
 achieves material wealth. In the career of every such 
 young man, his little accumulations have to perform 
 three functions — to carry on his business, to meet the 
 annual expenses of his little but growing family, and 
 to build and beautify their home. Thus, his property, 
 slender at best, even if it all rose in one channel, must 
 move in a threefold channel, to carry three mills. The 
 portion set apart for building, therefore, must be very lit- 
 tle. Indeed, it is to be doubted whether one in a hundred 
 knows how he shall pay for more than half his house, 
 when he begins to build, and he is seldom much wiser 
 when he ends. He draws upon hope, and when, in five 
 or ten years, the house is paid for, it would puzzle him to 
 say how he had done it. Now, under such circumstances, 
 it would be absurd to look for what are called architec- 
 tural effects. There must be, if possible, a kitchen and 
 a bed-room. In pioneer life, even these must come to- 
 gether, and one room serve every purpose. But, usual- 
 ly, a man can afford a kitchen, a dining-room, (which 
 
BUILDING A HOUSE. 287 
 
 is also a parlor,) and a bed-room. These three rooms 
 are the seed aud type of all other rooms which can be 
 built ; for all apartments must serve our bodily wants, 
 our social domestic wants, and our social public wants. 
 The kitchen and dining-room, and all appurtenances 
 thereof, are for the animal nature ; our bed-room and 
 sitting-room and library are for our home social wants ; 
 and our parlors, halls, etc., for our more public social 
 necessities. While one is yet poor, one room must 
 serve several uses. In the old-fashioned country houses 
 the kitchen was also the dining-room ; and never will 
 saloon, how admirable soever, be so pleasant as our re- 
 membered hours in the great, broad, hospitable kitchen. 
 The door opened into the well-room, on one side, 
 whence came the pitcher, all dripping and bedewed; 
 another door opened into the cheese-room, rich with 
 rows of yellow cheeses ; while the front door, wide 
 open in summer, attracted clucking hens and peeping 
 chickens, who cocked an eye at you, or even ventured 
 across the threshold after a stray crumb. 
 
 The sitting-room and parlor, too, must often be one 
 and the same, and in the same space must be the library, 
 if such a thing is known in the dwelling. Bed-rooms 
 are more independent and aristocratic than anything 
 else, cultivating very exclusive habits. Yet, even 
 bed-rooms must contrive to be ingenious. Curtained 
 corners, cloth partitions, trundle-beds and s^ofa-beds, 
 that disappear by day, like some flowers, unfold only 
 at night. 
 
 But, in proportion as one's means increase, tho 
 
288 BUILDING A HOUSE. 
 
 rooms, like branches in a plant, grow out of each other, 
 kitchen and dining-room must separate and live by them- 
 selves. The sitting-room withdraws from the parlor, 
 taking all the ease and comfort with it, and leaving all 
 the stateliness and frigid dignity. All the books walk 
 off into a little black-walnut room by themselves, where 
 they stand in patient splendor and silent wisdom be- 
 hind their glass doors. The flowers abandon the win- 
 dows, and inhabit a formal conservatory. Bed-rooms 
 multiply, each one standing in single blessedness. The 
 house is full grown. Alas! too often all its comfort 
 goes, just when it should stand full blossomed ! How 
 many persons, from out of their two-story frame dwell- 
 ings, have sighed across the way for the log cabin ! 
 How many persons have moved from a home into a 
 house; from low ceilings, narrow halls, rooms of 
 multifarious uses, into splendid apartments, whose 
 chief effect was to make them homesick. But this is 
 because pride or vanity was the new architect. For a 
 large house is a grand and almost indispensable ele- 
 ment to our fullest idea of comfort. But it must be 
 social largeness. The broad halls must seem to those 
 that enter like open arms holding out a welcome, not 
 like the aisles of a church, lifted up out of reach of hu- 
 man sympathy. The staircase should be so broad and 
 gentle in inclination, that its very looks invite you to 
 try it. ]^ut, then, a large house ought to have great 
 diversity ; some rooms should have a ceiling higher 
 than others ; doors should come upon you in unexpect- 
 ed places; little cosy rooms should surprise you in 
 
BUILDING A HOUSE. 289 
 
 every direction. "Where you expected a cupboard, there 
 should be a little confidential entry-way. Where the 
 door seems to open into the yard, you should discover 
 a sweet little nest that happened into the plan as bright 
 thoughts now and then shine in the soul. All sorts of 
 closets and queer cupboards should by degrees be found 
 out. 
 
 Now, such a house never sprang full-grown from an 
 architect's brain, as did the fabled deity from Jupiter's 
 head. It must grow. Each room must have been 
 needed for a long time, and come into being with a de- 
 cided character impressed upon them. They will have 
 been aimed at some real want, and, meeting it, will take 
 their subtile air and character from it. Thus, one by 
 one, the rooms will be born into the house as children 
 are into the family. And, as our affections have un- 
 doubtedly a certain relation to form, color, and space, 
 so our rooms will in their forms, dimensions, and hues, 
 indicate the faculties which most wrought in their pro- 
 duction. 
 
 We all know what is meant, in painting, in music, 
 and in writing, by conventionalism. Men write or fash- 
 ion, not to give ease to an impulse in them that strug- 
 gles for a birth, but because they have an outside 
 knowledge that such and such things would be proper 
 and customary. So do men build conventional houses. 
 They put all the customary rooms in the customary 
 manner. They express themselves in this room as 
 kitchens are usually expressed ; they fashion parlors as 
 they remember that parlors have been made ; they go 
 13 
 
290 BUILDING A HOUSE. 
 
 to their books, their plans, and portfolios of what has 
 been done, and, selecting here a thing and there a 
 thing, they put a house together as girls do patchwork 
 bed-spreads, a piece out of every dress in the family for 
 the last year or two. These are conventional houses. 
 Such are almost all city houses — the original type of 
 which was a ladder ; from each round, rooms issue, in 
 ascending order, and the perpendicular stairs still retain 
 the peculiar properties of the type. Such, too, are 
 almost all ambitious country houses, built in conspicu- 
 ous places, in the most intrusive and come-and-look- 
 at-me manner; painted as brilliantly as flash peddlers 
 Wagons, or parrots' wings. 
 
 Until men are educated, and good taste is far more 
 common than it is, this method of building houses, 
 by the architect's plans, and not by the owner's dispo- 
 sition, must prevail ; and it is not the worst of earth's 
 imperfections. But a genuine house, an original house, 
 a house that expresses the builder's inward idea of 
 life in its social and domestic aspect, can not be 
 planned for him ; nor can he, all at once, sit down and 
 plan it. It must be a result of his own growth. It 
 must first be wanted — each room and each nook. But, 
 as we come to ourselves little by little and gradually, 
 so a house should either be built by successive addi- 
 tions, or it should be built when we are old enough to 
 put together the accumulated ideas of our life. Alas' 
 when we are old enough for that, we are ready to die ; 
 or Time hath dealt so rudely with our hearts, that, like 
 trees at whose boughs tempests have wrought, we are 
 
BUILDING A HOUSE. 291 
 
 not anxious to give expression to ourselves. The best 
 way to build, therefore, is to build, as trees grow, season 
 by season ; all after-branches should grow with a sym- 
 metrical sympathy with older ones. In this way, too, one 
 may secure that mazy diversity, that most unlooked-for 
 intricacy in a dwelling, and that utter variation of lines 
 in the exterior, which pleases the eye, or ought to 
 please it, if it be trained in the absolute school of 
 Nature, and which few could ever invent at once, and 
 on purpose! 
 
 We abhor Grecian architecture for private dwellings, 
 and especially for country homes. It is cheerless, pre- 
 tentious, frigid. Those cold long-legged columns, hold- 
 ing up a useless pediment that shelters nothing and 
 shades nothing, reminds one of certain useless men in 
 society, for ever occupied with maintaining their dignity, 
 which means their perpendicularity. In spite of Mr. 
 Ruskin, we do like Grecian architecture in well-placed 
 public buildings. But it gives us a shiver to see dwell- 
 ings so stiff and stately. 
 
 "We have, too, a special doctrine of windows. They are 
 designed to let the light in, and equally to let the sight 
 out ; and this last function is, in the country, of prime 
 importance. For, a window is but another name for a 
 stately picture. There are no such landscapes on can- 
 vas as those which you see through glass. There are 
 no painted windows like those which trees and lawns 
 paint standing in upon them, with all the glory of God 
 resting on them ! Our common, small, frequent win- 
 dows in country dwellings are contemptible. We love 
 
292 BUILDING A HOUSE. 
 
 rather the generous old English windows, large as the 
 whole side of a room, many-angled, or circular ; but, 
 of whatever shape, they should be recessed — glorious 
 nooks of light, the very antitheses of those shady 
 coverts which we search out in forests, in hot summer 
 days. These little chambers of light, into which a 
 group may gather, and be both in doors and out of 
 doors at the same time ; where, in storms or in winter, 
 we may have full access to the elements without chill, 
 wet, or exposure, — these are the glory of a dwelling. 
 The great treasures of a dwelling are, the child's cradle, 
 the grandmother's chair, the hearth and old-fashioned 
 fire-place, the table, and the window. 
 
 Bed-rooms should face the east, and let in the full 
 flush of morning light. There is a positive pleasure in a 
 golden bath of early morning light. Your room is filled 
 and glorified. You awake in the very spirit of light. It 
 creeps upon you, and suffuses your soul, pierces your 
 sensibility, irradiates the thoughts, and warms and 
 cheers the whole day. It is sweet to awake and find 
 your thoughts moving to the gentle measures of soft 
 music ; but we think it full as sweet to float into morn- 
 ing consciousness upon a flood of golden light, silent 
 though it be ! What can be more delicious than a 
 summer morning, dawning through your open windows, 
 to the sound of innumerable birds, while the shadows 
 of branches and leaves sway to and fro along the wall, 
 or spread new patterns on the floor, wavering with 
 perpetual change 1 
 
XXVI. 
 
 CHRISTIAN LIBERT'S IN THE USE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 In an age when men more and more feel the duty 
 of employing their strength and their wealth for the 
 education of their fellows, it becomes a question of 
 supreme moment, to what extent a Christian man may 
 surround himself with embellishments and luxuries of 
 beauty. 
 
 There be many who would walk through a noble 
 gallery of paintings with an accusing conscience, re- 
 peating to themselves, with poignant sincerity, the hol- 
 low words of the old traitor, when the alabaster box of 
 precious ointment was poured upon His head, "To 
 
 what purpose is this tvaste ? "Why was it not 
 
 sold for three hundred pence, and given to the poor ?" 
 
 Nor is the self-accusation lessened when one perceives 
 that elegance and luxury are most often employed as a 
 shining barrier, built up between the cultured and the 
 vulgar — the barrier around a class more impenetrable 
 than the conventional distinctions of artificial nobility. 
 For no customs of law or usage have such force as 
 those which spring from the soul's own living con- 
 sciousness of difference and superiority. 
 
 Many earnest men, therefore, have associated embel- 
 lishments with selfishness, and forswear them as a part 
 of their fealty to Benevolence. 
 
294 CHRISTIAN LIBERTY IN THE 
 
 It seems to me that God has ordained a usefulness of 
 the beautiful, as much as of knowledge, of skill, of 
 labor, and of benevolence. It was meant to be not 
 alone a cause of enjoyment, but a positive means of 
 education. Is wealth allowable, if one will employ it 
 benevolently ? Is philosophy allowable, if one will 
 apply it to the uses of men ? Is scholarship virtuous, 
 if it be a treasure held in trust for all kinds of igno- 
 rance ? Is skill praiseworthy, if employed to promote 
 the human weal ? And why is not the possession of 
 architectural beauty, of art-treasures, of landscape beauty, 
 the beauty of grounds and gardens, of homes and fur- 
 niture, if they are held conscientiously amenable to the 
 law of usefulness ? 
 
 Society grows, as trees do, by rings. There are innu- 
 merable circles formed, with mutual attractions. The 
 lowest section feels and emulates that which is next 
 above ; that circle is aspiring to the level next above it. 
 This one, in its turn, is attracted by one yet higher; 
 and that by another. 
 
 There are some influences, to be sure, that are gen- 
 eral, and that strike right through from top to bottom 
 of life. And there are many special influences which, 
 like comets, come unexpectedly blazing along their 
 orbits, with streaming influences, long trailed. But 
 there are certain organic conditions of life, founded 
 upon gradations of mind-power, or of development. 
 
 The ditcher aspires to the position of a husbandman ; 
 the apprentice emulates the prosperous master- mechanic; 
 the mechanic looks up to those whose wealth is allied 
 
USE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 295 
 
 to education; the plainly-bred citizen aspires to the 
 mental activity of professional men and scholars ; and 
 these, in turn, acknowledge gradations among them- 
 selves to the very top of genius ; and all men are 
 reaching after some ideal, or some example that hangs 
 above them. So that, when a man has no longer any 
 conception of excellence above his own, his voyage is 
 done, he is dead — dead in trespasses and sins of blear- 
 eyed vanity ! 
 
 We can not always tell the exact gradations, nor mark 
 off the sections like inches on a rule. Society is so vast 
 a thing, that its growths are like the luxurious up- 
 sp routines of a tropical forest, choked with abundance, 
 forcing ip its vines and plants and trees, in sinuous 
 interfacings that quite bewilder the eye that would 
 trace the outward form, or the research that would fol- 
 low the flow of sap from rootlet to topmost leaf. Yet, 
 we know that it is in society as it is in vegetation. It 
 is not the sun upon the root that begins growth in a 
 tree, but the sun upon its top. The outermost wood 
 awakes and draws upon that below it, and sends pro- 
 gressing activity down to its root. Then begins a double 
 circulation. The root sends up its crude sap, the leaf 
 prepares, it with all vegetative treasures, and back it 
 goes on a mission of distribution to every part, to the 
 outmost root. And thus, with striking analogy, is it in 
 society. The great mass are producing gross material 
 that rises up to refinement and power, that, in turn, 
 send back the influence of refinement and power upon 
 all the successive degrees, to the bottom ! 
 
296 CHRISTIAN LIBERTY IN THE 
 
 It is in this point of view that the very highest forms 
 of literary and scientific institutions are to be judged 
 and justified. 
 
 An astronomical observatory may seem to have no 
 relation to the welfare of a community. What have 
 eclipses and planetary transits to do with human life ? 
 When the invisible paths o p all stars are traced by 
 mathematical faith, what have parallaxes and multitu- 
 dinous calculations to do with men's ordinary business? 
 But experience will, in a generation, show, that those 
 who first feel the fruits and elevation of such pursuits 
 will be few ; but they will become broader, deeper, and 
 better. Through them, but diluted and not recognized, 
 the next class below will be influenced — not by astron- 
 omy, but by the moral power of men who have been 
 elevated by astronomy. Every part of society is af- 
 fected when men are built up. They impart their own 
 growth to whatever they touch. Enlarge men, and you 
 enlarge everything. 
 
 There be some who rail at universities as too remote 
 from practical life and living wants, and who propose 
 colleges to teach men their very trades and professions. 
 But these subordinate colleges will depend upon the 
 superior influences of institutions above them, that are 
 the standards — the Chronometers of Learning. 
 
 There never can be too many libraries, too many 
 cabinets, too many galleries of art, too many literary 
 men, too much culture. The power of mind at the top 
 of society will determine the ease and rapidity of the 
 ascent of the bottom — just as the power of the engine 
 
USE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 297 
 
 at the top of the inclined plane will determine the 
 length of th,3 train that can be drawn up, and the rapid- 
 ity of its ascent. 
 
 This marks the distinction between natural and arti- 
 ficial nobility. All societies have nobles. We have a 
 nobility as really as do monarchies. But in England it 
 is an order separated from those below ; and there is no 
 free circulation. No one can rise into it by force of 
 moral excellence and culture, though he may be really 
 equal to its members. Artificial aristocracy stands look- 
 ing down upon the mass of men, as did Father Abraham, 
 saying : " Betiveen us and you there is a great gulf fixed, 
 so that they which would pass hence to you can not ; neither 
 can they pass to us that would come from thence. v 
 
 Natural aristocracy is the eminence of men over theii 
 fellow's, in real mind and soul. They are above men 
 because they are wiser and better ; and any one may 
 join them whenever he is as wise and as good. They 
 are above society, not to spread their roots in the great 
 democracy and sustain the glory of the field by filching 
 out its strength, but rather, as clouds are above the 
 earth, to open their bosoms, and cast down fertilizing 
 rains, that all the earth, and every living thing, may 
 rejoice. 
 
 It is upon this great principle that men may become 
 the benefactors of their race by the indulgence of beauty, 
 and embellishments, if they be employed generously 
 and public-spiriteclly. Every mansion that enlarges men's 
 conceptions of convenience, of comfort, of substantial- 
 ness and permanence, or of beauty, is an institution. 
 13* 
 
298 CHRISTIAN LIBERTY IN THE 
 
 It may have been selfishness that built it ; extrava- 
 gance may have been the ruling spirit. The owner 
 may have been some imbecile for whose vanity some 
 noble architect wrought ; the completed work may 
 leave the luckless owner bankrupt ; and all men may 
 deride the folly of costly buildings and expensive 
 grounds. Every reproach may fall upon his empty 
 head most righteously ; yet his folly may have done 
 more for the village than the wisdom of all the rest ! 
 
 The work is done. What that stately mansion is, it 
 is in itself. It stands through generations a form of 
 beauty lifted up. When, its owner's history is a legend, 
 its lines will stand unbroken, its shadows will be as fresh 
 as on the day when they first fell trembling from the 
 glances of the sun. The old trees will outlive genera- 
 tions of men. They will proclaim the glory of God to 
 the eye by day, and awake at midnight, in the summer- 
 winds, to sing their solemn song of praise ! 
 
 But how much more will all this be, if such a structure 
 is in due proportion to its builder's means ; if it be no 
 creature of his vanity, but born legitimately of his sense 
 of grandeur and beauty ; if it be the magazine, too, of 
 his beneficence, so that out of it shall issue all gentle- 
 ness, all due humility, all neighborly love, all grace 
 and purity of life, and, effluent as the golden airs of 
 summer days, charities and public bounties, enriching 
 the wide circle about, and making angels stoop to kiss 
 with reverent love the noble brow that lived in such 
 joy of beauty as this ! 
 
 It is wealth selfishly kept or spent that is mean. 
 
USE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 299 
 
 It is architecture that shuts a man's heart in from his 
 fellows that is mean ; that stands with effronter}'-, saying 
 to all who pass, " Come and worship me." 
 
 It is selfishness, in short, under what form of knowl- 
 edge, refinement, power, wealth, or beauty, that curses 
 man, and is itself accursed. 
 
 The question is not what proportion of his wealth a 
 Christian man may divert from benevolent channels for 
 personal enjoyment through the element of the beauti- 
 ful. For, if rightly viewed, and rightly used, his very 
 elegances and luxuries will be a contribution to the 
 public good. One may well say, " How can I indulge 
 in such embellishments in my dwelling, when so many 
 thousands are perishing for lack of knowledge about 
 me." This is conclusive against a selfish use of the 
 beautiful. But rightly employed, it becomes itself a 
 contribution to the education of society. It acts upon 
 the lower classes by acting first upon the higher. It is 
 an education of the educators. And the question be- 
 comes only this : How much of my wealth given to the 
 public good shall be employed directly for the elevation 
 of the ignorant, and how much indirectly? How much 
 shall I bring to bear directly upon the masses, and how 
 much indirectly through institutions and remote instru- 
 mentalities ? 
 
 I can not but think that Christian men have not only 
 a right of enjoyment in the beautiful, but a duty, in 
 some measure, of producing it, or propagating it, or dif- 
 fusing it abroad through the community. 
 
 Some may build their work in words, and live in 
 
300 CHRISTIAN LIBERTY IN THE 
 
 literature. Some may shape their sense into sound, and 
 live in the world's song. Some may insphere them- 
 selves in art, and transmit the statue, the canvas, or the 
 stately pile. 
 
 Some may contribute to this realm of beauty in that 
 only department in which America has an original 
 architecture with native lines of beauty, expressed in 
 those storm-driven Temples of the Deep. 
 
 And if there are aspiring natures that wistfully ask, 
 with empty hands, What may we with our poverty do 
 to embellish the earth, to them I say, When all the 
 works of man are ended, he has not approached the 
 inexpressible beauty of God's architecture. 
 
 Those stately elms, that teach us every winter how 
 meekly to lay our glories by, and receive the reverses 
 of inevitable misfortune, and that soon will teach us to 
 look forth out of all misfortunes, and clothe ourselves 
 afresh after every winter, what have ye that may com- 
 pare with them? The cathedrals of the world are not 
 traced as these, nor so adorned, nor so full of commu- 
 nion, nor have they pliant boughs on which with hum- 
 ble might they swing the peaceful singing-bird, and 
 from whose swaying, night or day, there is music in 
 the air for them that know the sound ! Of all man's 
 works of art, a cathedral is greatest. A tree is greater 
 than that! Of all man's instruments of sound, an 
 organ uttering its mazy harmonies through the somber 
 arches of the reverend pile, is the grandest; but the 
 sound of summer in the forest, is grander than that ! 
 
 And, if we wander out from the arid city till we 
 
USE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. 301 
 
 come to these crowned monarchs of the fields, we need 
 not be ashamed to stand with lifted hands and bless our 
 God for a gift of beauty greater than any man may 
 . build ! 
 
 It is, then, here, that every one may yield to life 
 some embellishment. To the home of your youth you 
 may return with gathered wealth to replant it with 
 flowers. Your native village you may imbosom in 
 well-selected forests. The traveler may, in another 
 generation, journey along our roads, overarched with 
 elms or shaded with stately oaks. 
 
 Your villages may grow lovely in a thousand features 
 now unknown. Every yard and garden may be a 
 paradise. 
 
 The church, no longer gaunt, shattered, and decay- 
 ing, may, by the loving hands of those whose boyhood 
 was nurtured there, rise in renewed beauty. Or, if its 
 hereditary ailments or proportions defy remedy, from 
 your zeal may spring another structure, harmonious in 
 every proportion, a joy to the eye, signaling the distant 
 traveler with its spire, its solemn bell, through all the 
 hours of day and night, ringing out the sound of our 
 footsteps toward eternity ! 
 
 The old graveyard, that shame of many villages, 
 where death and weeds reign triumphant over the for- 
 gotten -.gravqg of parents and dear hearts, hath thy 
 hand no bounty wherewith to yield to it a reverend 
 beauty ? 
 
 Shall the old school-house stand longer mounted in 
 the eye of the summer sun, the very target of the 
 
302 CHRISTIAN LIBERTY, ETC. 
 
 winter wind, treeless, bare, filthy ? By thy bounteous 
 hand let it be cleansed by fire, and from its ashes bid 
 arise a phenix that shall be just what for the most 
 part school-houses are not. 
 
 But in all your labors for the Beautiful, remember 
 that its mission is not of corruption, nor of pride, nor 
 of selfishness, but of benevolence ! And as God hath 
 created beauty, not for a few, but hath furnished it for 
 the whole earth, multiplying it until, like drops of 
 water and particles of air, it abounds for every living 
 thing,, and in measure far transcending human want, 
 until the world is a running-over cup, so let thine heart 
 understand both the glory of God's beauty and the 
 generosity of its distribution. So living, life shall be a 
 glory, and death a passing from glory to glory 1 
 
XXVII. 
 
 NATURE A MINISTER OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 Lenox, August 27, 1854. 
 
 It was not meant that the enjoyments of life should 
 be few and intense, but many and gentle;* and great 
 happiness is the sum of a multitude of drops. Those 
 days which are the channels of mighty joys are, per- 
 haps, the most memorable. But they exhaust. They 
 unfit us for common duties. We regard them as we do 
 mountain-tops. We go up occasionally, not to dwell 
 there, but to see at a glance the whole of that which, 
 upon the plains, we see only in succession and in detail. 
 But the staple of pleasure must be found in small mea- 
 sures, and in common things. They who are seeking 
 enjoyment in remote ways, abandoning familiar things 
 and common experience for wild and outstretched 
 flights, will find more and more, as life advances, that 
 they have taken the road to yearnings, but not to en- 
 joyment. The secret of happiness lies in the health of 
 the whole mind, and in giving to each faculty due 
 occupation, and in the natural order of their superiori- 
 ties, the Divine first, the human second, the material 
 last. And every one can find, but in different degrees, 
 the food for all their faculties in that sphere into which 
 God has cast their lot. Instead of seeking happiness 
 / by going out of our place, our skill should be to find 
 it where we are. Our pleasures, like honey, should 
 
304 NATURE A MINISTER OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 be extracted not from a few stately flowers, named and 
 classic, but from the whole multitude, great and small, 
 which God has sown with profuse hand to smile in 
 every nook, and to make the darkest corners warm 
 with their glowing presence. Every thing which is 
 made has an errand to us, if we will hear. No differ- 
 ence among men is more noticeable than the facility of 
 happiness. No gift of God should be more gratefully 
 recognized than a nature easily tending toward enjoy- 
 ment. So that of its own accord, it avoids sources of 
 annoyance, and discerns in every thing some ray of 
 brightness. 
 
 On such a glorious morning of a perfect day as this, 
 when all the smoky haze has gone from the horizon, 
 when the sun comes up fresh and clear, and will go 
 down unreddened by vapor, the mountains come back 
 from their hiding, and I wander forth, wondering how 
 there should be sorrow in the world. It seems as if it 
 were a thing that I had read about in fictions, but had 
 half-forgotten, like a fading dream. Every sense is 
 calmly alive, and every faculty that lies back of sense 
 is quietly exultant. My soul is like a hive, and it 
 swarms with thoughts and feelings going nimbly out, 
 and returning with golden thighs to the growing comb. 
 Each hour is a perfect hour, clear, full, and unsated. 
 It is the joy of being alive. It is the experience of 
 that living joy which God meant to exhale from each 
 faculty, just as odors do from flowers. Such days are 
 let down from heaven. On such days the gate that 
 looks toward the earth has surely been set wide open,. 
 
NATURE A MINISTER OF HAPPINESS. 305 
 
 and hours are but the spaces which lie between the 
 angels that God sends to bear to us immortal joys. 
 
 From the grand tranquillity that reigns on every side 
 I turn my thoughts, with dreamy surprise, to those 
 whirlpools of excitement where men strive for honor, 
 and know not what is honorable ; for wealth, and do 
 not know true riches ; for pleasure, and are ignorant 
 of the first elements of pleasure. There comes to me 
 a sad sense of the turmoil of men fiercely bent upon 
 happiness, who will never know it. They are starving 
 amidst unexampled abundance. In their Father's house 
 is bread enough and to spare, and a divine wine that 
 inspires ardor, without intoxication, within the soul. 
 Why should they be furrowed with care, and my un- 
 wrinkled heart be purpled over with blossoming joy ? 
 Are we not made alike? Have they not every one 
 of the faculties that I have? Every sense that rings 
 to the strokes of joy they have even as I have. 
 And they have, too, the very things that make me 
 supremely joyful, a hope of immortality, a present and 
 paternal God, the sun, the face of the world, the clouds, 
 the trees and the birds which keep house in them, the air, 
 the innumerable grass ! It is not any thing that I own, 
 it is no stroke of grand fortune, no special success, that 
 rejoices me. It is nothing but the influence of those 
 things in which every man has common possession — 
 days, nights, forests, mountains, atmosphere, universal 
 and unmonopolized nature! But having eyes they 
 will not see, and ears they will not hear, and a heart 
 they will not understand. As the old prophet touched 
 
306 NATURE A MINISTER OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 his servant's eyes, and he beheld the mountains filled 
 with the angels and chariots of God, and feared no 
 more; so, methinks, if I could but bring the eager 
 thousands forth who pant and strive for joy, only for 
 joy, and unseal their eyes, they should behold and 
 know assuredly that happiness was not in all the places 
 where they delve and vex themselves. In the presence 
 of these heavenly hours, riches, touched with the finger 
 of God, would say, "Joy is not in me." Fame would 
 say, "It is not in me." Passion, hoarse from toils of 
 grossness, would say, "It is not in me." And amidst 
 their confessions a voice should come down through the 
 clear air from heaven and the very bosom of Christ, 
 saying, " Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are 
 heavy laden, and I will give you rest." In that rest, 
 which Christ gives every created thing, lies an at- 
 mosphere of enchanted beauty ! 
 
 Yea, Lord ! that promise is a highway without a 
 chasrn. Ten thousand feet have trod it, and found it 
 true. My own soul knoweth it right well. And this 
 out-spread crystal vault is full of the light of thy 
 countenance. This earth, which the sun unrolls and 
 reads daily, is thy written parchment! It were a dead 
 and mute thing but for the presence of the living God. 
 As upon mountain-tops, the noise of the valley dies 
 away and is not heard, and men's dwellings are no 
 bigger than leaves, and all the mightiest uproars are 
 whispers, and the silent spectator looks down upon life 
 unharassed by its currents, so, in such hours as this, 
 the soul stands with God, and moves somewhat in the 
 
STATURE A MINISTER OF HAPPINESS. 307 
 
 eternal course of the Divine soul ; while the eddies, 
 the dark dangers of the deep pools in life's rocky 
 stream, the hoarse, rushing, and impetuous outburst of 
 the furious currents of human passions are so far below, 
 that we either see them not or see them as a silent 
 vapor! Thus, Lord, wilt thou hide whom thou 
 choosest in thy pavilion, and the storm shall thunder 
 unheard beneath them, the darkness shall be light 
 around about them, and perfect peace shall abide upon 
 their hearts for ever ! 
 
 Is it Nature that_ has the power of conferring such 
 religious joy, or is it Religion that inspires Nature to 
 such celestial functions? To a Christian heart it is 
 both. The soul seeks and sees God through nature, 
 and nature changes its voice, speaking no longer of 
 mere material grandeur and beauty, but declares through 
 all its parts the glory of God. Then when Christ is 
 most with us, do we find nature the most loving, the 
 most inspired ; and it evolves a deeper significance, in 
 all its phases, and chants, with its innumerable voices, 
 solemn but jubilant hymns of praise to God! 
 
 But let no one go forth to declare what nature shall 
 do for him. Let no one sound the key-note of his own 
 desire first, and ask nature to take up the harmony and 
 evolve it. Let one go as a little child, opening his 
 heart, and waiting to see what God shall do unto him. 
 Let him accept just what is sent — clouds when clouds 
 are sent, sunlight when sunlight comes; little things, 
 rude things — all things. 
 
 The fullest enjoyment of the country does not arise 
 
308 NATURE A MINISTER OF HAPPINESS 
 
 from stray excitements acting in straight lines; not 
 from august mountains, wide panoramas, awful gorges, 
 nor from any tiling that runs in upon yon with strong 
 stimulations. All these things have their place. But 
 they are occasional. They are the sub-base, and come 
 in as the mighty undertone upon which soft and 
 various melodies float. A thousand daily little things 
 make their offering of pleasure to those who know how 
 to be pleased. 
 
 We have said that there is no difference between one 
 person and another more characteristic and noticeable 
 than the facility of being happy. Some seem pierced 
 with half a hundred windows, through which stream 
 warmth, light, and sounds of delight. Others have but 
 one or two stately doors, and they are mostly shut. 
 Some persons are always breaking out into happiness, 
 because every thing is bringing them pleasure. It 
 comes in at the eye, and at the ear, at the portals of 
 smell, taste, and touch, in things little and great, in 
 shapes and colors, in contrasts and analogies, in exacti- 
 tudes, and in fanciful associations ; in homely life, and 
 in wild and grand life. But others there are that go 
 for enjoyment to nature just as they dress for company, 
 and receive pleasure formally, and in the stiffness of 
 ceremony. They march out to behold noble aspects, as 
 if they felt bound, to keep up a respectable show before 
 nature. The full enjoyment of nature requires that we 
 should be as many-sided as nature herself. It is to be 
 considered that God found a reason of pleasure in 
 every individual thing which he has made, and that an 
 
NATUEE A MINISTER OF HAPPINESS. 309 
 
 education on our part, toward God in nature, consists 
 in developing in ourselves a pleasure in every single 
 object which exists about us. So sadly are we brought 
 up in this respect, that it must be a very serious educa- 
 tion to most persons. 
 
 As things go in our utilitarian age, men look upon 
 the natural world in one of three ways : the first, as a 
 foundation for industry, and all objects are regarded in 
 their relations to industry. Grass is for hay, flowers 
 are for medicine, springs are for dairies, rocks are for 
 quarries, trees are for timber, streams are for naviga- 
 tion or for milling, clouds are for rain, and rain is foi 
 harvests. The relation of an object to some commer- 
 cial or domestic economy, is the end of observation. 
 Beyond that there is no interest to it. 
 
 The second aspect in which men behold nature, is 
 the purely scientific. We admire a man of science 
 who is so all-sided that he can play with fancy or 
 literality, with exactitudes or associations, just as he will. 
 But a mere man of accuracy, one of those conscientious- 
 eyed men, that will never see any thing but just what 
 is there, and who insist upon bringing every thing to 
 terms ; who are for ever dissecting nature, and coming 
 to the physical truths in their most literal forms, these 
 men are our horror. We should as soon take an 
 analytic chemist to dine with us, that he might explain 
 the constituent elements of every morsel that we ate ; 
 or an anatomist into a social company, to describe the 
 bones, and muscles, and nerves that were in full play 
 in the forms of dear friends. Such men think that 
 
310 NATURE A MINISTER OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 nature is perfectly understood when her mechanism is 
 known; when her gross and physical facts are regis- 
 tered, and when all her details are catalogued and de- 
 scribed. These are nature's dictionary-makers. These 
 are the men who think that the highest enjoyment of 
 a dinner would be to be present in the kitchen and 
 that they might see how the food is compounded and 
 cooked. 
 
 A third use of nature is that which poets and artists 
 make, who look only for beauty. 
 
 All of these are partialists. They all misinterpret, 
 because they all proceed as if nature were constructed 
 upon so meager a schedule as that which they peruse ; 
 as if it were a mere matter of science, or of commercial 
 use, or of beauty ; whereas these are but single develop- 
 ments among hundreds. 
 
 The earth has its physical structure and machinery, 
 well worth laborious study ; it has its relations to 
 man's bodily wants, from which spring the vast activi- 
 ties of industrial life ; it has its relations to the social 
 faculties, and the finer sense of the beautiful in the 
 soul ; but far above all these are its declared uses, as 
 an interpreter of God, a symbol of invisible spiritual 
 truths, the ritual of a higher life, the highway upon 
 which our thoughts are to travel toward immortality, 
 and toward the realm of just men made perfect that do 
 inherit it. 
 
 JNo one who has made himself conversant with the. 
 representations given of the natural world by the 'old 
 Hebrew mind, but will feel the infidelity of our modern 
 
NATURE A MINISTER OF HAPPINESS. 311 
 
 occidental mind. When the old prophet felt his sense 
 kindled by the divine touch, and read the face of the 
 heavens and of the earth, as God meant them to be 
 read, how full of meaning and of majesty were the 
 clouds, the mountains, the morning and the evening, 
 the storms, the birds and beasts, the insects, and the 
 grass through which they creep ! 
 
 When clouds begin to gather, and, growing dark and 
 blacker, travel up from the horizon full of solemn intent, 
 their folds moving upon themselves, and their whole 
 aspect full of an unspeakable majesty, as if they did not 
 see the earth, nor know so small a thing in their head- 
 long march toward some distant goal, the Anglo-Saxon 
 remarks that it is a fine thunder gust, and speculates 
 upon the probability of rain ! The old Hebrew would 
 chant, in low and reverent tone, " He bowed the 
 heavens also, and came down, and darkness was under 
 his feet, and he rode upon a cherub, and did fly, yea 
 he did fly upon the wings of the wind. He made 
 darkness his secret place ; his pavilion round about him 
 were dark waters and thick clouds of the sky." Thus 
 gazing upon the grandeur of the gathering storm, be- 
 holding in it the robes which hid the majesty of Jeho- 
 vah, the clouds are rent with lightnings, and the 
 heaven roars with awful thunders which fly in terrible 
 echoes from cloudy cliff to cliff, bellowing and rolling 
 away in sullen sounds into interior depths of the 
 heaven. It is the voice of God. It is the glance of the 
 eye of Him upon whom no man can look and live : 
 " The Lord also thundered in the heavens, and the 
 
312 NATURE A MINISTER OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 Highest gave his voice, hail-stones and coals of 
 fire." 
 
 As the burden of the storm passes, and we see its 
 fiery forks plunging upon the mountain with silent 
 vehemence, we say, the lightning struck something; 
 and we reflect upon electricity and lightning-rods, upon 
 Dr. Franklin and his kite. The old Hebrew would 
 have thought : These be the arrows which God 
 shooteth forth. He searcheth out his enemies. The 
 Lord sitteth upon the flood. The Lord sitteth King 
 for ever ! All the aspects of the earth ministered sub- 
 lime conceptions of God. Mountains were his high- 
 way. The clear, open sky, declared his glory. The 
 light was his raiment of joy ; the darkness of storms his 
 terrible apparel of judgment. Flowers and sparrows 
 iaught his providence and care. 
 
 Our modern method of instructing ourselves in the 
 attributes of God is the philosophical method, or th« 
 method of ideas, as distinguished from the natural, or the 
 method of feeling and imagination. Seeking to evolve 
 a more symmetrical and thorough view of God, we have 
 relied almost wholly upon the reasoning faculties. Our 
 Deity is a system of attributes. To the Hebrews, God 
 was a Living Presence ; to us he is a remote category 
 of abstractions. 
 
 The Hebrew found God in nature, we in the cate- 
 chism. We do not say that there are no advantages in 
 a psychological method; but only, that whatever we 
 gain in that direction, we can never come to a sense of 
 a living and present God, until we also include in our 
 
NATURE A MINISTER OF HAPPINESS. 313 
 
 methods the old Hebrew way of beholding God in 
 living activity, moving in the heavens and along the 
 earth, guiding the day and the night, and as variously 
 active as all the flowers, the trees, the birds, the beasts, 
 and the nations of men, whom he creates, and leads 
 forth with daily care and love. 
 14 
 
XXVIII. 
 
 SPKINGS AND SOLITUDES. 
 
 Lenox, October, 1854. 
 
 I HAVE always wished that there might be a rock- 
 spring upon my place. I could wish to have, back of 
 the house some two hundred yards, a steep and tree- 
 covered height of broad, cold, and mossy rocks ; rocks 
 that have seen trouble, and been upheaved by deep inward 
 forces, and that are lying in every way of noble confusion, 
 full of clefts, and dark and mysterious passages, without 
 echoes in them, upholstered with mosses and pendulous 
 vines. Upon all this silent tumult of wild and shat- 
 tered rocks, struck through with stillness and rest, the 
 thick forests should shed down a perpetual twilight. 
 The only glow that ever chased away its solemn 
 shadows should be the red rose-light of sunsets, shot 
 beneath the branches and through the trunks, lighting 
 up the gray rocks with strange golden glory. What 
 light is so impressive as this last light of the day 
 streaming into a forest so dark that even insects leave 
 it silent. 
 
 In such a rock-forest as I have spoken of, far up in 
 one of its silent aisles, a spring should burst forth, 
 making haste from the seams of the rock, as if just 
 touched with the prophet's rod, cold, clear, copious, and 
 musical from its birth. All the way to the outer edge 
 
SPRINGS AND SOLITUDES. 315 
 
 of the forest it should find its own channels, and live 
 its own life, unshaped by human hands. But, before 
 the sun touched it, we would have a rock-reservoir, into 
 which it should gather its congregation of drops, now 
 about to go forth into useful life. Thence it should 
 have liberty of will to flow through strong pipes into 
 every chamber of the house. And it should be to 
 every room copious as the atmosphere, so that one 
 might bathe in molten ice every hour of the day, if he 
 chose, without fear of exhausting the fountain, and in 
 the joy of abundance beyond all squandering. 
 
 Just such a spring I have not, and can not have. 
 One just as different as possible I have, at the bottom 
 of the hill, in the open field. There are no vines or 
 bushes to cover it in summer ; no trees send down their 
 fiery leaves to be quenched in its autumnal stream. It 
 bubbles up from a soft soil, and flows away through 
 rank grasses. Coming up from a bed of gravel, it is 
 every day shifting its mouth, and if stopped up in one 
 place, it breaks out in another, like the heart's instincts, 
 whose channels you may appoint, but whose flowing is 
 beyond your control. I have often scooped away the 
 soil trodden by cattle all about this cold-boiling spring. 
 For a moment the little pool will be full of sand and 
 mud ; and I have never watched it clearing itself and 
 coming back to transparency without thinking that just 
 so human life cleanses itself. A stagnant heart, when 
 deeply disturbed, is long in settling ; but a living, out- 
 flowing heart, carries away its sorrows down its own 
 stream, and deposits them speedily far from the fount. 
 
316 SPRINGS AND SOLITUDES. 
 
 It is all that my poor little spring can do, in summer, 
 to maintain a respectable drink for the cattle which 
 pasture about it. But these are the days of its humilia- 
 tion. It has periods of greatness. In the spring and 
 in late autumn, it is the happy parent of an illustrious 
 stream of water, that, even at a hundred paces distant, is 
 ankle deep. It is possessed by the pretty vanity of all 
 rivers, and flowing down a little ways, it turns back to 
 see what it has been doing, thus twining and looping 
 itself, like a bit of white ribbon carelessly thrown down. 
 It lifts up its voice over roots, and gurgles around 
 stones ; it excavates little pools, and institutes in them 
 all the bubbles, the pet eddies, and diminutive currents, 
 upper and under, which big rivers are known to prac- 
 tice on a larger scale. Indeed, it has also its pin-fish, 
 and when, some acres further down, it has earned the 
 title of brook, it is the belief of all the boys in this 
 neighborhood that there are trout in it. But these 
 mythical personages, like ancient ghosts, are never seen 
 by any who go on purpose to see them. But you will 
 find much else well worth seeing if you walk, on a right 
 cool day, down all the brook-side to the edge of Laurel 
 Lake, not a long though a circuitous walk. For there 
 is a peculiar charm in a perfectly transparent brook, 
 flowing gently over a pebbly bottom, in and out of 
 bushes, across the road, through the meadows, zig-zag, 
 up and down, winding about as if it were, like our- 
 selves, sauntering for mere pleasure, and searching for 
 all the beautiful places. What can be more delightful 
 than a clear-eyed brook by the road-side, traveling for 
 
SPRINGS AND SOLITUDES. 317 
 
 miles with you, sometimes hid but heard, then flashing 
 out with impetuous joy of return, eyeing you from 
 around a rock, or spreading itself a little that it may 
 mimic your face in its dazzling mirror, then running 
 away again, under green bushes with a coy and sedate 
 look, as if mischief were far from its thoughts ; and 
 then dashing down a little descent, laughing all the 
 way at its own musical tricks ? Now it plashes right 
 across your path, to cool your horse's feet, if you ride — 
 your own, if you walk ; then you hear it running away 
 through the leaves of the wood, into which it has turned 
 apparently to cut up some extreme antics, not grave 
 enough for the open road. 
 
 But our little spring-begotten brook, after a mile's 
 circuit, gives up its individuality, and is spread abroad 
 through the pet lake. A beautiful sheet of water it is, 
 but more beautiful by far it was before rapacious hands 
 cleared away the fine forests that girded it round. But 
 no violence can destroy its morning brightness, nor the 
 delicate evening lights that glance from its tranquil 
 surface. I never pass it at evening, in the twilight, the 
 faint glow of the skies just dying out of its surface, and 
 the darkness settling down upon those edges which are 
 yet forest-shaded, without pausing to be stirred with its 
 mysterious influences. 
 
 But there is something besides poetry about the lake. 
 There is a "Water-Lily" larger than the largest Victoria 
 Begia that was ever exhibited at a horticultural show. 
 It is yellow within, white without, and green at the 
 bottom. It is so large that it will hold several persons. 
 
318 SPRINGS AND SOLITUDES. 
 
 and serves to enliven the lake, and bear us to the 
 fishing-grounds. But there is no use to which the boat 
 is ever put productive of more pleasure than mere 
 sauntering. We gently pull along the shores, with 
 strokes so quiet that hardly a bubble springs from the 
 oar, or a wake follows the keel. 
 
 Are there degrees in the sense of solitariness? One 
 is alone in a deep woods, but so much life is found even 
 there, and such nearness of objects that have life by 
 association, that we do not think of forests as lonely 
 places. Indeed, we used to feel, after long prairie rides, 
 a most refreshing joy when we struck the "timber." 
 We had company as soon as we had trees. Next in 
 loneliness is a hill-top, lifted up so high in the air that 
 you are above all houses, all objects, all near heights, 
 until you feel that you are inhabiting the very air. 
 There is a certain wild sense of solitariness in that, such 
 as one might be supposed to feel who should sail in a 
 balloon, in a quiet moonlight night, over forests, over 
 .mountains, over cities, that lay so far down that their 
 lights were like pale glow-worms by the road side. As 
 I walk in the silent evenings over the hill-top, and the 
 mountain winds come playing about my hair, it seems 
 as if I should certainly soon hear a voice of spirits ; — 
 and there is no loneliness greater than in a place where 
 one might meet with spirits of the air. 
 
 And yet, upon thinking again, we believe one to be 
 yet more solitary who sits alone in his little boat, upon 
 a wide piece of water, sees the sun go down, hears the 
 last noises of distant farms die away, sees the trees 
 
SPRINGS AND SOLITUDES. 319 
 
 growing dark and indistinct, sees the shadows creeping 
 upon the water and effacing all shore lines, sees the 
 stars coming one by one, hears every drop of water 
 dripping from his oar, hears all those sounds which 
 daylight never hears, which are unaccountable because 
 unfamiliar. As one thus lingers far into evening, sepa- 
 rated from life not by distance alone, but by the untrod 
 den waters, that will not endure a footstep, he almost 
 loses his own identity, so do fancies work upon him. 
 
 But there is a wide difference between solitudes 
 Some are very empty, and some very populous ; some 
 are dreary, and others most cheerful; some oppress 
 and suffocate the soul, while others refresh it, and 
 tempt it forth into that freedom from which it shrinks 
 among the hard ways of life ; — just as birds, in the deep 
 solitude of the woods will sing and disport themselves 
 as they never dare to do in the open air where hawks 
 are flying. 
 
 One ought to love society if he wishes to enjoy soli- 
 tude. It is a social nature that solitude works upon 
 with the most various power. If one is misanthropic, 
 and betakes himself to loneliness that he may get away 
 from hateful things, solitude is a silent emptiness to 
 him. But as, after a bell has tolled or rung, we hear 
 its sounds dying away in vibrations fainter and fainter, 
 and when they have wholly ceased, feel that the very 
 silence is musical too, so is it with solitude, which is but 
 a few bars of rest between strains of life, and would not 
 be what it is if we did not go from activity to it, and 
 into activity from it. 
 
320 SPRINGS AND SOLITUDES. 
 
 Silence is* thus a novelty ; and a sympathy with forms 
 of nature, and with phenomena of light or twilight, is 
 heightened by its contrast with ordinary experience. 
 Besides, one likes to stand out alone before himself. In 
 life he is acting and acted upon. A throng of excite- 
 ments are spurring him through various rapid races. 
 Self-consideration is almost lost. He scarcely knows 
 what of himself is himself, and what is but the working 
 of others upon him. It is good, now and then, to sit 
 by one's self, as if all the world were dead, and see 
 what is left of that which glowed and raged along the 
 arena. What are we out of temptation, out of excite- 
 ment? In the loom we are the shuttle, beaten back 
 and forth, carrying the thread of affairs out of which 
 grows the fabric of life. Slip the band ; stop the loom. 
 What is the thread ? What is the fabric ? 
 
 Then there are some thoughts that will no more 
 come upon the soul among rude sounds and harsh 
 labors than dews will fall at mid-day. There are 
 message-thoughts which come to us from God ; there 
 are soul-certainties of God himself; there are convic- 
 tions of immortality far deeper than reasonings ever 
 bring — intuitions, eye-sight, rather than deductions. 
 
 That longing which the soul feels that there should 
 be some voice of God, actual, audible, is never so great 
 as in solitudes of beautiful scenery. Why will He not 
 speak to us? What need of an everlasting silence? 
 We speak to Him, and none answers. We pour out 
 our heart's confession; it dies away into the air, and 
 none answers. We yearn and beseech for the food of 
 
SPRINGS AND SOLITUDES. 821 
 
 life, on which the soul of man must feed. Whatever we 
 get, we get it silently. Minds speak, trees speak, waters 
 speak, human life, with mingled myriad voices, speaks ; 
 but God never! He is the Eternal Silence. It was 
 not always so. In olden days men heard the voice of 
 God. It shall not always be so. That voice will be 
 heard again. I have a firm faith of the future. I shall 
 behold him face to face. I shall hear him and be satis- 
 fied. But oh ! in the struggle, in the task of duty, and 
 the strife of battle, one word of God would be worth all 
 the voices of that angelic choir which sang the coming 
 of Christ ! But wait, O my soul ! Thou art a seed 
 just sprouted. Ask not for blossoms before thy leaves 
 are grown ; ask not for fruit before thy blossoms open. 
 
 There are times in the seclusion of the forest, or upon 
 a sequestered lake, or upon ^a leafy hill-top, that one 
 can bear to unbury their dead, behold again their pale 
 faces, unlock old joys of love, and let the specters forth. 
 There are some things which one can think of only 
 once in a great while. 
 
 Our solitudes act upon affections and friendships 
 just as death does. For, death draws into the grave 
 not alone the dishonored body, but also all those weak- 
 nesses of the soul and imperfections which sprang from 
 its alliance with the body, and we then see our friends 
 purged from their faults, dressed in the rarest excel- 
 lencies, and touched with golden glory. Thus, too, is 
 it in the separation and solitude of the wilderness. 
 They whom we love rise up in a mellowed remem- 
 brance, as a tree stands charmed in a midsummer's 
 14* 
 
822 SPRINGS AND SOLITUDES. 
 
 moonlight, its broken branches hidden, its unequal 
 boughs all rounded out and softened into symmetry, 
 and the whole glowing with silver light, as if trans- 
 figured. Then we entertain thoughts of affection such 
 as might beseem a God. We enter into its royalties, 
 and conceive its function, and know that it is the life 
 of the world, the breath of every holy soul, the at- 
 mosphere of the Divine Heart, and the substance of 
 heaven. When the tranquil eye of God, looking 
 around, traces that circle within which love wholly 
 prevails, so that all things spring from it, and it lives in 
 them always and perfectly, then that circle is heaven, 
 and such are the bounds thereof. 
 
 But it is not yet so dark that we can not see those 
 dashes of wind upon the lake's' surface. See the dim 
 flash of distant lightnings upon the horizon ! At every 
 flash what piles of clouds, like mountainous rocks and 
 gloomy precipices, start forth in the heavens! Like 
 the dropping of a curtain the darkness hides them 
 again. They come and go, spring forth and drop back, 
 palpitate again in light, and die suddenly into dark- 
 ness. The wind moans in the woods. You can hear 
 the uplifted boughs, which you can not see, creaking 
 and groaning through the forest. As you wend your 
 way along the road, whirls of dust beset you. The air 
 grows darker. The stars are hidden. It is the coming 
 of the long-sought rain. For weeks there has been 
 drought. A heaven without the blessing of rain has 
 well-nigh devoured the earth. The shepherd of the air 
 has long since driven his fleecy flocks of cloud to pas- 
 
SPRINGS AND SOLITUDES. 323 
 
 ture in other realms, and none have wandered in the 
 clear, hot wilderness above us. So we shall have rain ! 
 Bring forth every vessel ! Let the eaves be watched ! 
 
 The night is spent, the sun comes up without a drop 
 of rain 1 The clouds are all gone, and the Drought yet 
 rules in the heavens and oppresses the earth! Will 
 not God hear the universal prayer for rain? A mil- 
 lion flowers pray for it ; innumerable forests reach 
 forth their hands for it ; every blade of the much- 
 enduring grass beseeches it ; men and beasts long for 
 it. How long, God ! how long ? 
 
XXIX. 
 
 MID-OCTOBER DAYS. 
 
 Lenox, October, 1854. 
 
 At this season of the year it requires but a few weeks, 
 and often but a few days, to work great changes upon 
 the face of Nature. Lenox in the middle of September 
 stood in untarnished green. Grass and flowers were 
 plump and succulent with copious juices. Here and 
 there a coquetting maple leaf displayed gay colors among 
 its yet sober fellow leaves. A shade of yellow, a bright 
 streak of red, might be seen in single trees, as if Nature, 
 like an artist, was trying its colors, to make sure of the 
 right shades before laying them upon the gorgeous 
 canvas. Yet all these made no impression upon the 
 vast front of the mountains around us, that still lay 
 patiently, like mighty dromedaries, camped down against 
 the horizon — a caravan that shall never rise up to the 
 voice of a driver, nor move, until He who formed them 
 shall scatter "them! 
 
 It is now mid-October. All things are changed. Of 
 all the railroads near New York none can compare for 
 beauty of scenery with the Housatonic from Newtown 
 up to Pittsfield, but especially from New Mil ford to 
 Lenox. 
 
 That scenery which a few weeks ago stood in 
 summer green now seemed enchanted. The Housa- 
 tonic was the same. The skies were the same. The 
 mountain forms were unchanged. But they had bios- 
 
MID-OCTOBER DAYS. 325 
 
 somed into resplendent colors from top to base. It was 
 strange to see such huge mountains, that are images of 
 firmness and majesty, now tricked out with fairy pomp, 
 as if all the spirits of the air had reveled there, and 
 hung their glowing scarfs on every leaf and bough. 
 "VVe were almost sorry to reach our destination and 
 leave the cars. But the first step on our own ground 
 brought content. 
 
 Once more I am upon this serene hill-top ! The air 
 is very clear, very still, and very solemn, or, rather, 
 tenderly sad, in its serene brightness. It is not that 
 moist spring air, full of the smell of wood, of the soil, 
 and of the odor of vegetation, which warm winds bring to 
 us from the south. It is not that summer atmosphere, 
 full of alternations of haze and fervent clearness, as if 
 Nature were brewing every day some influence for its 
 myriad children ; sometimes in showers, and sometimes 
 with coercive heat upon root and leaf; and, like a uni- 
 versal taskmaster, was driving up the hours to accom- 
 plish the labors of the year. No ! In these autumn 
 days there is a sense of leisure and of meditation. The 
 sun seems to look down upon the labors of its fiery 
 hands with complacency. Be satisfied, seasonable 
 Sun ! Thou hast shaped an ample year, and art gar- 
 nering up harvests which well may swell thy rejoicing 
 heart with gracious gladness. 
 
 One who breaks off in the summer, and returns in 
 autumn to the hills, needs almost to come to a new 
 acquaintance with the most familiar things. It is an- 
 other world ; or it is the old world a-masquerading ; - 
 
326 MID-OCTOBER DAYS. 
 
 and you halt, like one scrutinizing a disguised friend, 
 between the obvious dissemblance and the subtile like- 
 ness. 
 
 Southward of our front door there stood two elms, 
 leaning their branches toward each other, forming a 
 glorious arch of green. Now, in faint yellow they 
 grow attenuated and seem as if departing; they are 
 losing their leaves .and fading out of sight, as trees do in 
 twilight. Yonder, over against that young growth of 
 birch and evergreen, stood, all summer long, a perfect 
 maple tree, rounded out on every side, thick with luxu- 
 riant foliage, and dark with greenness, save when the 
 morning sun, streaming through it, sent transparency to 
 its very heart. Now it is a tower of gorgeous red. So 
 sober and solemn did it seem all summer that I should 
 think as soon to see a prophet dancing at a peasants' 
 holiday, as it transfigured to such intense gayety 1 
 Its fellows, too, the birches and the walnuts, burn from 
 head to foot with fires that glow but never consume. 
 
 But these holiday hills ! Have the evening clouds, 
 suffused with sunset, dropped down and become fixed into 
 solid forms ? Have the rainbows that followed autumn 
 storms faded upon the mountains and left their mantles 
 there? Yet, with all their brilliancy, how modest do 
 they seem; how patient when bare, or burdened with 
 winter ; how cheerful when flushed with summer-green ; 
 and how modest when they lift up their wreathed and 
 crowned heads in the resplendent days of autumn ! 
 
 I stand alone upon the peaceful summit of this hill, 
 and turn in every direction. The east is all a-glow ; 
 
MID-OCTOBER DAYS. 327 
 
 the blue north flushes all her hills with radiance ; the 
 west stands in burnished armor; the southern hills 
 buckle the zone of the horizon together with emeralds 
 and rubies, such as were never set in the fabled girdle 
 of the gods ! Of gazing there can not be enough. The 
 hunger of the eye grows by feeding. 
 
 Only the brotherhood of evergreens — the pine, the 
 cedar, the spruce, and the hemlock — refuse to join this 
 universal revel. They wear their sober green straight 
 through autumn and winter, as if they were set to keep 
 open the path of summer through the whole year, and 
 girdle all seasons together with a clasp of endless green. 
 But in vain do they give solemn examples to the merry 
 leaves which frolic with every breeze that runs sweet riot 
 in the glowing shades. Gay leaves will not be coun- 
 seled, but will die bright and laughing. But both to- 
 gether — the transfigured leaves of deciduous trees and 
 the calm unchangeableness of evergreens — how more 
 beautiful are they than either alone ! The solemn pine 
 brings color to the cheek of the beeches, and the scarlet 
 and golden maples rest gracefully upon the dark foliage 
 of the million-fingered pine. 
 
 All summer long these leaves have wrought their 
 tasks. They have plied their laboratory, and there 
 that old chemist, the Sun, hath prepared all the juices 
 of the trees. Now hath come their play-spell. Nature 
 gives them a jubilee. It is a concert of colors for -the 
 eye. What a mighty chorus of colors do the trees roll 
 down the valleys, up the hill-sides, and over the moun- 
 tains ! 
 
328 ftlD-OCTOBER DAYS. 
 
 Before October we sought and found colors in single 
 tones, in flowers, in iris-winking dew-drops, in westward- 
 trooping clouds. But when the Year, having wrought 
 and finished her solid structures, unbends and conse- 
 crates the glad October month to fancy, then all hues 
 that were before scattered in lurking flowers, in clouds, 
 upon plumed birds, and burnished insects, are let loose 
 like a flood and poured abroad in the wild magnifi- 
 cence of Divine bounty. The earth lifts up its head 
 crowned as no monarch was ever crowned, and the 
 seasons go forth toward winter, chanting to God a 
 hymn of praise that may fitly carry with it the hearts 
 of all men, and bring forth in kindred joy the sympa- 
 thetic spirits of the dead. 
 
 These are the days that one fain would be loose from 
 the earth and wander forth as a spirit, or lie bedded in 
 some buoyant cloud, to float above the vast expanse, in 
 the silence of the upper air. How we would feign be 
 voyagers, pursuing the seasons through all their lati- 
 tudes, and no longer stand to wait their coming and 
 going about our fixed habitations. 
 
 When we were here in August, the odorous barns 
 were full of new-mown hay, and the hay was full of 
 buried crickets and locusts, that chirped away as merrily 
 from the smothered mow as if it were no prison. The 
 barns now are still. The field-crickets are gone, the 
 locust is gone, and the hay has lost its clover-smell. 
 Tn August we loved to throw wide open the doors, 
 upon the threshing-floor, and let the wind through. 
 But now only the sunny door looking south stand? 
 
MID-OCTOBER DAYS. 329 
 
 open. No lithe swallow twitters in and out, or in his 
 swift flight marks dark circles in the sky, gone as soon 
 as made. 
 
 There are two barns. The floor of the one is covered 
 with shocks of corn, whose golden ears, split through 
 the husk, are showing their burnished rows of grain. 
 The other floor is heaped with unwinnowed buckwheat. 
 
 !• what cakes shall yet rise out of that dusky pile ! 
 But now the buckwheat lies in heaps of chaff that swell 
 the bulk, but diminish the value. If we could sell 
 grain in the chaff as we can books, farming would be 
 very profitable. 
 
 I love to sit just within the sunny edge of the south 
 door, whose prospect is large and beautiful, with an 
 unread book for company. For a book is set to sharpen, 
 not to feed the appetite. It whets the drowsy thought, 
 and puts observation into the eye. The best books do 
 not think for us, but stir us to think. They are lenses 
 through which we look — not mere sacks stuffed with 
 knowledge. 
 
 A wagon rolls past, rattling over the stones. From 
 under the unthreshed straw mice squeak and quarrel ; 
 lonesome spiders are repairing their webs in the 
 windows that catch nothing but dust and chaff. Yet 
 these bum-bailiffs have grown plump on something. 
 
 1 wonder what a spider is thinking about for hours 
 together, down in the dark throat of his web, where he 
 lies as still as if he were dead. 
 
 Our old Shanghai steps up with a pert how-do-ye-do- 
 sir, cocking his eye one-sidedly at you, and uttering 
 
336 MID-OCTOBER DAYS. 
 
 certain nondescript guttural sounds. He walks off 
 crooning to himself and his dames. It is all still again. 
 There are no flies now to buzz in the air. There is not 
 wind enough to quiver a hanging straw, or to pipe a 
 leaf-dance along the fence. You fall into some sweet 
 fancy that inhabits silence, when all at once, with a 
 tremendous vociferation, out flies a hen from over your 
 head, with an outrageous noise, clattering away as if 
 you had been throwing stones at her, or abusing her 
 beyond endurance. The old Shanghai takes up the 
 case, and the whole mob of hens join the outcry. The 
 whole neighborhood is raised, and distant roosters from 
 far-off farms echo the shrill complaints. An egg is all 
 very well in its way, but we never could see any jus- 
 tification for such vociferous cackling. Every hen in 
 the crowd is as much excited as if she had performed 
 the deed herself. And the cock informs the whole 
 region round about that there never was so smart a 
 crowd of hens as he leads. 
 
 Nothing seems so aimless and simple as a hen. She 
 usually goes about in a vague and straggling manner, 
 articulating to herself cacophonous remarks upon 
 various topics. The greatest event in a hen's life is 
 compound, being made up of an egg and a cackle. 
 Then only she shows enthusiasm when she descends 
 from the nest of duty and proclaims her achievement. 
 If you chase her, she runs cackling; if you pelt her 
 with stones, she streams through the air cackling all 
 abroad till the impulse has run out, when she subsides 
 quietly into a silly, gadding hen. Now and then an 
 
MID-OCTOBER DAYS. 331 
 
 eccentric hen may be found stepping quite beyond the 
 limits of hen-propriety. One" such has persisted in 
 laying her daily egg in the house. She would steal 
 noiselessly in at the open door, walk up stairs, and 
 leave a plump egg upon the children's bed. The next 
 day she would honor the sofa. On one occasion she 
 selected my writing-table, and scratching my papers 
 about, left her card, that I might not blame the children 
 or servants for scattering my manuscripts. Her persis- 
 tent determination was amusing. One Sabbath morning 
 we drove her out of the second-story window, then 
 again from the front hall. In a few moments she was 
 heard behind the house, and on looking out the window, 
 she was just disappearing into the bed-room window on 
 the ground floor! Word was given, but before any 
 one could, reach the place, she had bolted out of the 
 window with victorious cackle, and her white, warm 
 egg lay upon the lounge. I proposed to open the pan- 
 try-window, set the egg-dish within her reach, and let 
 her put them up herself; but those in authority would 
 not permit such a deviation from propriety. Such a 
 breed of hens could never be popular with the boys. 
 It would spoil that glorious sport of hunting hen's nests. 
 How utterly different are birds from their gross con- 
 geners. Already the snow-sparrows have come down 
 from the north, and are- hopping in our hedges, sure 
 precursors of winter. Eobins are gathering in flocks 
 in the orchards, and preparing for their southern flight. 
 May his gun for ever miss fire that would thin the 
 ranks of singing-birds I 
 
332 MID-OCTOBER DAYS. 
 
 lifted far above all harm of fowler or impediment of 
 mountain, wild fowl are steadily flying southward. The 
 simple sight of them fills the imagination with pictures. 
 They have all summer long called to each other from 
 the reedy fens and wild oat-fields of the far north. 
 Summer is already extinguished there. Winter is fol 
 lowing their track, and marching steadily toward us 
 The spent flowers, the seared leaves, the thinning tree 
 tops, the morning rime of frost, have borne witness of 
 the change on earth ; and these caravans of the upper 
 air confirm the tidings. Summer is gone; winter is 
 coming ! 
 
 The wind has risen to-day. It is not one of those 
 gusty, playful winds, that frolic with the trees. It 
 is .a wind high up in the air, that moves steadily with 
 a solemn sound, as if it were the spirit of summer 
 journeying past us ; and, impatient of delay, it doth not 
 stoop to the earth, but touches the tops of the trees, 
 with a murmuring sound, sighing a sad farewell, and 
 passing on. 
 
 Such days fill one with pleasant sadness. How sweet 
 a pleasure is there in sadness ! It is not sorrow ; it is 
 not despondency; it is not gloom! It is one of the 
 moods of joy. At any rate I am very happy, and yet 
 it is sober, and very sad happiness. It is the shadow 
 of joy upon the soul ! I can reason about these 
 changes. I can cover over the dying leaves with imagi- 
 nations as bright as their own hues ; and, by christian 
 faith, transfigure the whole scene with a blessed vision 
 of joyous dying and glorious resurrection. But what 
 
MID-OCTOBER DAYS. 333 
 
 then? Such thoughts glow like evening clouds, and 
 Dot far beneath them are the evening twilights, into 
 whose dusk they will soon melt away. And all com- 
 munions, and all admirations, and all associations, 
 celestial or terrene, come alike into a pensive sadness, 
 that is even sweeter than our joy. It is the minor key 
 of the thoughts. A right sadness will sometimes cure 
 a sorrow. 
 
 The asters, which are the floral rear-guards of the 
 year, are saying to me, that no more flowers shall come 
 after them. The very brightness of their faces makes 
 me sad to think that the next blossoms shall be frost- 
 blooms. I know that seeds and roots do not die ; that 
 the winter is but a vacation, in which the year rests 
 from its works; that all things shall come again. What 
 then ? It is sad nevertheless to see summer dying out. 
 There is some influence in this hush of the heavens, in 
 the helplessness of vegetation, that by leaves and root 
 striving against the cold nights, can only gather strength 
 to die in glorious colors, which makes one glad and sad 
 together. Your smiles end in tears, and tears exhale 
 to smiles again. 
 
 Among all the grateful gifts of summer, none, I 
 think, has been deeper and more various than the sight 
 of the enjoyment of the children. I do pity children 
 in a city. There is no place for them. The streets are 
 full of bad boys that they must not play with, and the 
 house is rich in furniture that they must not touch. They 
 are always in somebody's way, or making a noise out of 
 proper time — for the twenty-fifth hour of the day is the 
 
334 MID-OCTOBER DAYS. 
 
 only time when people are willing that children should 
 be noisy. There is no grass in the fieldless, parkless 
 city for their feet, no trees for climbing, no orchards or 
 nut-laden trees for their enterprise. 
 
 But here has been a troop of children, of three 
 families, nine that may be called children, (without 
 offense to any sweet fifteen,) that have had the summer 
 before them to disport themselves as they chose. There 
 are no ugly boys to be watched, no dangerous places to 
 fall from, no bulls or wicked hippogriffs to chase them. 
 They are up and fledged by breakfast, and then they 
 are off in uncircumscribed liberty till dinner. They 
 may go to the barn, or to either of three orchards, or to 
 either of two woods, or to either of two springs, or to 
 grandma's, who is the very genius of comfort and gin- 
 gerbread to children ! They can build all manner of 
 structures in wet sand, or paddle in the water, and even 
 get their feet wet, their clothes dirty, or their pantaloons 
 torn, without being aught reckoned against them. They 
 scuffle along the road to make a dust in the world, they 
 chase the hens, hunt sly nests, build fires on the rocks 
 in the pastures, and fire off Chinese crackers, until they 
 are surfeited with noise ; they can run, wade, halloo, 
 stub their toes, lie down, climb, tumble down, with or 
 without hurting themselves, just as much as they please. 
 They may climb in and out of wagons, sail chips in the 
 water-trough at the barn, fire apples from the sharpened 
 end of a limber stick, pick up baskets full of brilliant 
 apples in competition with the hired men, proud of 
 being " almost men." Their hands, thank fortune, are 
 
MID-OCTOBER DAYS. 335 
 
 never clean, their faces are tanned, their hair is tangled 
 within five minutes after combing, and a button is 
 always off somewhere. 
 
 The dog is a creation especially made for children. 
 Our Noble has been at least equal to one hand and one 
 foot extra for frolic and mischief, to each of the urchins. 
 But grandest of all joy, highest in the scale of rapture, 
 the last thing talked of before sleep, and the first thing 
 remembered in the morning, is the going out a-nutting. 
 0! the hunting of little baskets, the irrepressible glee, 
 as bags and big baskets, into which little ones are to 
 disembogue, come forth! Then the departure, the 
 father or uncle climbing the tree — " ! how high !" — 
 the shaking of limbs, the rattle of hundreds of chest- 
 nuts, which squirrels shall never see again, the eager 
 picking up, the merry ohs ! and ouches ! as nuts come 
 plump down on their bare heads, the growing heap, the 
 approaching dinner by the brook, on leaves yellow as 
 gold, and in sunlight yellower still, the mysterious 
 baskets to be opened, the cold chicken, the bread slices 
 — ah me ! one would love to be twenty boys, or a boy 
 twenty times over, just to experience the simple, genu- 
 ine, full, unalloyed pleasure of children going with 
 father and mother to the woods " a-nutting!" 
 
XXX. 
 
 A MOIST LETTER. 
 
 Andoveb, Mass., November, 1854. 
 
 The rain is doing at last its long delayed duty. It 
 has for two days poured forth abundantly, and still 
 pours ; sometimes with steady downward plash, but 
 with every gust of wind that goes fitfully about the air, 
 it dashes against the windows, as if it were determined 
 to take refuge within. There is much going on up in 
 the clouds. There is a great racing and chasing of 
 scuds, as if conveying orders on a field of battle, while 
 the more distant and solid masses move slowly and 
 solemnly. Now and then, along the horizon, the skirt 
 is lifted for a moment, and fair weather looks through 
 to assure us that it is there, and will by and by come 
 back in triumph. Every one feels that storms are 
 specialities, and fair weather the settled order of nature. 
 Clear heavens, transparent air, and shining suns, are for 
 common and daily use ; good robust storms, for variety. 
 But if it will rain, we do love decision and earnestness 
 of purpose. We love to see Nature really in earnest, 
 and black-faced storms out as if they had a worthy 
 errand. Great rugged clouds, and the whole heaven 
 full of them, winds that are wide awake, rain that comes 
 as if it was not afraid of exhausting the supply, and 
 general commotion of all sorts — these make one glad. 
 We always wish life and energy in storms. Anything 
 
A MOIST LETTER. 337 
 
 but a dull, foggy drizzle, either in storms or men. 
 
 But all this copious rain comes too late for roots and 
 flowers. They are dead, or sleeping past all autumn 
 waking. The frost, like a fierce sheriff, has been in 
 ind taken possession or sealed up all the effects of the 
 year. The trees are stripped to their very outline. 
 The grass is seared. Gardens are utterly put out. 
 Where is all this goodly garniture which a few weeks 
 ago reveled in such luxuriant abundance? It is always 
 a graveyard business to me to walk in a yard or 
 garden just after the killing frosts have been at it. 
 The dahlias, that hold up their heads with such uncon- 
 scious state, and that are so full of sap that their stems 
 look like solidified liquid, or juice with a skin on, now 
 hang so utterly desolate, collapsed, decaying, even slimy 
 and filthy I 
 
 We come to see the changes of trees with composure. 
 We know that life is in them yet. Their leaves change 
 gradually. They thin out and blow away, and frosts, 
 when they come, have but the gleanings. And all 
 ligneous plants die clean. It is different with herba- 
 ceous plants. In one night, by one stroke, gorgeous 
 flower, plump leaf, hearty stem, are turned black, and 
 hang down with funereal gloom. 
 
 We feel the irremediable destruction of flowers more 
 than we do the stripping of trees and shrubs, because 
 these appeal more than they to our protection and to 
 our fondness. 
 
 We look up to trees as superiors, in whom reside 
 guardianship and protection. They teach us patience, 
 15 
 
338 A MOIST LETTER. 
 
 endurance, and unwearied hope. We see them beaten 
 bare by autumn-storms, and perfectly content to stand 
 bare. The moment the winter relents, they spring 
 forth again, and all summer long you hear them 
 singing, but never do you hear a tree rehearse its 
 wrongs. It forgets the past. It lives outwardly so 
 long as it can, and then retreats within itself, patient to 
 wait for better times. And we feel also, in the case of 
 trees, something of the veneration which antiquity al- 
 ways inspires. They are old chronologers. They are 
 older than the oldest living men. That old oak was an 
 old oak when that crippled old man yonder was a little 
 boy, and it was an old tree in the days of his fathers. 
 These faces that grimly hang upon our walls — the por- 
 traits of shadowy ancestors that long since have ceased 
 to make a noise in the world — these very old faces, in 
 generations gone by, used to look up into these fresh 
 and hearty trees that carry themselves so youthfully, 
 and marvel how high they were, and wonder that little 
 birds were not afraid of falling down off from their 
 perilously high branches. The annual changes of trees 
 are therefore devoid of the sense of death. Leaves die. 
 We pity them. But trees do not die. They undress. 
 They sleep in naked majesty. What time they will, 
 when the south wind blows its horn among the bills, 
 they rouse themselves and put on again their robes and 
 go forth as at other times. 
 
 It is not so with flowers. They are like little infant 
 children. They look up to us for protection. They 
 have no life that lasts. When they are stricken they 
 
A MOIST LETTER. 339 
 
 make no resistance. They utterly die. And it is a 
 real pain that we do not choose to encounter, to go out 
 after the final frost-stroke, and see all the plants which 
 we have nursed and fondled, not gone, but lying there 
 in colors so disgraceful to their former beauty. All 
 these fine-edged leaves, these delicate lineations, these 
 exquisite hues and shades of color, these matchless 
 forms and symmetries, whatever is superlative in fine- 
 ness, delicacy, variety, profusion, gorgeous richness, 
 now lying a heap of undistinguishable decay and 
 loathsomeness. The dank smell of decomposing vege- 
 tation drives you from your garden as from a grave- 
 yard. The brilliant generous verbenas, the pensile and 
 graceful fuchsias, the geraniums, the maurandyas, the 
 tufted ageratum, and the other scores which blossom all 
 the summer long, from which you had gathered hun- 
 dreds of bunches of flowers to cheer your parlor, to 
 inspire your pen while writing, to furnish you silent 
 loving company as you walked about among frigid men 
 or barren things, they have all gone to corruption before 
 your eyes. 
 
 As I looked out of the window this morning, I could 
 not help thinking how sweet this rain would have been 
 if the flowers could only have contrived to live until 
 now. It will clear up, and warm suns will shine. "We 
 shall have a week of shadowy summer weather, but 
 without leaves or flowers. 'I always think of these 
 summer days that are wont to come in November, as if 
 they were sent back to see if they could do anything 
 for the poor flowers which they had left in their re- 
 
34:0 A MOIST LETTER. 
 
 treat. They come as birds do, singing and chirping 
 after some one of their young that may have been left 
 in the tree behind when the other young flew away 
 with the old ones. 
 
 All summer long the rain has been frugal. It has 
 carried economy to stinginess. Now it has begun to 
 exhibit generosity. It is full time. It would be a dis- 
 astrous year if, after such summer drought, the winter 
 should come on with springs feeble, rivers shallow, 
 ponds half full, wells almost dry, and a general stint of 
 water. But, thanks to a benignant Providence, we 
 shall now have water enough. The shrunk veins of 
 the earth will fill out again. Cranberry swamps will 
 have their much-needed liquid coverlet. Boys shall 
 have skating, and cattle shall have drink ! 
 
 Rain away, then, full-breasted clouds! Drench the 
 forests, make new channels down the hill-sides, fill up 
 the ditches, drive out the margins of the ponds, and 
 make the well meet the bucket half-way down, not half 
 the coil run out ! We wipe off the mud from our shoes 
 with great satisfaction. "We hear the gurgling moisture 
 oozing out about our shoes at every step we tread upon 
 the saturated sod without a sense of annoyance, and we 
 look up at the surliest clouds and say, You are hand- 
 some, and quite welcome ! 
 
 I had almost forgotten an experience which must not 
 be forgotten — a midnight ride. Traveling by night, in 
 boat or car, is so common as to fall among the ordinary 
 experiences. Not so a buggy-ride. We lectured at 
 Lynn on Saturday evening. It was our wish to spend 
 
A MOIST LETTER. 341 
 
 the Sabbath at Andover. Now Andover and Lynn are 
 about twenty miles apart, and unfrequented miles ; for 
 I could find no one who exactly knew the way from 
 one to the other. The stable-keeper was doubtful ; he 
 did not know the route, none of his men knew it, the 
 night was very dark, it was raining in torrents. But 
 go I must and would. Those who had faith in the 
 almanac said the moon would rise at ten o'clock. I 
 agreed to wait till then. The lecture was given, and I 
 must say, to the praise of old Lynn, to the bravest 
 audience of about a thousand that I ever saw gathered, 
 in spite of such a remorseless rain. We returned to 
 our friend Shackford's, to wait for the moon, and 
 whiled away the time in discourse of pears, illustrated 
 by some most juicy specimens. The moon came, and 
 the driver with it, and his light-covered buggy. Packed 
 up with robe, coat, and shawl, we pushed out into 
 darkness. The rain rattled and sung on the back and 
 top of the cover, the roads ran streams of water, the 
 horse splashed merrily along, lights gleamed out of 
 dwellings, flashed across the path, sunk behind, and 
 went out to us. First came Danvers, a town fast 
 asleep, silent, motionless. We passed through like 
 shadows in a dream. We took a wrong road ; it grew 
 rough and cart-like, full of thumping stones ; soon the 
 wheels rolled smotheringly in grass, then bushes began 
 to whip the spokes, and finally we brought up against 
 a stone wall — full in the pastures! Back we went, 
 roused up the good sleeping woman of the first house, 
 inquired the way, were in doubt after leaving her about 
 
342 A MOIST LETTER. 
 
 the direction which she had given, whether it was left 
 hand or right hand, that we were to turn at a given 
 corner. We solved it by waking up another sleeper. 
 At length we got safely on to a smooth road to Mid- 
 dleton. Then we began to doze without knowing it. 
 Trees, which in the clouded light of the moon had a 
 spectral look, faded out entirely. We were aroused by 
 the driver, prying into the directions of a guide-board, 
 where the road forked. I got out on the wheel and 
 gazed piercingly. "Danvers — Point." "No," said he, 
 "Danvers Plains." " Tariffville," said I. "No, Tap- 
 pleyville," said he. That is not the road ; the other 
 was, and we took it. Again at the next guide-post we 
 stopped. The driver climbed up and got hold of the 
 board, and drawing himself up to his chin, read its 
 direction. We met a solitary man walking between 
 twelve and one at night. It seemed very strange to 
 see anything human moving in the darkness and soli- 
 tude of midnight. We hailed him, and inquired the 
 way. Then we speculated what errand took him out. 
 Not a thief, surely. Perhaps he has been for a doctor, 
 said the driver ; or to watch with some sick neighbor, 
 said I; or, maybe, a-courting, said the driver. But, 
 said I, he was a middle-aged man, and not a young, 
 spruce lover. No matter, says the driver, it's about one 
 thing with old or young when they go a-courting. 
 
 Another dreamy, voiceless town ! Our wheels echoed 
 from the sides of the houses. We came to a little 
 cluster of dwellings, in the front door of one of which 
 stood a man, as quietly as if it were noonday, and he 
 
A MOIST LETTER. 343 
 
 waiting for a friend. "We exacted further information. 
 Finally, by dint of guide-boards and chance stragglers, 
 and waking up people in their houses, at two o'clock 
 we reached Andover. A venerable father and mother, 
 two sisters, three brothers, and uncounted children — 
 was it not worth such a ride to spend a Sabbath with 
 them? 
 15* 
 
XXXI. 
 
 FROST IN THE "WINDOW. 
 
 Books have been written of painted windows, and 
 journeys long and expensive have been made to see 
 them. And without a doubt they are both curious and 
 more than curious; they are admirable. One such 
 work of art, standing through generations of men, and 
 making countless hearts glad with its beauty, is a 
 treasure for which any community may be grateful. 
 
 But are we so destitute of decorated windows as, at 
 first, one might suppose ? Last night the thermometer 
 sank nearly to zero, and see what business Nature has 
 had on hand ! Every pane of glass is etched and 
 figured as never Moorish artist decorated Alhambra. 
 Will you pass it unexamined, simply because it cost 
 you nothing — because it is so common — because it is, 
 this morning, the property of so many people — 
 because it was wrought by Nature and not by man? 
 Do not do so. Learn rather to enjoy it for its own 
 elegance, and for God's sake, who gave to frosts such 
 wondrous artist tendencies. 
 
 The children are wiser than their elders. They are 
 already at the window interpreting these mysterious 
 pictures. One has discovered a silent, solitary lake, 
 extremely beautiful, among stately white cliffs-. An- 
 other points out a forest of white fir trees and pines, 
 growing in rugged grandeur. There are in succession 
 
FROST IN THE WINDOW. 345 
 
 discovered mountains, valleys, cities of glorious struc- 
 tures, a little confused in their outline by distance. 
 There are various beasts too; — here a bear coming 
 down to the water; birds in flocks, or sitting voice- 
 less and solitary. There are rivers flowing through 
 plains ; and elephants, and buffaloes, and herds of cattle. 
 There are dogs and serpents, trees and horses, ships and 
 men. Beside all these phantom creatures, there are 
 shadowy ornaments of every degree of beauty, simple 
 or complex, running through the whole scale, from a 
 mere dash of the artist's tool to the most studied and 
 elaborate compositions. 
 
 Neither does Night repeat itself. Every window has 
 its separate design. Every pane of glass is individual 
 and peculiar. You see only one appearance of anxiety 
 in the artist, and that is, lest time and room should fail 
 for the expression of the endless imaginations which 
 throng his fertile soul. 
 
 There is a generous disregard of all fictitious or 
 natural distinctions of society in this beautiful working. 
 The designs .upon the Poor House windows are just as 
 exquisite as any upon the rich man's mansion. The 
 little child's bed-room window is just as carefully 
 handled as the prouelest window in any room of state. 
 The church can boast of nothing better than the em- 
 blazonings on the window of the poor seamstress who 
 lives just by. For a few hours everybody is rich. 
 Every man owns pictures and galleries of pictures ! 
 
 But then comes the Iconoclast — the Sun ! Ah, re- 
 morseless eyes ! why will you gaze out all these 
 15* 
 
346 FKOST IN THE WINDOW. 
 
 exquisite figures and lines? Art thou jealous lest 
 Night shall make sweeter flowers in Winter time than 
 thou canst in all the Summer time? For shame, en- 
 vious Father of Flowers ! There is no end of thy 
 abundance. Around the Equator the Summer never 
 dies ; flowers perfume the whole Ecliptic. And spread- 
 ing out thence, the Summer shall travel northward, and 
 'for full eight months thou hast the temperate zones for 
 thy gardens. Will not all the flowers of the tropics 
 and of eight-month zones suffice? Will not all the 
 myriads that hide under leaves, that climb up for air to 
 tree-tops, that nestle in rock-crevices, or sheet the open 
 plains with wide effulgence, that ruffle the rocks and 
 cover out of sight all rude and homely things — suffice 
 thy heart, that thou must come and rob from our 
 Winter canvas all the fine things, the rootless trees, 
 the flowers that blossom without growing, the wilder- 
 ness of pale shrubberies that grow by night to die by 
 day? Eapacious Sun! thou shouldst set us a better 
 example. 
 
 But the indefatigable Night repairs the desolation 
 New pictures supply the waste ones. New cathedrals 
 there are, new forests, fringed and blossoming, new 
 sceneries, and new races of extinct animals. We are rich 
 every morning, and poor every noon. One day with us 
 measures the space of two hundred years in kingdoms 
 — a hundred' years to build up, and a hundred years to 
 decay and destroy; twelve hours to overspread the 
 evanescent pane with glorious beauty, and twelve to 
 extract and dissipate the pictures! 
 
FROST IN" THE WINDOW. 347 
 
 How is the frost-picturing like fancy painting ! Thus 
 we fill the vagrant hours with innumerable designs, and 
 paint visions upon the visionless sphere of Time, which, 
 with every revolution, destroys our work, restoring it 
 back to the realm of waste fantasies ! 
 
 But is not this a type of finer things than arrant fic- 
 tions ? Is it not a mournful vision of many a virtuous 
 youth, overlaid with every device of virtue which 
 parental care could lay on, dissolved before the hot 
 breath of love, blurred, and quite rubbed out ! 
 
 Or shall we read a lesson for a too unpractical mind, 
 full of airy theories and dainty plans of exquisite good, 
 that lie upon the surface of the mind, fair indeed, till 
 touched ? The first attempt at realization is as when 
 an artist tries to tool these frosted sketches; the most 
 exquisite touch of ripest skill would mar and destroy 
 them! 
 
 Or, rather, shall we not reverently and rejoicingly be- 
 hold in these morning pictures wrought without color, 
 and kissed upon the window by the cold lips of Winter, 
 another instance of that Divine Beneficence of beauty, 
 which suffuses the heavens, clothes the earth, and 
 royally decorates the months, and sends them forth 
 through all hours, all seasons, all latitudes, to fill the 
 earth with joy, pure as the Great Heart from which it 
 had its birth ? 
 
XXXII. 
 
 \ 
 SNOW-STORM TRAVELING. 
 
 The sensations with which we are affected by a fall 
 of snow depend much upon our position and prospec- 
 tive enterprises. If one is journeying across a prairie, 
 no more terrible thing can befall him than the coming 
 on of a driving snow. All landmarks are shut in, all 
 paths are covered ; the air is darkened ; the wind pierces 
 the very heart with chills, and if he had not the good 
 luck to bring with him a compass, he will soon grow 
 bewildered, and travel about in useless circuits, till he 
 grows numb, slumberous, and dies, with the storm going 
 on above him, and heaping him up with snowy burial. 
 Snow is worse than fire. Against fire you can set fire, 
 and escape in the track of the flame which you yourself 
 have kindled. You can not set snow against snow. 
 
 Falling snow is beautiful in a forest. It comes waver- 
 ing down among the trees, without a whisper, and takes 
 to the ground without the sound of a footfall. Ever- 
 green trees grow intense in contrasts of dark green 
 ruffled with radiant white. Bush and tree are powdered 
 and banked up. Not the slightest sound is made 
 in all the work which fills the woods with winter soil 
 many feet deep. But, nowhere else is snow so beautiful 
 as when one sojourns in a good old-fashioned mansion 
 in the country, bright and warm, full of home-joy and 
 quiet. . You look out through large windows and see 
 
SNOW-STORM TRAVELING. 349 
 
 one of those flights of snow in a still calm day, that 
 make the air seem as if it were full of white millers, or 
 butterflies, fluttering down from heaven. There is some- 
 thing extremely beautiful in the motion of these large 
 flakes of snow. They do not make haste, nor plump 
 straight down with a dead fall like a whistling raindrop. 
 They seem to be at leisure, and descend with that quiet, 
 wavering, sideway motion, which birds sometimes use 
 when about to alight. You think that you are reading ; 
 and so you are, but it is not in the book that lies open 
 before you. The silent, dreamy hour passes away, and 
 you have not felt it pass. The trees are dressed with 
 snow. The long arms of evergreens bend with its 
 weight ; the rails are doubled, and every post wears a 
 virgin crown. The well-sweep, the bucket, the well- 
 curb are fleeced over. And still the silent quivering 
 air is full of trooping flakes, thousands following to take 
 the place of all that fall. The ground is heaped, the 
 paths are gone, the road is hidden, the fields are leveled, 
 the eaves of buildings jut over, and, as the day moves 
 on, the fences grow shorter and gradually sink from sight. 
 All night the heavens rain crystal flakes. Yet, that 
 roof, on which the smallest rain pattered audible music, 
 gives no sound. There is no echo in the stroke of 
 snow, until it waxes to an avalanche and slips from the 
 mountains. Then it fills the air like thunderbolts. 
 
 When the morning comes, then Comes the sun also. 
 The storm has gone back to its northern nests to shed 
 its feathers there. The air is still, cold, bright. Bat 
 what a glory rests upon the too brilliant earth ! Are 
 
850 SNOW-STORM TRAVELING. 
 
 these the January leaves, is this the winter efflorescence 
 of shrub and tree ? You can scarcely look for the ex- 
 ceeding brightness. Trees stand up against the clear, 
 gray sky, brown and white in contrast, as if each trunk, 
 and bough, and branch, and twig, had been coated with 
 ermine, or with white moss. There is an exquisite 
 airiness and lightness in the masses of snow on trees 
 and fences when seen just as the storm left them. The 
 wind or sun soon disenchants the magic scene. 
 
 Already snow-birds are fluttering for a foothold, and 
 showering down the frosty dust from the twigs. The 
 hens and their uplifted lords are beginning to wade 
 with dainty steps through the chilly wool. Boys are 
 aglee with sleds ; men are out with shovels, and dames 
 with brooms. Bells begin to ring along the highway, 
 and heavy oxen with craunching sleds are wending 
 toward the woods for the winter's supply of fuel. The 
 school-house is open, and a roasting hot fire rages in the 
 box stove. Little boys are crying with chilblains, and 
 little girls are comforting them with the assurance that 
 it will " stop aching pretty soon," and the boys seem un- 
 willing to stop crying till then. Big boys are shaking 
 their, coats, and stamping off the snow, which peek 
 easily from sleek blackballed boots, or shoes burnished 
 with tallow. Out of doors the snow-balls are flying, 
 and everybody laughs but the one that's hit. Down go 
 the wrestlers. The big ones "rub" the little ones; the 
 little ones in turn "rub" the smaller ones. The passers- 
 by are pelted ; and many a lazy horse has motives of 
 speed applied to his lank barrel. Even the school 
 
SNOW-STORM TRAVELING. 351 
 
 master is but mortal, and must take his lot ; for many 
 an " accidental" snow-ball plumps into his breast and 
 upon his back before the rogues will believe that it 
 is the schoolmaster! 
 
 But days go by. The snow drifts. Fences are 
 banked up ten feet high. Hills are broken into a 
 " coast" for boys' sleds. They slide and pull up again, 
 and toil on in their slippery pleasure. They tumble 
 over, and turn over; they break down, or smash up; 
 they run into each other, or run races, in all the moods 
 and experiences of rugged frolic. Then comes the 
 digging of chambers in the deep drifts, room upon 
 room, the water dashed on over night freezing the 
 snow walls into solid ice. Forts also are built, and 
 huge balls of snow rolled up, till the little hands can 
 roll the mass no longer. 
 
 But do not think that the steady fall of snow brought 
 any such pleasing visions to our mind. It suggested 
 rather visions of blocked up railways, disarranged 
 trains, discontented passengers, appointments missed ; — 
 for we were to start the next day for Utica and Water- 
 town upon a lecturing tour. 
 
 Our trip thither was not impeded ; but, as the storm 
 continued, we were sadly delayed in returning, and 
 obliged to spend a Sabbath at Albany. To have a 
 sudden and unexpected day of absolute rest and unre- 
 sponsibility intercalated in the week was a strange and 
 blessed luxury. 
 
 A Bide behind the Snow-Plow. — Among the 
 
352 SNOW-STORM TRAVELING. 
 
 things which I have always longed to see, is the 
 snow-plow, driven along the covered track, and 
 through heaped and drifted snows. This I have 
 at length seen. The train came to "Watertown from 
 Cape Vincent, New York, with two engines and a 
 snow-plow. When we reached Pierpont Manor, the 
 conductor kindly acceded to my wish to go forward and 
 take a berth with the engineer. I was soon in position. 
 For two days it had been storming. The air was 
 murky and cross. The snow was descending, not 
 peacefully and dreamily, but whirled and made wild 
 by fierce winds. The forests were laden with snow, 
 and their interior looked murky and dreadful as a 
 witch's den. Through such scenes I began my ride 
 upon the plow-shoving engine. The engineers and 
 firemen were coated with snow from head to foot, and 
 looked like millers who had never brushed their coats 
 for ten years. The floor on which we stood was ice 
 and snow half melted. The wood was coated with 
 snow. The locomotive was frosted all over with snow 
 — wheels, connecting-rods, axles, and everything but 
 the boiler and smoke-stack. The side and front win- 
 dows were glazed with crusts of ice, and only through 
 one little spot in the window over the boiler could I 
 peer out to get a sight of the plow. The track was in- 
 distinguishable. There was nothing to the eye to guide 
 the engine in one way more than another. It seemed 
 as if we were going across fields and plunging through 
 forests at random. And this gave no mean excite- 
 ment to the scene, when two ponderous engines were 
 
SNOW-STORM TRAVELING. 3;"),°, 
 
 apparently driving us in such an outlandish excur- 
 sion. But their feet were sure, and unerringly felt 
 their way along the iron road, so that we were held in 
 our courses. 
 
 Nothing can exceed the beauty of snow in its own 
 organization, in the gracefulness with which it falls, in 
 the molding of its drift-lines, and in the curves which 
 it makes when streaming off on either side from the 
 plow. It was never long the same. If the snow was 
 thin and light, the plow seemed to play tenderly with 
 it, like an artist doing curious things for sport, throwing 
 it in exquisite curves that rose and fell, quivered and 
 trembled as they ran. Then suddenly striking a rift 
 that had piled across the track, the snow sprang out, as 
 if driven by an explosion, twenty and thirty feet, in 
 jets and bolts ; or like long-stemmed sheaves of snow — 
 outspread fan-like. Instantly, when the drift was past, 
 the snow seemed by an instinct of its own to retract, 
 and played again in exquisite curves, that rose and fell 
 about our prow. "Now you'll get it," says the en- 
 gineer, " in that deep cut." We only saw the first dash, 
 as if the plow had struck the banks of snow before it 
 could put on its graces, and shot it distracted and head- 
 long up and down on either side, like spray or flying 
 ashes. It was but a second. For the fine snow rose up 
 around the engine, and covered it in like a mist, and 
 sucking round, poured in upon us in sheets and clouds, 
 mingled with the vapor of steam, and the smoke 
 which, from impeded draft, poured out, filled the 
 engine-room and darkened it so that we could not see 
 
354 SNOW-STORM TRAVELING. 
 
 each other a foot distant except as very filmy specters 
 glowering at each other. Our engineers had on buffalo 
 coats, whose natural hirsuteness was made more shaggy 
 by tags of snow melted into icicles. To see such sub- 
 stantial forms changing back and forth every few 
 moments from a clearly earthly form into a spectral 
 lightness, as if they went back and forth between body 
 and spirit, was not a little exciting to the imagination. 
 
 "When we struck deep bodies of snow, the engine 
 plowed through them laboriously, quivering and groan- 
 ing with the load, but shot forth again nimble as a bird 
 the moment the snow grew light and thin. 
 
 Nothing seemed wilder than to be in one of these 
 whirling storms of smoke, vapor and snow, you on 
 one ponderous monster, and another roaring close be- 
 hind, both engines like fiery dragons harnessed and 
 fastened together and looming up when the snow and 
 mists opened a little, black and terrible. It seemed as 
 if you were in a battle. There was such energetic 
 action, such irresistible power, such darkness and light 
 alternating, and such fitful half-lights, which are more 
 exciting to the imagination than light or darkness. 
 Thus, whirled on in the bosom of a storm, you sped 
 across the open fields, full of wild, driving snow ; you 
 ran up to the opening of the black pine and hemlock 
 woods, and plunged into their somber mouth as if into a 
 cave of darkness, and wrestled your way along through 
 their dreary recesses, emerging to the cleared field 
 again, with whistles screaming and answering each 
 other back and forth from engine to engine. For, in 
 
SNOW-STORM TRAVELING. 355 
 
 the bewildering obscurity, we have run past the station, 
 and must choke down the excited steeds and rein them 
 back to the depot. 
 
 We think that Mazeppa's ride, lashed to a wild 
 horse, and rushing through the forests wolf-driven, was 
 rather exciting. If a man in a buffalo hunt, by some 
 strange mishap, should find himself thrown from his 
 horse and mounted on the shaggy back of an old, fierce 
 buffalp bull, and go off with a rush, in cloud and dust, 
 among ten thousand tramping fellows, pursued by yell- 
 ing Indians — that, too, would be an exciting ride. But 
 neither of these would know the highest exhilaration 
 of the chase, until in a wild storm, upon a scowling 
 day in January, he rides upon a double engine team 
 behind a snow-plow, to clear the track of banks and 
 burdens of snow. 
 
 Waiting- for the Cars. — At about twelve of 
 the day we reached Rome. All the trains on the 
 Central Road were behind time, but they were just 
 about to arrive, and they were just a-going to arrive 
 for five hours. The room in the station-house was 
 soon filled. Ladies there were, but in no proportion 
 to the gentlemen. They were more patient, at least, 
 outwardly; staying in the house was more natural 
 to them. But the men were full of calculations — 
 how long before the train must arrive? and how 
 long now? When would it reach Syracuse going 
 east, and when Buffalo going west? What were 
 the chances of reaching New York ? Every one took 
 
356 SNOW-STORM TRAVELING. 
 
 his turn in the calculation, and reckoned the matter 
 over and over, and consulted with each new comer, as 
 if some effect would be produced upon the tardy- 
 trains. There were seats in the gentlemen's room 
 for eight, and there were from thirty to fifty persons 
 present. Some heaped up the indolent mail-bags 
 and sat on them. A roll of buffalo robes behind the 
 door was a special luxury. Some mounted on trunks 
 that had accumulated in one corner. Apparently they 
 were not soft, as they seemed willing to exchange for 
 the buffalo robe whenever it was vacated. Others stood 
 about the outrageously hot stove. Everybody seemed 
 to be seized with a desire to put in a stick, and when 
 it could hold no more, they would occasionally open the 
 door, look in, poke and kick with their feet to crowd 
 the wood closer, and so it roared red-hot and terrible 
 as a red dragon. But stout, full-blooded men sat about 
 it with great-coats and mufflers on, drinking in heat as 
 if they had a salamander enjoyment of it. The only 
 relief was in the frequent opening of the door to let in 
 new-comers. They came pushing in with red faces and 
 white coats, powdered with snow like a confectioner's 
 cake. The first business of every one, on entering, was 
 to ask after the train, to which some gave quizzical 
 answers, some peevish and querulous answers, some 
 downright truth ; a few were always hopeful, and not a 
 few sat silent and even sullen. 
 
 The next resource of every one seemed to be in an 
 attack upon the pop-corn and apple baskets. It was a 
 great day for the apple-boys. When the sale seemed to 
 
SNOW-STORM TRAVELING. 357 
 
 flag, they would fill up with fresh specimens, and one 
 of them would come rushing in from the telegraph 
 office—" Train only got to Little Falls." " Little Falls !" 
 exclaim a score of westward-going passengers, " it won't 
 be here for an hour." At that they turned discon- 
 solately to the apples again. By and by, in plumps 
 another boy. "Express train only just reached Syra- 
 cuse ; just come from telegraph." This was a clap upon 
 us eastward-going passengers — going, but not gone; 
 and we sighed, and remarked, and comforted ourselves 
 with — apples ! 
 
 Men gathered into groups and talked, at first of pro- 
 duce, then of politics ; next they told stories as long as 
 their memory held out ; and then each would saunter up 
 and down the room, with hands in his pockets, or behind 
 his back. Newspapers, of which a few were present, were 
 read through — advertisements and all. One great com- 
 fort was found in going to the ticket-office window and 
 peering in — for questions were out of the question — the 
 ticket-master lying in a corner snoozing. At length he 
 got up and shut his window. This was a great misfortune. 
 Men now would walk up and look very solemnly at it, 
 as if to be sure that it was shut, and then they would go 
 disconsolately to the door or window as if determined to 
 look out of something. At last, some one pulled a sliver 
 from the wood and began to whittle. In a few moments 
 another followed suit, and before long half a dozen were 
 contentedly whittling. I envied them. At last they 
 seemed consoled. I envied that fat man in the corner, 
 who sat without winking, certainly without a single 
 
35.8 SNOW-STORM TRAVELING. 
 
 motion that I could notice, for a full hour. He 
 seemed entirely occupied in breathing. I envied that 
 old farmer that fell asleep sitting bolt upright, but 
 gradually, like an apple roasting before a good old- 
 fashioned fire, slept himself down to a heap. I envied 
 the imperturbable content of that plump country-girl 
 who stood before the glass combing her hair with a 
 fine-toothed comb, and dividing, and smoothing, and 
 placing it as if she were in a summer afternoon chamber 
 all alone, fixing for a visit from her "intended." The 
 boys were the only utterly cheerful and happy set. 
 Their sales over, they amused themselves with all 
 manner of boyish tricks, giving each other a sly nip, 
 or a choking pull at each other's tippet, knocking 
 off each other's caps, or crushing them down over the 
 eyes, snapping apple-seeds, or throwing cores, and 
 performing besides these all manner of monkey-tricks 
 such as boys only and boys always know. 
 
 We read all the show-bills, all railroad placards, all 
 the time-tables, all the advertisements, and studied all 
 the veracious railroad maps, on which rams-horn rail 
 roads were made to flow on in straight lines or very 
 gradual curves, Wnile competing roads were laid down 
 in all their vicious sinuosities. 
 
 "When I say that the boys were the only happy ones, 
 I must except the happy old lady in the corner with 
 her knitting. She has two younger women by her, and 
 the three are talking and working just as placidly and 
 contentedly as if in the great kitchen at home. Ah ! 
 blessed be knitting! Who ever saw a person other 
 
SNOW-STORM TRAVELING. 359 
 
 than quiet and peaceful that knits? If anger breaks 
 out, the knitting is laid aside. When the needles 
 begin again, you may be sure that it is all right within. 
 At length the five hours were accomplished ; the 
 train came thundering up with a double team of en- 
 gines. The crowd poured forth eagerly, and in a few 
 moments we were dashing off toward Albany, which 
 we reached at ten o'clock Saturday evening ; too late 
 for any train to New York that night. 
 
 TBI END.